Poems that I wrote at a time when I was, as a friend put it, oozing ars poetica from the thorax of an eyeless monster...
It dies, as I regurgitate into a poem
And rub its temples with thoughts of death, Kafka,
And a thousand black lies.
We had it in common, a spell
that hid commonness
As though perfect was the word for us
And the sense that I was truth
And he was daylight
And that both of us, combined, is uncommonly
Beautiful still Life.
It dies, because a Lover
Can't be himself anymore
Since I have flowered in two
While the baby wells inside me like a tiny celebration
And even I looked up the astral signs, knowing
He must be Capricorn in the future.
And even I dreamed of those little hands
Or sprout eyes, each to each, opening to my world,
While the Lover is gone into the ponderance
Of himself unto himself
To spite the baby's truth.
And all felt like a joke, chasing into me
Like a sad, sad attempt
It died, because I was heavy and blind
As if we could not look into each other's eyes
When the stars couldn't guide us to the edge
Of our unknowing.
Compatibility, or Love
If that is so they may call it. But I, heavy again
Weep for the nudeness of Life
The harmony of men
The meaning of the future
Away with my baby.