man of mystery

 

 

 

the mysterious mirror man

hard poems (V)

god is the desert

the desert is the country of madness

at pussy mountain (the end of the summer)

psilocybin bursts from the mouth of RA

that is it, a denomination of power

many fingered beings that pluck all the strings

a chord a kiss a cigarette charged with glycerin

we have a white snake moving now

burning up the fields and forests

carving LIKE A KNIFE, the earth grown green

it's a shave too closely with the branch of death

of the death tree, of the glade of death

a sprig of wasted cactus venom

that's the thing

that's the thing you see

that goes from east to west and makes your lips go black

that's the thing that leaves you wandering

with sand between your toes turned to blood mound

and that salt and that grit gits in the wound

blood is a fountain underfoot

wastes you away

to quench the desert

at the bridge of the rock dove

from the tip of your dendro-psychology

(like a plantation type of ecstasy)

we see the sky turn to a jelly and flavour the dawn

make a slick funeral in the cusp of a heavy rain

that comes with hale

that comes with stones of ice

and in the eye of the choke cherry

cuddle with the throat

yea that is infancy in the finest

to which we say

all these moths covering my mouth

are filled with the trills of dogs doing the moondance

jabbering jabbering

"I've had enough of that"

"I've had enough of that"

(I live to see the smear of things to come)

there are people on bamboo stilts

they walk above the poison swamps

in search of weird types of fungal growth

the kind that give the juice to a testicle crown

can feed the stomachs of sexuality

so a stork lifts it's leg in the sea

a scorpion takes flight

and peoples of various legends

disrobe and make a big fuck

such a big fat fuck

they rut and rut and grow ripe

and ripen and ripen

so that a flower dies

leaving a smell in the air

and they fuck and get juicy

then they stink

and they die

and that is the nature of pale skin and blue eyes

of brown skin and brown eyes

of green skin and purple eyes

of broken skin and black eyes

of dead skin and dead eyes

of cloth instead of skin

of buttons instead of eyes

and in these stages of darkness I have built an arc

I have left the canoe for a safer form of passage

this river is a rich highway full of traffic

full of things that would dash me

if I fell, if I got lost and fell

into the waters that are black

and smell like oil

where is the hand that is the embryo

that is god making himself known by the way he takes the air

and raises up above becoming greater all the time

what need has god of a spanish fly

what need has god of an arab strap

I feel I am the pink extension

of all of god's little passions

and in this place of sand and wind

in this place where flowers are rubbed on virgin girls

bringing me to a rupture of salt water tears

I don't need to eat blue cactus

or suck on the red earth

I'm quite clearly fucked

and I think

I see god in everything

and I think

I see god

as myself

when the insects of the desert whistle

it means there is water for the taking

sometimes I get thirsty so I must search

and if I search then I must listen

because if I listen then I am born to find

s. sparling

hard poems (IV)

sollozo

it's the love that refused you from the minute you were born
draped you in a sheet of denial and slapped you on the cheek
how dare the day stumble into existence
how dare the night implode in a puff of smoke
I am sick of this and you are sick of that
so much so that you feel it in your belly
a sad, sad, sad resolution
evolving in your throat
growing arms and legs
someday in germination
the world will hear your call
for retribution?
no.
rejuvenation?
never.
rejection?
forever and ever

hard poems (III)

quejido

in my ear there is the gasp of the ocean

permanent exhale divided by the beach's blue tongue

it is the crease the dawn provides the sky

with the heat of hell I am covered in salt

and my body excretes by the moonlight

trembles like a leopard's throat

oh violent, violent, violent

sangria on your lip

salt on your lip

drops of water

on your lip

the planets turn houses of power

electric is the country of your eyes

forgotten

present

forgotten

extinguished

by the light of the whip

you clench your fist

hard poems (II)

gemido

that water is cold
but it does not refuse to touch you
your skin is astonished
but it remains
there is something pure
almost a remedy
it turns you red
it turns you blue
and your blood stampedes in confusion

something like a snake bite
a needle of the sun
it hurts me, baby
just a little
just a little bit

S. Sparling

hard poems (I)

grito

cracked angel she is the bitch in heat
with the weather crying blood mercy
she smells of a million tear drops
she smells of the sea
and the salt giveth and taketh
and the water drowns and drowns
but we can hold her eternal
strapped down by leather belts
tied to chair legs and the kitchen sink
these are the old ways
the forgotten ways
a ritual of blue bruises that sing
and the dog that croaks to the ceiling
this is how saints are made

and what of a star's sex?
it is burning and burning
always dying
burning and burning
a million years ago
when you feel her heat
see her light
she's already gone

S. Sparling