|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
spring is no thing hurt in alabama, unless a clit of clover
gripped in my lisp is. pluck’d pucker
like cash I didn’t fuck for, I gasp and gleam
like a knife through meat, i guess, sometimes. a knuckle
of corn shrugs its husk, stormclouds their dusky buckets.
someone’s sister struts and cusses,
peels her dress like a condom.
‘never smoke a cig so starry’ she says,
and I : ‘filthy, lovely habit. a spit-on-my-grave
type life-affirming.’ mine’s a black heart barbed
with stars, carnations and kind words,
a pinup-tit zodiac,
a flesh show braggadocio of live nude neon, lub-dub
humdrumming of love polyps in rib cages:
tintinnabular snapdragons, all
pink-blinking, windblown. I’ll not say ‘diseased’
to the rash of peach blossoms, the syphilitic sprigs
of thyme. go in peace, go westward,
to hollywood, the sea.
a pornography of bee-
stung blooms lines the highway to galilee.
About Alexander Chisum