Home: Poetry: Michael P Smith: Estrangement of Winds
 
 
 
Sick of fairies and strangers
stretchers and snakes of thorough precaution
the nineteen 90s are not so cool.
The thing builds into a climax
over an estrangement of winds
at the turn of the 20th century.

Cranberry cocktails at a port in Ceylon
then into thickets of steel.
A pox upon triumph and the leg show;
trample trust and be brave, senor.
Be brave for a sense of elation.

(The spectacle is polymer: Seattle is a truck;
I can't find any poems here.)

Cranberry cuttlefish and suppose the grief of one dead
suppose what space provides
suppose an injured rat.

Suppose we end the ox
end two seconds
suspend kites.

Suppose theories are for faggots
and we tawdry cocksuckers
here or at home
Seattle or in bed
cannot peek into it for the thing is
putty.

The great dead sing into something
amplified and trained to filch,
to grate upon the nerves.

A movie-made apoplexy
preachers gone
cold on tube and reactor
fun-glazed onions and water
all over my floor
fuck sakes.

Grant me a moment to collect myself.

What I'm after here is a watch.
I want a watch.
Something that keeps time.
Keeps track of time.
Keeps me in with everyone because we're all idiot
cocksuckers.
Stop lying, mutherfucker.

Fuck the light of some framed search for fun.
Schopenhauer and ain't it great droppin' names?
Mozart and Mussolini, man and
harness me a wide ass future
I've been a fool lately.

Sick into some ice cream thing over
the wheel over the door over
night finds us being torched
torched flaming
fossils stuck in rock in Mexico.

A chicken is a whole lotta magic
brother I tell ya
a radiant motor of fear here
at the end of the 20th century.

I have a big record collection and don't
own a turntable.  This sucks.  A policy to inscribe
truancy upon the clackscum
of my soul.

But I know I'm good and so I just let go.
A lamp and this glass in my hand holding beer.
The cat rotates the mirror before me;
I am strange and made of red colors.

Force plays stingy little gluegames
with the inside of my skull;
I'm never giving up writing
what I want.  A straightjacket like you'll find in any
asylum.
 
 

 

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