poem III of The Chelsea Chronicles
Petulant epigraphs sign themselves away to hell,
to devil’s not of their making.
Easing down into the graves of gradient yesteryears,
they shout: “Define me!”
Chance fling gives way to flight,
the nuclear smile’s conduit to sight.
And the cannon hurdles herself
up against the wall. Again.
Fish sleep in her underwear,
doubting the waterlogging of their reality.
What perfects her sight shall not be lackluster nor salty.
Those furtive chops she’s got whisper to her
about closets and doors and crows-
in there, where love is kept.
Swinging with bats and fans of you.
Smooth and protected early selves,
a spliff to the right, errant or not.
Bebop greats swim with great dreams.
And the shelf.
The hesitance won’t stop my lumps from becoming horns.
With horns, my third eye gets swallowed up
and sinks back into the recesses of self-conscious predilection.
The devil may care, but demons are more palatable-
jazz animals with no kin nor faith.
Homemade juxtaposition sauce
with sizzling sirloin lizards
on a side of soft shell spankings.
Roast prime devil, venous green salad,
subdural hem-sho; beatnik don’t know.
Meet you in your room at half past
pluming pummels. Plum-laced perfect!
Winding nights of life infuse our burgeoning blood
with confounded needs and unfounded insecurities.
A neat titration yesterday,
dripping sapphire desire into fidele base.
Tonight magenta clouds bubble through
my cylinder, begging for mutation, for your beaker of molten jazz
to saturate, adulterate, reiterate our implicit bondage.
Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke
Golden serpents reflect clouded aspirations
and dilute enlightenment into dust.
Unicorns on tap,
degenerate horns the same.
Duality collides in foam,
and crystal line faithfully follows.
Red, green, white, brown,
color without ground.
Gold label wishes spawn corporal delight.
I sip, I think.
Tequila drains and I sink
under watchful bartender’s watch;
he barters, I the martyr.
Empathetic refills offer buoyancy,
offer logistics to linguistics.
There, climbing golden towers appear
where snakes once sputtered,
powdering their scales, exfoliating our fear.
Delicious venom lacquers the runway,
eyeballs dash around.
Slithering tongues caress my shoulders;
nub of wing, stub of horn.
slap the dice down
for a joint in a snifter.
And for under-the-table tricks, little known
are the New Zealand drifters, the British bombers not quite,
our randy kicks ‘n’ their swingin’ misters,
all convened here in one Portuguese night.
How now, the Castilian escapists, the dance floor rapists,
and somehow, Gypsyified me.
Blarney revelers need not apply.
At the tip of essential Iberia.