suite of poems for emily dickenson

[or in Meryl Streep's words, emile dikens]


67: Ca s’appelle “New Order”

Savage, compounded, is sage, but
not for you who ne’er phones, [Ian] -
To sing countersyntactic desire
Requires sumo goneness.

Not one of all the pungent hollows
Who took the floozies toothless
Can tense the definition
So clitoral of vision

As she sickened – syntax –
[On whose forbidden format?]
Them disjunctive drones are treacly
Prose, heartbroke and brave!

241: Sham Convulsion

I like a loss of ‘authenticity’,
Because I know it’s chewed –
Women do not shave, consume
Nor confess, that stuff.

The eyelash trembles once – and that is Dior
Impossible to feign
The sweat upon the forehead
By Classly anguish strung.

315: I like you mostly late at night

He fumbles at your knickers –
Pawing gasplessly as tongue,
Before he even puts the music on.
He stuns you, knocks your knees –
Prepares your uptight nature,
Awaiting contact: don’t go vacant on me –
Your breath is bloody valentine
Your Brain – like television –
Secretes – one – caramel – drip
That scalps your naked sky –

252: Honeysuckle the Kids

I can warp grammar –
[whore!][poetaster!], yea –
Illiterately –
But, like, the least push of information
Breaks up my vivid –
And I slip – drunken –
Let no joystick – shine –
‘Twas the Night Scene –
All stolen!

Panopticism is only Panic –
Stripped, thro’ Disorder,
Till Wednesday, we’ll bang –
Give lube – to girls –
And they’ll buzz, like wires –
[Given the choice –
They’d just say – ‘Fat Cow!’]

4 poems.

she’s no tranny

“who has not asked himself at some tome or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?”
-Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star.

I saw a movie once and it took place in heaven. He’s not, like, 10/10 gorgeous, but still. Systems of exchange, bodybits all shining like dead soldiers. Look for the River, look for gaps in the horizon, look for gaps between each hair on my head. Roll over in bed and don’t stop. Listless rotisserie of weekend living, shunted by taxidrivers off Dean Street. I dream of neutral spaces. Meanwhile hang back avoiding shadows as if postboxes and ticketmachines were people. You’ve broken me here, moved on to the next girl and left me with nothing – I’m in burger king, yeh? Biding my time, not protesting too much, charging my phone, touching my sensitive spots, committing soft crimes in daylight. Who needs romance when you’re doing it up the bum?





snuffle me

skin-wrencher you
sore right thru me.

“think of spam and junk, think of plugholes and think of me” Bella Lugosi.

hungry
for
money
or
breasts

[trashmonkey!]

‘a girl like me’ is squirming
or else is just bits of paper
[trembliung in remembrance/sleeping all though dead]

big-boned
hairy-legged
‘i am a creep’:
squeeze me.





yr pathetic

“bt you got no rite to sit there sayin I abuse it, when u only sleep with grrls who say they like yr music.”
-The Dresden Dolls, ‘Backstabber’.

Female dissertation writers have this sense of bodies craving in. Art class & cleavage, like seeing yrself on television. Gathering speed then slit back upon.

Petrol - clad, urban symmetry makes us tremble in short skirts, knees and elbows atrophied, hair blowing around on waltzers, giggling like we’ve all had clitorectomies.

Everywhere there are Eiffel towers masquerading as electricity pylons so ‘though overweight men spit phlegm into puddles you can just smile & say ‘bonsoir’ ‘cos you know the truth. Ouija.





lustlaquer

bunny little
chicken o my
kitten you
sucker all
with tonguing
like you
never read
Lacan or
swallow proplus
‘til walls
c r a c k .

my skinnybeast –
my heartscuffer.

How2

How2 - Spring/Summer '06. Go look at it. Esp. London Calling, because London is the best. [Better than Egham, anyway.]