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Mary X (email, website)

 

Corners.
I was never one
to complain about
the incandescent
murmurs in each
slant of this pit.

This slant
marked by a Queen,
a scented spray
tumbling
through the ray
of air and surfacing
as a mark of territory.

This slant
marked by a Shadow,
a solitary
eccentric entwined in
itís own demands
and complications Ė
the dead-certain rose.

This slant
marked by an OCD patient,
an obsessive to
an obsessive
violent brute
of a human life.
overpowering urge
whisper that will never
be veiled by
an Elephant-man
mask.

This slant
has yet to be marked
but Iím sure a hissing figure
stuck in a rut
of living,
needing some joy fulfilment
to
stimulate
itís sexual organs
will traipse
into my time;
use the fact
(that) I
am male
then screw me up
and throw me into
my own nauseating
tomb.

just like

all the
other
wise-men
did.


Little Coin.
This coin spins with a magnetic current
Under itís wing.
I spin it with anticipation: see which side surfaces.

Tails,
Go back to bed to sip the dreams
That might pass through my state of REM.

Heads,
Go back to the lionís cave
To be slowly devoured; flesh and thread.

Little coin,
The thumb twiddles your sides
With a sigh of pressure

Pressing on the side of my head.
Flesh and thread to
Sew hoops into my side,

String me up into a lamp-post
And truly dent my escapism.
Little coin, little coin

Youíre so shiny with your
New outlook on life: pay
For my soul little coin, little coin.

If you land on heads,
Please take my wish and
Solidify it, little coin

Little coin. A small hut
On top of an Indian hill-side,
With a hand-crafted table and

A tobacco tin resting on top,
A small hammock to rest on
And a window looking out to a sea of trees.

A twiddle of the coin
Brings a cup of magma
And a flicker of dreams:

Over the hill of tails are
Oceans with boats resting on the
Shore,

Boats to sail. Tails
To play and not any more
Chance.

To my surprise Ė
The coin stops itís splutter,
Little coin, little coin,

You landed on neither heads nor tails.



Where do the Oceans go?
And where do the birds go
when Winter settles its spiraling hands?

And where do the worms go
when Rain has stopped itís angry gale?

And where do I go
when I have lost an army
and an ocean?

And where do the people go
that walk away from your life
and into otherís?

Maybe in the Fairy Market
they sell keys for doors
that need opening? Or maybe,
Maybe they sell bolts for doors
that need to be sealed? and never
opened again.

And where does my love walk
when it has no pavement?

And where do the people that sit
in pubs and cafťs go,
After theyíve had a nice evening Ė
Sitting reading the paper
Drinking coffee and observing?

All of these nameless faces
that fade into crowds
and walk the streets. They have lives
and they have passionate
Love affairs, arguments and nights
of walking under the weaved boughs
of a tree.

And where did you go
my beautiful Cinderella with cat-eyes?

And where will I go
when I walk through a crowd and into the horizon?

 

  Playing Chess.
It was in the night
that awkward
darkness covered
a
girl and pushed the check
towards my eyes.

That busy place Ė
Hustle and bustle Ė
Booze being knocked back like
Water.
I
had no legs
and the fairy darkness
lay on my hip.

I ask questions,
cryptic question marks
that bemuse
and confuse my listener.

She slides from under my feet
and into the lit palm
of another man Ė again.
I am
another
piece on the board.

The hand
that catches these
women
of the night
is bewildering to
a forlorn man.
Towering over my head
with forks for fingers
and wings for wrinkles.

The floor was littered
with ashes and stapled together
in a livid mix of
beer and vodka in

the night-time,
with itís mysterious
glow;
was as good as it gets
to tumbling over the edge of heaven
just to be cast in granite
and dropped
into an ocean of Hades.

I am simply
playing chess
with humans,
and I am
a pawn in white
opposing every check
that slips
through my fingers;
until I get dropped into the basket
of death.

Until I get placed back
On the board for another game.


Now.
Gut through your old
torn and dog-eared
books of thoughts
and philosophies,

long lost romances that
you wish could never
have ended
or never have begun
in the first place.
(you know those long-
kept vaulted rotten little
apples-now.)

In heaven are lines
like a piece of
burnt paper
with one word written

on it.
one word written
on it now.

So all you can do
is sit on your
comfortable content,
where you used to

lay with the princess
pride and ponder
as to where she is now,
is she in her twirling
tantrum of security now?

The philosophies
adapted from masters;
Sartre, Nietzsche, Kant
are laughable

to you now.
Do you live in the world
of thought-transgression now?
do you live in Eden now?
can you heed the hiss now?
can you run without
your shoe laces catching a-light
now?

Did you gain from
spending your time philosophizing
over issues bagged
with a thousand years

of thought now? such as
what does a falling pebble
mean to a world and
a universe now?

Do you even care
as you sip the
fresh midnight air
and whisper to your transparent angel;
I love you
wherever you are now

youíre a Bitch now.