Invariably they enter, at last, my library –
See where we’ve arrived? Pay attention –
and whipped my erect flashlight
as I marvelled at your sad, exotic skin
perhaps sprung stinking from forest compost.
her hot mouth
tiny, intense, holds against sway, looks
of field glasses. Focus? Where a squirrel cuckoo
who never gave up on me, even at my cheeriest –
unnatural, unattractive, uninviting, sprung
and gag on it. Wipe chins with torn fingers.
wrecked by an old black Labrador
I am not implying I am hollow from my desire
I believed every word. Even if you turned suddenly
now as a question mark, now some other
Curtains whip the room. A salt shaker for weight,
dripping in thick green, my own monkeys.
They look like thieves, their dark families
though, I’d have appreciated their company.
He’s young, lean, knotted,
twitchy palms at Lloyds of London; Libido Lost.
I conjure you both and reckon some stupid
bungled murder, state and private addresses,
cracked pocket watch and a list of names.
But whatever it is never leaves the hair now.
Immortality weighs, as long as the book’s
into my behaviour. Damn it, perhaps now is
thirty years later. No one waiting any more.
Some grunts, a vague laugh. The ring slips
Hell, marriage is a runny, messy business, is it not?
To my left, a twitchy young guy spends the hour
through the hole for two more.
Your own kids later claimed it miracle
of the heralded apocalyptic work
beside my old chair,
I asked how, oh Lord, had I arrived
to the Union wounded at Portsmouth Grove,
the real world, breath and blood and pulse,
enough but for its pungent air,
as if sizing me through a screen, your face
parts, and dies. Crow lands
with the soft distinction of a father back to this,
as men like us will ever come. Patented grin
until all frost burns away.
I submit to you tonight as I have
Over a dozen countries and years,
last day, hour, instant,
So it was only suddenly and dipping in flight
and dying, day ahead and
black wings drumming closer
but couldn’t answer their appeal.
The moment held, dimmed. The rest common:
from torn mouths and tongues, tried to hold
themselves towards narcotic, honeyed mischief.
ladle soup for the stunned. Cameras are ecstatic
couldn’t get enough of you, but I
for the human eye.
This simple, mortal fellow nearly content
like nothing else in life between trembling fingers
the flaw of character in the frame.
I’ve been moody lately, distracted, eat nothing but
from the garden, topped with international
Inexcusable warmth and bounty.
wish you home today
The whole shameful, greasy mess gets slopped untouched
Cold clarity. Begins, that is, as dream.
but no more apologies today. It’s spring,
Think randomly about my dog,
that interrupted my brilliant concentration
I believe I have been ripped to the conscious world
despite appearances to any distant point-of-view.
The future’s out there, no doubt of that,
raped for pennies. I struggle to
bad sleep. In short, a flop of a week.
– Scott Sandwich
Words and all the important stuff from Gaylord Brewer
(Not an official collaboration)