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I.
I was watching
as the wolves split open the scar
across your neck, and ripped out the stitches that held your sternum
together. The blood flooded over
your breasts and pooled in small lakes in the crestfallen
snow. I moved closer to the car,
smashed and
tangled amongst the fractured winter tree,
to light a cigarette in the effigy burning soft
dirges against the pale sun. You gurgled
a breath. Your lungs and heart beat against the exposed
ribcage as the beasts ripped away layers
of muscle and sought
marrow with their gnashing teeth.
I would move closer. I would
lift your head and pour smoke into your mouth
as though you were drowning.
I would note that,
after all,
there was no contrast between the crimson and the lily
white.
II.
We moved into your parents’ cottage on the
Pacific that April. You
would lay out in the yard as I mowed the
lawn and then I would join you with
a glass of lemonade.
The wind blew through the fir trees and, at your
whispered
command, I prepared the soil. I opened up
your forearm with the kitchen
knife. Split the veins and
butterflied the vascular
tissue. Stopped at your
shudder. The poppy seeds scattered into
you and slid between the radius and
the ulna, taking root. I sat there, watching, so they
grew up your
shoulder, blooming white across your breastbone
and into your chest cavity. Opened the
seam in your esophagus and brocaded your
neck with frills. Through the
summer I tended to
you; shearing away the raw flesh and
opening your abdomen to let the garden breathe. Every
morning I cut the flowers
away from your cheeks to look
into your eyes, to prepare a
bouquet for that evening’s meal.
III.
Escher was always my favorite you
whispered here, whispered a thousand times
before as we lay awake at 2 A.M.
Your back twisted and the spine snapped
as I pressed you flat up against
the museum wall,
pulled your arms up over your head
to keep you from fighting back.
I could feel the gathering footsteps
seeking your exposed navel, noting the outline
of your bra. I followed the
railway spikes through your palms,
there between the static art
while you cringed and gulped beneath me.
And you opened your mouth
hungrily, letting me
slide my tongue into you
into you
into
you.
The window in my hotel room wouldn’t open,
due to the contraption
they had added to it
to prevent people from
smoking,
so i opened it,
robustly,
and now i can smoke.
I look down as i smoke
and can see numbers
on the floor
for the cars to know where they are,
33…32…31..etc.
I’m glad the cars
know where they are.
I spit on the cars because it is simply
impossible
to not spit
when you are
at height.
I am in Oxford, the seat
of learning
in England, although
those in Cambridge
may beg
to differ.
Earlier i went for dinner.
I ordered the ‘pan fried’
cod,
with saffron courgette’s,
and then waited.
I guess i appeared
to be lost in thought,
preoccupied
by something
else, other than the
people in the
room.
This wasn’t so.
I listened to every word
available, from every
table nearby.
What i heard confused me.
Everyone spoke like Hugh Grant
and had impossibly upright
postures.
I almost laughed at the
cliché,
but couldn’t,
and felt only shame.
I felt like a train wreck
sitting there
in the corner.
What the fuck are these people learning?
They seem so content and well-adjusted,
and i don’t understand what they say.
They are young, so i forgive them,
but as i started in on the cod,
i wished only to casually walk
over to one of their tables
and scream at the top of my voice…
“What the fuck are you going to do
when your lover is coming at you with a knife
because you were ten minutes
late with their
heroin??”
I walked to the till,
paid,
then walked outside
into the
rain.
I am standing on my balcony
tonight as the world
explodes to the memory of a man who
may well have done us all a favour
had the gods not intervened.
Below me walk a couple, not
a young couple, but a couple just
the same.
They walk slowly and kick leaves
and talk quietly
as all around the clouds
reflect the city
and the animals cower,
awaiting
the dawning of
a new
day.
The couple are in no hurry
and neither am i,
as i watch them kicking leaves
silently praying that
they
make it.
Three kids walk past
in the opposite direction
all talking at once, loudly,
i hope they make it too,
although the odds
are not
good.
