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February 28, 2020 Poetry

Two poems


Two poems photo

You, Drawing

Urgent and hawkish, 
savage man strokes
skirr from your pen;
determined bold lines 
chase skeletons   
gouge the eye sockets 
of decayed Frida Kahlo  
bursting with flowers,
the Dance of the Dead.
You are the pen and paper    
without pause or breath;  
massive black lines from your ink-sticks  
wield spirals of ornamental corpses,
black and white, peppered with screaming  
wet crimsons, blood red licks, rushing
specious daffodil yellows,
cool gray blues scraped from the sky.
Delphic festival characters  
stream elliptic sangomas
from your cacophonous palette  
faking their roles on the page.
Medieval hares arch lemon hairs,
intentions laid bare, one eviscerated
in clumsy, advancing, pseudo-lyrical lines
flashing guts to hungry plucked eyes,                
hurried, running out of time.
Finely etched skeletons dance 
on ephemeral Styrofoam cups.
Bloody teeth gnaw tattooed sketches,
Max’s graphic prenotions.

Drunk Michigan Mermaids Sing to the Dead

I am calling you up from the dead
with my waning merdyke libido
come, come, my scaled tail flaps
up, out of the embers, can you hear me
crash off your mother’s meranti shelf
rise up ashen magpie from the shattered glass
and ascend the northwest wind
drift over the body Atlantic to the jagged 
water-bound mitten, the rock is lit
your horny American merbitch sits here
calling you, a displaced witch
still snatched in grief’s teeth 
sponged over death, memory
and love’s hunger
where ghosts’ romantic utterings 
rumble  over crumbled
dreams of earth’s dumb specters 
stumbling clumsy through 
last summer’s debris
and winter’s failed healings
while still pining for ghosts 
to fuck them to new deaths


image: Laura Gill