The Crater

Zabboghast!;

galloping gallantly
terrible terror tearing through the
winding wheat with whistling whipping
quick quick
his high hurdling, hard hoofed horse
steaming, stringy sinew straining straight
down down
flowers felled from fascist feet
clomping, clubbing, crushing carnally
ache ache
bravery bursts, brawling back
Zounds! Zabboghast! Zipping zephyr!
rip rip
Slumped slack, strung secured, still saddled
Killed knavishly, knowing kinder knives

…here’s a poem I wrote some time ago. I think I had it up on a different blog, but in any case, it’s a love sonnet. The only romantic sort of poem I’ve ever felt good about having written.

—–

It’s sweet and fine to sit beneath a tree

Tangling eyes and hearts beneath the flesh

Where romance is but doesn’t try to be

tear down the stereo screen

throbbing like  a vein

fragile in its exposure

a broken body that has

no recourse, no exception to

reawaken the dormant hu

manity that chisels away like

a thermostat aching to get

just a little higher

free flyer coming around

eyelids are drooping

sentinels going slack with the

all encompassing authority of zoop-doop stop.

skimming off the top like a lobotomist

giving a first rate discount, warping whether

you mean it to or you haven’t the strength

a swath of shadow settles down

steeling the odd angles and

glinting brass in the orange gleam

making plans with mindful people

dreaming on what could come

to whisk the void

as lights in the pool dot the sullen souls

so i mark them with my eye,

as it keeps a man honest in what he has and has not.

i say there’s something about love

that feels like sliding a cold rain boot

onto a bare foot, skin sticking and clinging to rubber

gravestone getting drenched in the rain

despite best intentions from all involved

bluebirds making love

tangled beak to beak mid flight

thrills like cold water

staining the blacktop

well known and so very loved

tears born from distance

holding cherries out

because you forgot the bread

ducks are unimpressed

cut onions around tall willow grass

an abandoned train station looms high

cut out against the 10 0 clock suburb haze

no one in, no one out

no one knows