Nude in the Dune

featured in the poetry forum August 13, 2017  :: 0 comments

The sun strikes the sand, the skins – all unveiled, tanned.
A black cap on an iridescent towel appears from the dune
at the back of the beach, a yard or so from the shore, a head
rests underneath, not buried in the sand – it also bears shades.

Behind those smoked glasses the eyes perceive sepia colours,
beach things: striped parasols, rainbow towels,
waves calmly licking the steep descent to the sea,
sails slowly moving on the far horizon, on the azure.

Moist and sticky from sweat and sun lotion, the bodies lie
bare naked on the sandy beach like inflated balloons
or dreamed models from a wet dream, an erotic film
played at dusk in the dark of a room, a solitary fresco.

Laughters disturb the peace, children fooling around,
a gull maybe, or a girl whose shriek erupts from nowhere
and lacerate the ears, the sun-dried dreams from half sleeps.
Other heads raise, groans are heard, bodies turn over,

ready for a second round of toasting in the blazing light
of August. All ages gather there, all shapes admitted.
Breasts and penises visible for anyone’s masked eyes,
pretending to sleep, to read, or ostensibly glazing, shamelessly.

editors note:

No shame when all sneak the same peek. – mh clay

The World Map

featured in the poetry forum January 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

Those remote places swell
unlike the rest of the land
to dwell, or rest forever
in a shell shocked state

The falling skies thundered,
slowing the risky leaps, although
not killing it, she sings.

The wall in front of me as I’m watching over them,
white as purity, brightens the day, yet, ruthlessly,
the fantasies come back in a dash of hanger,
or desire to push me against higher ramparts.

She sings still,
sitting on a dark stool of thorns;
no bruises left on her thighs though.

More islands to visit,
more continents to conquer,
even more men to undo,
cheers, and greetings, and hi’s on a screen of mercy,
a monitor of lust, typing short text messages to arouse them,
then showing off in front of the camera:
a blinking eye like the map pinned on this white wall,
another hole into nothingness,
another window on the outside,
another world to possess
sucking me into the most terrible acts of treason,
tactless passions leading once more to lands of oblivion.

editors note:

Plug this into your smart map to navigate this new year. Let’s all meet in oblivion! – mh clay

Obliquity

featured in the poetry forum August 18, 2015  :: 0 comments

Everything is oblique in this place, nothing is straight.
All is slanted, diagonal, sloping. Stones roll, holes form:
rain makes the terrain even more hazardous –
those drops that fell are giant shovels digging in.

As I see it from where I lie
somewhat sunbathing in the moist, fresh air,
green grass, grey clouds rushing through the sky –
one could fear they’d crash in one of the mountain tops
just like this plane did months ago – or the roof tops –
one erupting from this village lost in the snow
when winter comes
and nothing else, other than crowds skiing from dawn till dusk, matters.
All this whiteness cannot erase
the lunacy, the forlornness, the ridiculous size of this place.

He may well stare at all these trees –
branches rather, sticks that emerge from the soil,
cut off after last fall when the saint chain sawed the remains of lust.
No sin has been performed since then, all became flat again,
unlike this place where only the walls have to be straight and vertical.

editors note:

One’s straight talk is another’s tangent. What your angle? – mh clay

A Bottle of Jack’s

featured in the poetry forum December 27, 2014  :: 0 comments

“Resist it, don’t turn to the spirit.”
I say to myself
each time we’re guests at some friend’s feast,
each time we host one and play Jacques a dit.*
Resisting the temptation from the flask,
the siren’s call luring me into mischiefs,
the perfumed beverage flowing along dirty songs,
vulgar laughters, inconsiderate words,
uttered, whispered, shouted at the face of others.

The ghost-like liquid connects my brain to nothingness,
it leads me to dreadful dead-ends,
blocks energy, shunts capacity, kills sanity.

Jacques a dit:
“rave, stumble, make a fool of yourself,
fall into the intoxications of misinterpretation,
dizziness, restlessness, forgotten caresses,
oblivion, and sofa crashes.”

* Simon Says

editors note:

Every man-jack, jackass jacks around this holiday jumble; when Jack says, we gotta do. – mh

Arty Artichoke Heart

featured in the poetry forum October 29, 2014  :: 0 comments

The cub wolf replaced Franckie.
He wanted what?
Wanted that the light emitted from this brain,
from these eyes – other Germanic windows –
passing through the prism prevented shade
from invading his lair: a dusty room
where rats and dogs, and cats and mice, and all rodents,
fleas, bacteria, germs, viruses, all dreadful
parasites born to this world, this decayed
pit, collapse copulating with his junkie friends,
and worried, mournful family.

