by Richard Stone

her corpse,

rots in my heart.
flakes of old sperm on her face.

her dead hand, –symbol of the illusion of power–
formed into a fist is forced into a dry cunt.
her knuckles push and stretch
the skin of her belly.

her dead fist inside her dead cunt inside
my heart inside my body.

her corpse could kill a thousand;
but she is my plague.

i protect the world,
keeping her safe inside me.
and when i die,

and when
the world has burned us into the beyond;
you must keep our ashes in a vault
buried deep underground,

somewhere obscure
with a bell standing free in the wind
to warn people:
stay away.

‘my fear is that in the depth of night’

the women will come.

the women who were stolen from me
by thugs and vandals and friends.

women who recoiled
from the tip of my tongue,
the women i failed to speak to.

the bare arses
of women i smirked at.

mountainous handfuls of auburn hair
i used to smell deep with lust
and which i cried into, filling space.

crowds of women laughing at me.
all of them

chasing me through the cave where i live
the dream of a hermit.

standing in an empty field

delirious drunk
trying to shoot the stars with my cock,
bathing it in moonlight;
the world in a moment
coming hot to those who wait.

but still,
is it sad there’s no one to talk to?

they think we’re stupid
we think we’re stupid and they
are stupid.

o stupid idiots, rant on.
poets, call out your rallying cries.
o wine blood of the earth
fermented from the flesh of the dead,
so drunk i am
i would bleed from feet as fast
as pour into my stupid mouth

poisonous nectar of the gods...

forget those happy

ones, or times when switching the void for a decent parking place
you tuned the radio into entertainment and closed your eyes
to battalions of zealots and the wreckage of crippled traffic.
turn quickly around and everything will vanish and then return.
refuse to watch the troubling freedom to express an idea, well,
the ancient boredom will squat on your face as it hovers above,
damp and in layers with faults and fractures displacing memories
into the filthy gloom. it’s raining diamonds; or is it glass; or
spiked water; the dropping tears of a sunday morning chorus?
be happy and you will be a word as good as any. be ordinary, true,
disgusted, fearful. be a possession, or a single straining muscle.

i am sulphur. this is how i burn and breathe. yesterday, i will be
a corridor. tomorrow, the little death of an orgasm. and going on
then into names i cannot recognize, i will choose those which suggest
transformation, and then perhaps into gaelic (e.g. sgriob—‘the itchiness 
that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey’), then on
into ideograms; theban, celestial, malachin alphabets. the dead languages,
hieroglyphics, the ogham! on into the languages, found and lost,
in visions, dreams, lsd trips, fevers, nights drunk singing to the moon,
and then on and back to the first word; bow-wow, ding-dong, yo-he-ho,
or just a scream or a laugh or a moan. but never again that stupid word—
happy—indolent sweet nothing smiling from inside a snail-shell.


©2000 Richard Stone

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