how to give up this drug called longing: the
veins are empty and unfictitious as morning
a matt unlickable feculence upon the tongue's
attempts to remember kiss: miss this and this
and this enduring emptiness the body's only
solace, falling always these dawndregs must
to misplace some other, larger, restless place:
space his trace his dermis-sheen his foreseen
absence: no grace between the face, arms but
hoping did prove a ghost-fix: slip down upon
down: warmth shall covet bloodsap till mouth
blood full is: yet each and every pore leaps at
a profitless promise: for more: for more: for
3 comments:
love your work...
I swear to god, you're my poetry hero. Not heroine. HERO.
This is so damned good. And really, that simple little phrase doesn't begin to cover what this poem does for me.
Since this is untitled, had you considered using the first line as the title then jumping headfirst into the poem and use "the veins are empty..." as the first line?
Good, good, good to read you.
Incidentally, I thought of you while watching the Emmys. When Helen Mirren (who I love) said that the real triumph of her evening was not the Emmy she'd just received but the accomplishment of ascending the steps without falling "ass over tit," you popped into my head.
Ass over tit is so very British. And so very you.
(smile)
great poem. i love how uncompromising your work is. it has a confidence and is quite subversive in itself. i admire that.
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