Poetry

Quiet Coves C.W. SouleThe air lofts rich sustenance,akin to the moist spirit of a homeward sea –“My flesh is fortified.””As is mine.”Does sight tell only of translucencieswound and unwound,lost and then never found,so that I may peer within?”There is a timorous vein.””Yes, I see it quite well –“Pumping the celeritous and reverberating current,so swift and unhindered;sloshing into all figures and forms –their every interstice of intuition.”Sanguine stranger, do you hear?” “Sweet somebody, I cannot.”Thick with laughter in their throats,Creole tongues bound by mouths, make flight beneath oubliettes of white teeth;rhythmic like footsteps of a dance wild and free.”Minds are coiling over rapacious thoughts.””If words were less ordinary I do not think that my desires should vary.”The quiet southern covehas a fair bank cascaded by houses of stone and cement and pastel colors myriad.Dirt streets wind and unwind,cutting past the houses in lines.”All is well.””Indeed, all is fine.”But now Apollo must quarter the sky,past his midday perch,casting lumens that extract yellows and greens from dreary foliage,once nascent, burgeoning and profound.”Feet shuffle up and down the stairs.””I can smell the sooty scooters, though it does little to disrupt me.””Tell me, from where do you sail?””From Saint Martin,” say they. “Aboard a ship larger then this bay.””Offer us a moment and we will share with you some existence, perhaps some conversation too.””I really must be leaving, I have not the time to command.””Fare ye well.””And also adieu.” Women walk up and down the cobbled way,Whispering of a sailors’ pay.”Drunk eyed ripples slip beyond the contours of our ship.””Aye, but sleep thee well tomorrow is but a breath away.””And we shall sail?””Aye, northward ere the gale, but till then, sleep thee well.” “I Know You Hate Me”By Phoenix Mourning-StarYou don’t know me and I don’t know youBut I think you HATE me Same diff’rent new townSame st’ff old youMust be the same me?Rape me again, then we’ll seeNothing like hate to make us feelSo every mourning stillI hurry up wake quickJust to die slow againAnd everyday I fight[that compassionate conservativismwith my own special brew of violent pacifism]the box you so desperately need to put me inthe closet you so tightly slamm’dthose spaghetti-ass labels you keep trying to tie me down withbut its never enough so you hold your woman downits still not enough so you hold your daughters downAnd what have you taught your sons…(?)Just the same old diff’rent new townI’m sure you hate meBut I don’t know you I’m tired & I’m angryAnd I’m dying just to be here…It’s All In the MoviesThrough wind and leaves”The person hasA mold. But notIts animal.The angelicOnes speak of theSoul, of the mind. ItIs an animal.The blue guitar-“Morning, noon, night.A cat crouches Between a birdAnd a tree. HeSwings at paradise.Music in sharp arrowsPierces the night. Queen-Ann’s-LaceCovers the field.Tall white heads onSlender stems inThe sun. Some trains Run all day west To the sea. HeSlips on till Chameleon godsDrive him home. And some new loverWhispers, “I ride withPyramus and theGang-bangers.””Cold yellow eye dead to the bluevault above them.”The new Bull Riderappears at noonto flip a coin.Green leaves & sunfill the eveningas the guitar man sings desireinto night red, yellow, blueagainst dark skinrhythm snakes throughold rooms, plasteredwith stains. Somewherehe tips his hat.