Tag: poet
spells – ghost of the scarab
she took me to spells and what i mean is
she took me to the edge of her bed
and draped legs on each side of me
lips on each side of me
eyes preying/praying outside of me
tongue pushed inside of me
and she pressed down on top of me
hips swinging billy idol fast beat swing
and immediately i wanted to write a letter
to whatever cosmic collision birthed her
and thank said cosmic collison
for what was truly her work in her
unadulterated presentation of honest soft lips
as dizzy she took me to spells and back to rock
and roll and some more and finding myself pulling
subtly at her clothes with my fingers
and my teeth she demanded me to be honest
with the intentions of my fingers and my teeth and pulled me in
fingers crawling back to you to reach for what lies beneath
and damn damn bangarang clothes strewn true on the floor
each deep breath flooding the floor and each deep sweat
a reminder that sometimes brunch tastes like silk rope
and sweet death and god damn she had me singing baby
straight from my chest and baby, you had me tied down
by your teeth as we started to reach and we started to
reach and we started to end and can you really sleep beside a dream?
wherein you find that there can be so much light in the dark?
and wherein you find that when you’ve been fighting and fighting
and fighting for a sense of reality
that maybe what you’re truly craving
is a taste of magic
she took me to spells
and i died so many times
in the confines
of her room
so soon after she gave me
a sweet tour of the space
she was claiming
as her own.
so what’s left – john grey
after the parades die down
and three hundred million of us
are left with nothing to do
but pick up trash from the sidewalk:
take down the signs
as troops are dispersed
to go home
and look at themselves
in the mirror
and the presidents and senators
and colonels and capitalist
are secure in their counting houses
and it starts to rain
on flagstone on brown boot
on hair and bald head
on whatever flesh dare expose itself
even on a faded tattoo of a heart
and on rusted auto of course
dead junco live pigeon
even all over two people
who cross themselves
in a flamboyant Godspeak
then quote the desiccated Gospel of love
and rats tinkle bells
like old Rita’s cow
and ancient tongues speak
a diffused paranoia
and the young stir their names
in the muddy ground
with the last of the slicks
made of broken limbs
from trees once everywhere
now shipped in from elsewhere
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
water me down – ghost #11
When they tell you through
The television that
You are still not quite enough
I stew my own tender meats inside me
I watch as you preserve yours
To be devoured in private
Your eyes are kitchen windows
I am looking up at you
from inside the pot
When you ask
What’s getting to me
I become a soup kitchen
Ask you to taste it in front of me
Does it need more salt?
The anger makes a fine marinade
It often spoils the whole batch
Emotion will do that
Dilute the point
Onlookers eat me up
Leave me with only broth.
figure 8 – fm ghost
We could skate around
the issue like a figure 8
each falling down forever
the holes of a sideways shape
Where would we be
in this infinity dream?
backward into eternity
or forward toward unknown
We could cut our palms, make a pact
to help each other usher change
mix & match our blood
but the colors stay the same
We could do nothing
simply take a breath
swallow all the stones
we’ve placed within our throats
Truth is we tend to complicate things
in most cases make the bleeding worse
from a fight that isn’t there
to wanting the last word to get in first
What would we do if we
were what we claimed to be?
tumble into eternity
or headlong toward unknown
Falling forever
Into infinity
Sideways always shaping
Who we claimed to be
found wikipedia poem – the french destroyer bambara
commercial energy / varying order and similar error constants / floor to collapse / derived from the equation / throughout the history of pine / totally nude erotic dancing is expressive conduct / an optimal balance of biological control attributes / ixnay on the hombre / she exhibited her etchings / many people who committed minor offences were executed by him / the project on middle east democracy / the war continues / interlopers from the future responsible for this / to support any government / to form a new coalition / radio stations and translators / purchase and drain / trials and friendlies / the french destroyer bambara /
the stranger walks into town – ghost #117
The stranger walks into town,
one hush: then many more moments
or silence,
Butterfly! I saw a butterfly
and a dead butterfly is still
a butterfly.
Once you listen enough you
can almost hear the train
conductor driving through the
roots of the earth.
Some people say I waste my time…
Don’t we all sometimes..
today i’m definitely feeling like the forest – ghost #13
today i’m definitely feeling like the forest.
like despite the fascist metal shadow of one thousand windows
i am still just the forest.
just the truth.
just the closest thing to unadulterated.
pure and untainted i wander into myself and understand this is endless.
i don’t have to be anything other than a forest unto myself.
and there is grace in acknowledging that i know that i am clearly dying.
to watching my roots pull up by the insatiable grasp of my limbs.
earthworms digging in the beds of my feet.
i am not the city.
not today.
today i’m definitely feeling like the forest.
poem #1 – ghost #3
When you left the clocks stopped working.
Their hands, my hands, they all forgot to move. I fell asleep to the last of your scent on my pillow and awoke months later in a new season.
I do not recognize the landscape here and all of the trees have changed.
contract – ghost #1
i’m missing my contacts,
i yell up to him
from our new bathroom
in the city
i didn’t plan on
returning to
you’re missing your context? he calls back
south broadway press 