poem I in The Chelsea Chronicles
He is no child
and yet spring flows so amply from his loins.
Where has his protagonist gone?
The Shepherds of Drink wade in his songwriter’s swagger,
indeed, saber-toothed revelers inspired.
Noxious devotees vapidly denote the man’s strength;
yet he professes lark, and lunacy bites their flattering pallor.
The ladies in the gaggle coo.
He does not see them, his eyes glazed over by politics.
Drink drenches his tooth, incises his bliss.
For them, a bliss confrontation.
They float home believing they’ve touched rays.
And he slinks back to the Whore in the Ruse.
He fucks her, nearly loses his teeth.
Her hallow could not care less for his demonic need.
He’s a franchise, nameless and green. She, a cunt, the Sistine.
Truly he seeks to touch them,
but returns to his own puddle unmoved. This
on the floor
of a stranger’s apartment
demonically smoking cigarettes, skinny and hungry.
He waits for the possession to pass
and for the world’s blasted love to return to him at last.
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.
poem IV. in The Chelsea Chronicles
I sit at coiled desks of copper,
with a mind more vivid than a walk to the window
could possibly enhance.
I’m observing you, surrounded by our fetishes.
The scherzoid of bells and whistles
suppresses my uterus.
Easy, like the fishes.
We’re trapeze artists,
simulating monkey bars-
only with love and pears soaked in cinnamon.
Emotions that look like hairy stars
run radiant spears straight at my forehead,
and puncture through the third eye
and out the cuffs,
dousing the room with undrinkable brilliance.
A room for rent here.
No longer inhabitable by me, but for you, a crane-
uphoists your knickers into an interminable fit.
An alloy of frankincense and catatonic blurbs
keeps frying your batter around my legs
and nibbling on my knees, and on my ankles-
’til they’re full of hounds traipsing tails back to pounds.
Flamingos and pomegranates wade in the basin,
fluffing their ears up to hear the humans
braying in the other room,
exercising their age difference,
cloying at mismatched likelihoods that common absurdities,
Gemini births and penchants for sex
might iron them together.
Cocker spaniels and harpsichords
crash their feathers together
into an uproarious tune,
better known as “the alabaster twist.”
Who keeps sticking meat into Grandma’s chocolates?
Bayonets continue their slumber ’til April
and parchments re-align the harvest
for lascivious, the luscious great grain.
Drumbeat of left wing, gracious paradise
memorizes the Chelsea.
poem V. in The Chelsea Chronicles
slipping down from ecstatic
into the calm understatement of bliss.
rides its own horse-
the threat of happiness.
Sinister treads the heartbeat,
regular and full-fledged.
Then your porcupine smile
replaces her with heart,
reduces ego to mud;
and life filters through blood.
The little and mister devilish
masters conciliation of the spiciest recanters,
monkey core with ticklish.
You’re better off
where honeysuckles proliferates
new visions of her.
You’ll need remembrance on the galloping trail,
to cradle your body
with draconian bliss.
Cool your blocks before stepping in,
so her feathers won’t hurt you.
She’ll dot your eyes
and you’ll cross her teasing contagion
with cramped ridicule and haughty marauding.
And finally, wherewithal will ensue.
poem VI in The Chelsea Chronicles
He’s laden with pause, can’t come out,
won’t stay in.
But then he falls down the stairs,
to her feet.
She’s pleased; he’s shattered.
“Could I really need this thing?”
they both think.