I was pulling a ‘Virginia’
– Wolff, that is – and drowning
He said flippantly.
As if he were making
An insightful literary reference
Instead of just excuses.
I was pulling a ‘Virginia’
willingly Sang the choir
gloria in eXcelsis deo
trIlls of joy
triumPh was immanent
the soUl nearly released
over nearLy as
quIckly as it began
a staCcato moment of pleasure
A pencil moustache zips a head on
a body of ash meeting the future as smoke
and the nostrils of a lady
with a stick for a poker
devoted to ornament
telephone lines drape façades
connecting tropical vines to ambitious roots
The chalky grey whitewash on the temple
in the middle of the lake
makes the flushed cheeks of families on their annual holiday
look even rosier
rose on grey
This is not ‘whatever’ grey
it wants people in front
Nosey receptionist lazy-eyes a pink and plastic shopping-bag. Contents: a lonely man’s beer: two ‘Saigon’s, though Saigon is way, way south of here. In this rent room there are a number of choices regarding lighting:
1. A fluorescent strip mounted in an almost straight line high on the wall that you look at when you’re trying to sleep;
2. Spots romantic – two above the pillows and two above your feet; and
3. A lamp that won’t sit properly on sagging rosewood. It has a dimmer and a shade in silver, gold and white.
Whatever happened to Sister Mercia? And why did she show none? Where did she catch the Hepatitis that made her whites so yellow? Was she infected in the tropics? Was her mission accomplished?
I never wrote you a love poem because I thought it would turn out like a bad drawing and that the outline of your head, which I know best, would be skewed and your eyes would be in the wrong place looking in impossible directions – never at us – and that this misconception would not only not do our love justice but that it would also shame me forever. In short: that a bad love poem would be worse than no poem at all. I no longer agree with myself in the slightest as you read. And just as I have saved some of the notes – those dry domestic leaves, that we left each other about calls our comings and goings and unpaid bills, I wish I could now hold a bad drawing in my hands instead of nothing at all. The man-to-man couple next to me is acting suspicious. He is Gay-dad paying Mr. Vietnam 1974 way too much attention. Gay-dad knows when he can cut loose from his tour group: After he has given them a speech like always – horny Gay-dad preacher man. Mr. Vietnam 1974 is tapping the table to avoid the enamored 59-year-old stare. The conversation turns uneasy. Now it’s all about who gets to leave and who not and therefore who might get to come back and who has to wait and who not. (For Danh, Hanoi, February 2008)
Are squeezed out of our eyes and throat
Like they are out of our noses and cocks
Only to be processed and bottled
Like the genetically modified fluids
When you arrived the stench was overwhelming,
Like some fresh pigeon’s shit or even a dove’s.
The way you smiled real nice and twinkled your eyes,
I could see you had ulterior motives.
Even if the kettle is black, or the house made of glass,
This act of ‘love’ was way out of line.
For if those flowers were to represent anything at all,
It is the falsity of your love, and surely not mine.
Therefore I counter not with chocolates nor champagne,
And you can just forget about coming home.
Because regardless of how ‘sweet’ you thought you were,
Roses just don’t write poems on their own.
Redwood climb i dare you
If i had arms
Legs you have enough
Roses don’t write poems on their own
Your perfume, sir
Is that the excrement of feline
New drink booty
You lied to me.
But I forgive you becaue
You have the limbs of a leopard
And the smile of a pussy
Meow. Said the elephant
Standing blushed in the corner
If only the maid would find solace
In the length of her skirt
Lace is a drink not an ornament
And as you chest hairs knot (not)
I read the sentimental godless tapestry
Of your dreaming
And see the curl of your wit
Cheeks shifted with audible creaks
Glasses more than half-empty
The Roast was a crisp
The Crisp more a crunch
If only the wine
Could have packed more of a punch
The talking was steady,
But grasping at straws
If her mouth was a wound,
We would run out of gauze.
Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house
The only thing drowning
My agony was Straus