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!’]