Hidden corpses under the bed,
the red convertible sofa,
rotting slowly as we had sex.
Sex friends was a ludicrous quest
but how can anyone escape
from absurdity when it is all around us,
blind, deafen, choke us to death,
after lobotomizing, emptying these egg shell skulls,
replacing lutein with albumin,
or slime.

editors note:

Garden or garbage pit, it’s all organic material; recycled in the end. – mh

From Below I Call

featured in the poetry forum August 12, 2013  :: 0 comments

To write a few lines not to be forgotten,
oblivion comes first with fruit and bread.
The corridors of the sanatorium has blue
tiles reminding me of the fluff of an auk.
Mosaist Mozart mortadelle Morte d’Arthur
These walls of uncertainties, doubtful
moments. Sometimes they crash onto
my bed, my head full of visions, these
dreams taking me far away from here.
Epicurean Aesop eiderdown Evelyn
No I won’t bite my finger nails and I
certainly won’t gnaw the stale bread I
baked earlier that year. That’s when I
left your shores and our lives set apart.
Receptionist Rilke rosemary Ruy Blas
They said let’s swim in these troubled
waters where sharks dwell and swirl,
let’s have anxiety cured by its most
paramount implications, let’s go free.
Cartographer Cervantes clay Cinderella
Freedom stinks sometimes. They have
already seen that form of power in their
lives and they cannot take it from me as
all they want to do is grow fat in the end.
Yogi Yuri G. yarn Yseult

editors note:

Randomly reformed sonnet set spinning w/ interspersions; Unforgettable Uruguay uvula Urquhart. (Absolute delight!) – mh

Hills Filled with Fright

featured in the poetry forum December 22, 2012  :: 0 comments

What are you afraid of?
The shadow cabinet,
the gloomy cupboard,
the essential framework decided by the loons.
Between two levels of this game
you play each time it rains.

Your throat is sore:
the devil dwells in,
your head aches so
you wish you could unscrew it.
You feel lonely, lost and torn out.
The shores you used to love and watch roaring when you were young
are far
from these hills, and crests, and mounts, and vineyards at certain heights.

Let me repeat this once again. What are are you afraid of? Are you afraid of height?
Are you afraid of what your passions could lead you to perform?
Debilitating acts and profoundly shameful thoughts
dark images, pink images, blurred and tainted,
flesh on flesh, pricks and balls
mingled and intertwined
at dusk, at twilight
in toilets you
toy them
once
more.

editors note:

Oh, sweet warm bed, the morning-after shaky sunlight thin upon the wall. What a fright last night, indeed; the onset of insanity? The end of the world? No, wait… it was the office Christmas party. Much worse – stay in bed ’til the new year! – mh

Brothers’ Brothel

featured in the poetry forum July 21, 2012  :: 0 comments

It is strange to awake from a so long nightmare and realise another one has taken its place. Not so much a nightmare than a bead-stream of souvenirs of an ancient time when anything seemed possible but wishes and dreams were held back by the crows and ravens flying above the lives of so many innocent lambs.

There were so many catholic priests and so little room for them all. In the dormitory, nights were too short to digest the rubs and scrubs the dark castrated men inflicted on prepubescent boys. They even had this mad concept, dull idea to sacrifice some of their peers to gain more space in the corridors of infinite pleasure where their prey hid.

One made a bungee jump from the top of the basilica, wasn’t he pushed by the invisible hands of some unfathomable god. Another one lustful, joyful and bright, drowned in cheap wine.

Flowers of evil take many shapes and meander under snake skin with the snout of a swine.

Many sisters on the opposite side of town, played Cinderella and Snow White – busy little ladies sweeping the dust off the backyard.

Sister Schtöltz probably dreamt she was the hound of hell or the verdigris ward of a concentration camp. Sister Myriam – drawn to earth and frivolous – shared her views on what bra a bride should wear. Sister Bernie – imaginative and contemplative nun – sang in the choir of lost souls.

The chapel sheltered their uninteresting wishes, cheerless shepherdesses, sharing Genesis and the Gospels and the Apocalypse with the brains of formatting teens.

editors note:

History or biography, maybe fantasy (there were fairy-tale characters involved); this is a story of formative years which only the strong can de-form. Let those three sisters cast their dust. Bippity, boppity, boo! – mh

Night Observatories #19

featured in the poetry forum April 27, 2012  :: 0 comments

In the luminous narthex, the proboscis perforates our worn lepidopteran abdomen

in the gaping aisles, the cells swarm the pagan desires.

editors note:

In the Church of Insect Adoration, a butterfly sacrifice appeases impenitent bees. – mh

Ten years Later #5

featured in the poetry forum January 9, 2012  :: 0 comments

The road is long
and cold:
this scandalous sex
living hugeness,
vivacious,
unscrupulously spread itself
before my amazed eyes.

The road is long
and dry:
the uterus is rotten
blood drips
slowly
the world
implodes.

The road is long
but I feel good
and on your body
I explode
through all the pores
of my skin.

editors note:

It’s not the road, so much. It’s the mileage… and knowing the good road-side rest-stops. – mh