Tag Archives: poets

U have to read to write good

So sometimes I like to read
And go into their dreams
I feel the grass like the wind
In Dylan Thomas and everything
Smells of semen he’s always
Talking about salt and ears
Of corn and things I hear his
Deep voice imagine Welsh
Baritone or just booming or
Hungry and dripping with words

And then I go on hobartpulp.com
To see tens of unique but similar
Tales of realisation, family, love
The new poetry and I look over old
Couture Noir feature lists and
Maybe I write something in LA or
Miami and then it’s vagabondcitylit
If they’ve decided to do an issue
Lately and I’m looking for poems
About transgressional romances

On my table are two Hunter Thompson
Collections I read over and over
And three collections by local
Poets Andrew Graves and Penny
Pepper and Society of the Spectacle
And a horn and a clay jug and my
Almost broken headphones taped
Together with hairbands and a pot
Of coffee and as I get to the peak
Of the coffee high my mouth vents
Petrol and I roll my head back.

A Red Handkerchief on Grass

i’m talking to you on the phone with the messages, you’re sending me them and I’m sleepy and in the bed and lying next to her and the sheets are up in me, the sun is coming through yellowy; outside the bed is cold inside the bed is warm
you’re talking in my inner ear with your messages and I’m sending you back, the phone is down and on the floor and in my inner eye you’re walking along this sunny afternoon street to me, you’re in her body and I know and you look at me knowingly but you don’t say why. We know it.
you walk over to me on the grass talking normally, her voice not like her, not unlike you, you sit down next to me talking the same message, there is a tree and a house, I don’t register what you’re saying but it is normal and alright
I want to say I can’t look into her eyes with you in them, look a little too long, and see the mouth, nose, brows and in those features your face looking back, I want you to know I went to sleep wet and this is me dreaming
you might be saying, I might be hearing
I’m reaching over to press down on the clit you’re wearing, soft cotton on top and pushing and you moaning, and warm overhanging in the sun, I mount you, feeding you thru her, in the grass, in the heat
in a sharp movement you get up and back into your body, all in one swift motion but not quite, like a few frames of film were missing, and you walk off, and I feel you; behind you and next to me where we shared blood and semen, a red handkerchief lying flat out as if to absorb stains
I wake up wet and look over at her, sleeping in the white sheets in the yellow light, my hair is in my eyes, I reach for the phone and drop it again, I turn over and stretch out on the mattress and on the pillows, and I rub myself in the mattress, and it hurts in my heart but tenderly and I remember how you sometimes wish you are a woman too


The secret is not to create mercilessly
But to make what other people thought
They only knew privately –
When you show them something they
Felt inside and quiet and alone
It’s like a magick trick except
Instead of pulling a coin from behind
An ear it’s a heart from a chest or brain
The bloody peace thumping in your fist
That you twist and turn for them stroking
Aortas, cava, trunk with knuckles and finger
Tips so that they can see what they are feeling
So that they have their blood on paper
For eternity –
And if you don’t do this you are merely
Wallowing in your own inarticulate sorrow