My culture has it that
to celebrate the execution of a bomber,
we should explode smaller bombs,
light fires, and pretend to burn people
who oppose the state.
Forgive me for asking
a humble
question…will you forgive me?
Why, thank you that is most
gracious of you, but
as i stand here alone
with my thoughts, on this balcony,
watching people
from inside a warzone, i can’t for the
life of me remember what
that question could ever
possibly have
been.
Cars
It was in New Orleans East
and was a job i didn’t like
amongst other jobs i didn’t like.
It was an enormous parking lot;
i was to inspect rental cars
before they went to auction,
make a note of damage;
cigarette burns on the upholstery
dents in the fenders
etc.
New Orleans is hot and
this was the hottest place in New Orleans.
The tarmac reflected the sun
onto the cars and
the cars were made of steel.
Everything burned to the touch,
but the routine was simple;
open the door, burn my fingers,
turn both engine and air conditioning on
then close the door;
stand in the sun for five minutes, then
climb in and shut the door.
Inside was wonderful;
cool air blowing on my face,
watching the heat shimmer off the hood.
I would take my cap off,
smooth my hair and close my eyes,
the ring of sweat and the red line on my forehead
slowly disappearing.
It took about fifteen minutes per car, this inspecting,
and required me to hold my breath between cars
to prevent my throat from burning.
I remember, it was a black Cadillac:
open
burn
close
wait
in…
I sat waiting for the cool air to kick in
in my maroon leather world,
listening to the sound of the fan,
as the backs of my legs stuck to the seats.
My partner, Harry, was three rows down
and to the right,
i could see him kicking a tyre.
I rolled a reefer;
a twig pierced the paper;
i cursed and started again.
I turned the air conditioner down
and the radio on.
“Kurt Cobain was found dead today
above the garage of his
Seattle, Washington home,
he was twenty-seven”,
they announced on WRNO.
I turned the radio down
and the air conditioning up and
listened to the fan.
My word-view instantly altered;
i felt alone
again,
and i cried from my gut.
I have only ever cried this way once before,
in December 1980.
It was 1994 and i was twenty-three years old.
Later that year i moved to San Francisco
with my wife.
I am now forty years old and
no longer married.
I no longer remember what
my ex-wife sounds like,
nor
why i married her.
But i do remember
that lot in New Orleans East
with
the cars,
and Harry
and
Kurt.
(Source: drummerboy1970.wordpress.com)
I.
I was staring out the
window when the crimson shots pierced
the horizon
left sodden streaks
through my hair
you were screaming through a bloodbath in the next
room
and even after I
burned him with a cigarette
27 times
and crushed his elbow with a
hammer the
man beside me claimed the
sky was simply the purest azure he’d
ever seen
II.
The sun was bleeding
pouring down lighter fluid that burned through pastures
through breezes leaving rustling leaves rustling in the wind
holding open rifts in the sky where you
and I saw the clouds move to
sneak glances through the holes
in Orion’s belt
and listened to the ocean’s
last rasping breaths as you
III.
handed me the knife
IV.
I knew you wouldn’t cover your eyes or
drown out the sobbing
with the year old earmuffs
first the bloodsplatter
then the peeling of muscle
from muscle
from tendon and bone
the grass was scorched to brown
but the still beating
heart threw out the
summer’s first rain
YOU ARE YOUNG OR OLD FOREVER
one line drawing by Eric Boyd
the lights in the skies
reflect the light from the city
shining in your
red eyes
walking away from the lights
the screaming noises which keep you
awake and mired in dreams
as you march away, the world
decomposes
in your footprints
the city devolves into a town
into a hovel
your heart beats…
It’s probably worth your while to click through and read the rest.
Id rather not explain…
Cutter
![polkadodgeorganization:
“Tourists [Understanding People]” - Poetry by Joshua Robert Long (joshuarobertlong.com)](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2svccvHBF1ru3fbwo1_400.jpg)
“Tourists [Understanding People]” - Poetry by Joshua Robert Long (joshuarobertlong.com)
