A jackdaw wings like scissors cutting paper angels in the gray April sky. I wonder who has died today, left this mortal coil. Jackdaws’ advent death; wings like devilfish sculling watery air. Allow me this indulgence: I cannot imagine, nor would I, a more fitting mate for myself than a Plumtree’s Potted Meat plump Molly Bloom, warbling forget-me-nots in the cones and stirrups of my ear. Perhaps I, with clutching fingers and head at a tilt, would pump and mandible between those scabbard-red thighs, scouring Liffey’d bits and arias from scalloped-raw flesh. Blazes be damned, I would if I could, no ifs ands or buts about it. My Cossack’s-cock fencing in the soar scullery of her swallow’s nest. Then as tradition would have it, a bar of lemony-scented soap hooked from the pocket of Leopold’s trousers, for post-coital lavations and scrubbings. Joyce himself would approve, if he were not dead and rotting in bog and peat. What more can one expect of a cunning savant, having slept no more than four hours in succession, I haven’t a Plumtree’s potted pot to piss in, now have I?
Rain clouds black as bootstraps; word-sodomites (such as I) should stick to proper grammar and syntax and be mindful of our minds. Consciousness has its limits, or so I’ve come to learn. Having eaten a fools-fill of dinner, I now sit drumming a tympanum on the taut skin of my stomach; fingers joist to wrist and palm with twills and scotching. Having, as I do, no conception of time or space, I stuff and glut my belly with a robber’s disregard. Pope John Paul II has left this mortal-coil, leaving a legacy of kindness, love and faith in a life ever after. He will be mourned and remembered with love, hope and kind words. Rain dulls thought, but reawakens a triage of pain
Black Earth
I drank
Rain clouds black as bootstraps; word-sodomites (such as I) should stick to proper grammar and syntax and be mindful of our minds. Consciousness has its limits, or so I’ve come to learn. Having eaten a fools-fill of dinner, I now sit drumming a tympanum on the taut skin of my stomach; fingers joist to wrist and palm with twills and scotching. Having, as I do, no conception of time or space, I stuff and glut my belly with a robber’s disregard. Pope John Paul II has left this mortal-coil, leaving a legacy of kindness, love and faith in a life ever after. He will be mourned and remembered with love, hope and kind words. Rain dulls thought, but reawakens a triage of pain
Black Earth
I drank
strong whiskies
cupped in the palms
of my hands
black water culled
black water culled
with bucket
and trove
coke fires blackening
earth;
sod-spade driven
heel to toe
cutting clods
of peat;
and men with strong
backs
and gray cricks
of hair
bent over bevel
and hoe;
cutting stokes
of black earth
