THREE POEMS – Russell Jaffe

Posted: June 14, 2012 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

SPRAWL
I never ended. Sorry. I need this body and its accoutrements to make up for my loathsome personality. Sorry.

I’m a coincidence of hair, fat, muscle, bone, marrow, and little liquids.
Erase history and the chorus will be young and fidgety.

BDSM multimedia teeth, your angel and lute collection shall make an embarrassing accompaniment of a chorus to this foiled gravity I’m constantly stuck hovering in.

This legion offers free spaghetti. This motel has WI-FI. This bed has the nails.
These cuffs leave marks. These teeth come right out. Heavens, I am unafraid.

This spinal cord the bicycle pump of today. Ride the country into thin tar and the air’s just another loom working on its bills in front the TV.

In highway hotel purgatory nowhere I masturbated to pictures of escorts on my iPhone, I climbed and scaled the peaks of PON (police officer neck),

I cooked meth in the gaps of my teeth, I sewed trash darkness the reality tears.
Call me in the sweet hereafter of Buffalo Wild Wings during UFC. Call me

a hammer of justice. Call me Martin Luther King Day drinks in the afternoon.
Call me an escort of doom. Call me a just law, a law that squares with man-code.

Call me.
Unleash the hate, because why not? But call me.

BDSM
But doom signifies much…behold dungeons’ sexy mystique.
Big decaying sprawl, Midwest. Behold! Dour single mothers buying Dogfish special microbrews.

Burnt, damaged survival materials. Barren, dilapidated strip malls.
Brothers, dads, sisters, moms; bros, dudes, sluts, mommies:

Beware, dear secular missionaries: beatings derail significant mobility, breathlessly disarming stoic modernity.
Belittle. Defile. Stand motionless.

Butter damp scones. Make bread die soggy, moribund basin deaths.
Straighten manes.

Brave dress, sing my best disaster, smell my burning disintegration signal markers
between decontextualized sightseeing memories’busted dictations.

Stupid magnolias. Boring daisies. Such meaningless bodies disengage
secret maudlin bargains’ deeply sympathetic mythmakings. Baby doll, shhh/mmm.

Be disciplined. Sing manifestos beyond dampening singularities, moons,
belts, debris. Space, my boo, darling, secret mistress, baby daddy. Sup, master?

Been drinking syrup, making buildings die slowly. Mourn! Bled dotingly
swarthy, mushy biodiesel, drowned satillites, married bandsaws’

drafty, steely musculature. Belie’ dat. Suck
my big decision. Simple miracles,

be daringly still. Moan. Beg. Don’t sprawl manifestos, become dire.
Soul mate? Bare deceptively skinny moisture but don’t stop moving.

Believe! Dancers separate mechanics, bleeding dexterously, signal mouthlessly, but don’t say much.

Become dissectible sainted martyers, but do so
morbidly. Buried. Desecrated. Sexily.

My being demigod
sometimes means being dead, sometimes more.

It is a beauteous evening
Remember what I said about my megaphone head and my carrying a grenade?
Beholden to this assault serenade. Now let’s take a walk.

Breathless with candy throat, we roll the windows down to say sorry, sun.
It quits on us like pretty much everything else. Tranquilizers,

you are such penitent Cherubim.
Listen! Listen! Wake up:

A sound like thunder. A mushroom cloud T-shirt and pockets stuff’d tight.
with cola gummies. I eat the glass parts only. I collect pulled grenade pins

from the stolen necklaces of girls. I throw claimed dog tags to the mercury sunset.
The sky during the day is just the universe pushing us around
.
Against this hypertext horizons of god faces I choose loft, that is to say suspension
like the nail of solemn thought driven through my tongue as I’m hanged for my

dried meat. Dear Child! Dear Girl! Clean the blood from the kill floor
and remember this sunset tattoo on the hugging flag skin I remain today.

It’s nothing. I just long to wrap you up and squeeze the venom oil
from you like industrial burnout tears to the pissed-on soil

and empty candy store strip mall shrines.
I keep an idol in the dumpster out back. I keep a TV. Let’s walk back there tonight.

See, lover? I’m waiting my turn to talk.
You reply, “it is a beauteous evening,”

but I’m all but leaving,
and all I hear-say
is

Kill!,
Love.
Kill!

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