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July 19, 2013 Poetry

3 Poems

M. G. Martin

3 Poems photo


will become

the morning your boots are filled with so much gravity that it is impossible to walk up or fall down a hill, will be the morning before violence. on this morning, the edge of the horizon will be at arm’s length, yet you will not be able to make a fist. the wind will blow the ocean out of itself. piles of shimmering fish will form mountains of wet flesh. on top of these cold blooded mountains, pianos will play themselves to tears. every living cicada will hover above you, forming a circle, clicking their abdomen in and out. on the morning before violence, a bird will bend the pitch of its song into a ring of black light. the only secret left will be how to wear the clouds like clothes. all speculation will become a pattern of calm, and various bacterium will make love to themselves inside of your body.

a large mouth that dissolves into light

blinking takes too much time so i discard my eyelids to better focus on the inevitable which could be the great joy of being chased by an enormous fish. i want to steal & break a mouth. throw each tooth into the ocean & walk until each grows back. i want to be the lyric: o to be a virus with no worth but in the consumption of order. i want three wishes. first, to be placed under your foot. second, to be crushed by you. third, to be yours. at the very least, give me infinite mouths & call me diamond. at the very most, give me powers unknown & turn me into a large mouth that dissolves into light. there is no silence in love, yet to the left is the sun & to the right is the sun. as i look in both directions, i do what takes away my breath: i blink & imagine everything is not made of light, that organic matter does not expire. how unlucky to be human, but how lucky to keep pace with life.

against these white walls

i am drawn to the balladry of an eyelash to an eyelash balanced on the perfect fold of a vagina lip

my idea of clarity is a large white room empty of all but a single brass tuba sounding off

there is perpetual expression in death

my lemons are swollen in you

fingerprints composed of eyelashes are my idea of clarity

as the consequence of a single felled eyelash is nuclear

as dying in slow motion above all else is the goal

the promise of an eyelash is the sadness of one thousand warriors without the chance of violence

i am sorry but i must throw apples against these white walls

image: Andromeda Veach