Never crane vertebrae around bends
Seeking end or other, elsewhere,
Meaning.
Because, it sits in wait, the twin of
A little shoeless child or a dog at
The doorway when the rest
Is desecrated by static and windy livings,
Beings, flatlining,
Dead.
Month: April 2018
You: the starving portraitist sitting outside the Shubert
You just
spilt art on your clothes
lifted your palms, twitching,
reading ruddy black, white
swathing your baffled body
inhaled colors’ smells
While paralyzed
How The Hyperreal smells like leather, reminiscent,
An inside-out glove, Muscle drained of red–
Realized how you contract, molting fermented opaques
Caricature frame evaporates, vaporized by rubbernecks, eyeballs
Cocooned in ink, papier-Mache`d, amateur art, peering hard,
To atrophy your rigid frame.
You, vacant, rickety, intoxicated by the cold and wet
Leaning on cement
Elastically embracing your own bones, your being, oddly well
Watching passengers smear by on NY time on charbroiled paths
You
swingless in the indigo rain
A broken pendulum, An unrolled marble-
Avalanche
Ugh!
There it is, that
pulsing magma that
dizzying charcoal that
deep, dark-black liquid
brewing grossly,
churning,
waking,
gaining consciousness
like a long-silent soul
when you polish the oil-lamp
but this one–
this one it doesn’t spring from
the spout
it doesn’t
burst from the seams
or drizzle to the floor like
sugar
it just
sticks inside
my ribs
telling me–
you’d better
open your fucking mouth.
Hymn of the Rescinded Daughter
I stepped into the room of stone.
I stepped onto the mark
I stepped upon the soiled throne
Whence rained around me sparks
Whence walls ignited, white as fear
My limbs, enthroned, went slack
Skulking vernacular pricked the ears
‘fore silence barked forth black
And whilst I clench myself to stone
And whilst I grit to life
A regent kin emblazoned bone
Now bellows charring art
Thee, in-furling shards of truth,
Are blemished from within
I ache to flare these injured texts
To sear in script
your every sin.
I hear my heavy pulse like “rum,” like a thunder debate.
And of course, I smoke. I smoke thickly with my feet crossed,
Linoleum floors, creaking old dogs pacing ruts in the floor
Click the beat of the clock, of my thrum confused by
Its question: how did I get to sitting on this floor,
In the half-dark, with myself and a small glass and other heads,
A dog, a hand over mine like a prayer for a quilt being
Answered and since I smell like bonfire,
And there are not nine cinders in my hair like a
Tarot, Pentacles,
The Devil
The devil isn’t in a clean white bed at the top of the stairs
room down, In this empty house we cluster,
dogs digging trenches and jewels glowing through the floor.
Ana Celeste Poetry 