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Here’s another Steve Harris poem

Posted by admin on October 5th, 2007 filed in Uncategorized


Riding the fly flecked flours of a dusty sky,
Into dusk's rusty brisket, I have a universe
Slipping under me in liquification & fractions;
I know the secret address of the inventor of Tetrapaks
& how his oaks are ideal for hanging my body from.
 have a shotgun loaded with rice firing a wedding
In my ears on fine days, the air is my bride
I grate over the fire of my destiny.
Noise is an alien I try & deny hold of me;
It reminds of thunder made at molecular level,
The electrons burst from balloon rubs;
The inflated objects that cling to the skeilings
Are brothers bloated w. decay; poisoned & rotten.
I call to them when night comes & spread fingertips
To touch for response, to swivel a hold on
A world that sweeps up vaulting as combing hollow,
A gape where I can fold in & out as I wish.
Alive, the pink inside the cat's ear is my fear,
The pinks that penetrate the petal of a gardenia's heart
Pall beside the pink of those tiny eyes,
The albino sight that combusts to a sun touch.
In distance screams bounce off living breath
& saliva sumps free; in the seconds it takes
To steer & home hunger to fat flesh & farrago of legs
There is the drowning in stealth.
The trees they talk a strange suction of silence
As branches behave as arms, fingers like twigs
Swim a semaphore nothing but phylum interprets.
They question the air of its motives.
They seem susceptible to my tiniest draughts.
There is an answer hung in this skull cave,
Hooked it jerks not like a fish
But a man drenched & tickled w. current,
Hoping it will not want a mouth for hiding in
I freely form the sounds of a fear
Never shall I acknowledge that I hear.

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