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This is a long prose poem about Arthur Rimbaud. If you don't like experimental material, you should probably avoid it.
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In the most unusual manic-panic creep,
Wildly lurking behind every corner,
The Shadow was about to recover some ungraspable but always constantly desired idea..
A fantasy, a darker shade of fantasy: a fun fetish.
Or, perhaps, could it be foolish fanciful notions?
This fully torked delusion can be a haunting mirage.
A make believe vintage slogan ghost from generations past.
That worn out American Dream. That Life.
THE LIFE:
-Free from the routine confusion and disorder-
.
dewdrops on noses and pontific babble
loafers and posers and garlic and scrabble
dog poo and spiders and soup of bird's nest
these are a few of the things i detest.
jigsaws and coldsores, neighbours, nosepickers
poetry forums and men who wear knickers
warmongers, winkles, wasps, warts and all
adds to the contents that gives me the gall.
Bzzzz Bzzzz Bzzzz what is that I hear...Something"s buzzing near my ear but her name isn't Wanda Let me take another listen as I invision the coast near a sea something tropical... Can this bee a dream maybe not or maybe so.... I think of your face when the weather is cold just so I can remind myself...
Her heart swam in ecstatic desires;
anchored on a fruition beyond measure,
as my caress set it on pleasant fires;
her frigid mind on a flame of rapture.
Her mind once as a flickering moonlight;
made fickle, frigid and shrouded in pains
by memories of her acrid love plight,
yielded to affection without restrains.
She laid motionless like a mannequin,
her eyes draped in fruitive emotion,
bliss; once smoldered by her heart's ruin;
ebbing now like the tide of an ocean.
We woke up at dawn,
ran away from the town.
Ignoring farewell silhouettes
in the windows behind us
I concentrated on driving.
My dog-friend
eagerly looked forward,
deep thoughts hidden under
the short fur
in the folds of the dog’s frown.
Ears and cheeks flapped in the wind.
Black coat shone in the sunrise
like an evening gown.
My sand built mansion
Will one day sink in sand
And all my passion
To yonder land
Whether or not you have seen me before
You shall see me no more
But I won't remain in the dark
I will take another form and come back
I will live forever
After that carnal life is over
I don't think I can come up with a fav poem of Steven's because for me, it's the immediate interaction of his poetry in the moment of our meeting on the page that made the relationship of poem to poet and poet to poet so precious
.
And now a voice is caught in my throat. I don't know if it's Steven's or mine. Maybe the muse that is the poetry of grief. My condolences to us all.
~~~~~
To A Dead Poet
i.
The taxicab smells of stale beer and
half-gone friendships and
I am lost
again.
Tumbling dimensions.
The precautionary naivety of
young men
home for birthdays
home for christmas
home when home is just a name
just a concept, lost,
just a thought as foreign
as the white-gold sands of Egypt.
These notes they sound the same when played in tandem
not all too dissimilar
to this.
When death becomes
the inevitable
full stop
who can erase
or add another stop
none never
So all oldies like you and I
think of the distance
between our last coma
and final full stop
You so boldly say
Dead
on behalf of poets of lure
who by now since 1976
must have gone away
for ever for sure
speak nothing else
but of death
yet unsure
Full stop.