Deep Tissue Magazine 15

8/3/2019 Deep Tissue Magazine 15

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Deep Tissue

Magazine

15


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Poets:

Duane LockeFelino A. Soriano

Neil Ellman

Alan Britt

Paula D. Lietz

Evil Dick

Andrew Scott

A.g. Synclair

Amit Parmessur

Linda Crate


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Duane Locke

CONVERSATIONS OF A PROFESSOR OF COGNITIVE SCIENCE

AND A PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS AT THE NOLI ME TANGERE BAR

I am trying to cleanse my body. What type of soap

Do you use? How do you know what type of soap to use?

There are many soaps. Cant try them all to find which will

Benefit the radical singularity of your particular concrete

Existence of uncleanness. How do you decide what soap

Your apparent free will will choose? That is, if there is a will,

And whatever the word free means. The concept of the

Will might be just another human lie. Determinism might

Be a counter lie. Everybody lives by lies. So how do you

Select a soap. All advertisements are lies, traps, tricks

To exploit. Think, all these advertisers that sponsor

The junk and trivial that the slave mentalities, the people,

Find to be their exciting entertainment and salvation are lies.

I am not talking about taking a bath. Youre not.

No. I am talking about a philosophical problem of

Psychological exorcism. Psychological exorcism!

Yes, a deepening of my of unique and my universal

Corporeality, which is a monism of a fused and


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Inseparable spiritual-physical, that has been derogated,

Corrupted, and diminished by what was spoken into me

By the popular parlance of people, my parents, my professors,

My priest and above all, popular opinion--which is always

Lies. I must exorcise what has been spoken into me

By the majority. I must cleanse my body of these defects.

Oh, now I understand. You are not going to take a bath,

But are trying to rid yourself of all the false beliefs, and false

Values spoken into you by your fellow man. Well,

Such things do not concern me. I lose myself

Totally, fully, completely in the contemplation of mathematics.

I am in a universe, a cosmos of bliss, and in this state of being,

I know nothing about my defects, nothing about myself,

I Know nothing about the lies my fellow men speak and love.

I exist as a pure mind, and there is nothing else.


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HIGHER EDUCATION: THE HOUR CALLED

EUDAIMONIC AT A BAR NEAR A TAMPA UNIVERSITY

There must a million, over a million, Yes, over a million gods.

Really, you know I have never thought about how many

Gods the human fantasy has invented. Over a million,

Perhaps a billion. Think of all those many gods invented by

Polynesians, Africans, Eskimos, Then there is the Eastern-

Western tradition I always liked the forest gods, Pan,

Faunus, Priapus, Vidar. I liked Zoroaster too, not the Nietzschean

Zarathustra, but the real Zoroaster. I like the mermaids, the

Naiads. I often wished I were a Merman. Well as I was saying,

Or was trying to say. In the Eastern-Western tradition, there

Is El, Baal, Marmaduke, Atman, and hundreds more. It is said

There were 800 gods in Mesopotamia. You know that wine taster

Was right, absolutely correct about rating Carpazo Brunello, 2005,

92, and Carparzo, 2006, 91 The two bottles of wine

Mentioned sat at their table. Wine cost, $100 each bottle at this bar.

You are right about the wine. That wine taster was a genius,

Right at the top of the bell curve. He must have an IQ of 200.

My gustatory sensibility has had the empirical experience of tasting

That 2006 is one-percent inferior to 2005. I verify the gospel

Of this wine taster. So do I. A man with such a genius

For distinguishing the axiology of wine, might with his intelligence


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Be qualified to distinguish if any one out of these billion gods

Was real, actually existed, and were not just an invention

Of us weak human beings fantasy. Yes, he should.

Let us write him and inquire. Yes. Yes, but I dont

Know who this wine taster is. I was told about the test

From a professor of evolutionary psychology The same with me, I learned

about

The wine tasting from hearsay.

PROM NIGHT AND NEGRONI

We, two graduates from Tampa High Schools sat

In a private room at the bar. The room was decorated

With reproductions of Aubrey Beardsleys illustrations

For Oscar Wildes Salome. We sat by the picture

With the long strings of black ink dripping from the platter

With Johns head, and the black ink was supposed

To represent blood. I asked her if she knew who

This John was? She said she did not know, she had

Never heard of him. The room was crowded, mostly

Everyone drunk. Some were already passed out on the floor.

Our prom was sponsored by a university

To entice us to enroll for the less-than-mediocre education it sold.


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We were drinking a Negroni, with Vermouth, minus the gin,

And I kept putting the glass in from of my eyes so I could

Look at her through the rosy coloring of Campari. The rose

Tint reddened the silver ring she had pierced into her nose.

I was attired in New Denim, and she was dressed in a

Carmen Marc Valuo, silver above and black below.

We were discussing how the memes of this world might

Have been different and certainly improved if Aristotles Ousia

Had not been translated in Latin as Substantia. She pointed out

That Martin Heidegger has demonstrated that Aristotle was

Not very skilled in Greek, or the student copy of his lectures

Were not skilled in Greek. Yes, he agreed, and said,

If Aristotle had been more skilled in Greek, it might have

Saved the world, for he would not have attached Meta

To his second book on Physics. He would have called

His book something like A Deep Exploitation into Physics.

The whole Western world have been led into a truer

Direction. And would not have separated the body from the soul,

Mind from matter, or the physical from the spiritual.

The word Meta mislead Western thought. There never

Would have been that hideous philosophy of Descrates

And the Scientist Configuration, if Aristotle had known

Better than to use the prefix, meta.


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She became rapturous upon hearing these words of mine

Leaned across the table, knocking over a glass of Negroni,

And kissed him full and long on the mouth.

GELTON HANT, PROFESSOR OF PHYICS, FINDS

SALVATION WHEN HE MEETS ANOTHER CAMPARI

DRINKER IN A BAR ACROSS FROM THE UNIVERSITY

I love the way you have dyed your hair rose,

It is the same color as Campari.

It was mauve last week, a mauve trying to be pink.

It was!

Yes, I attended an exhibition of Whistlers paintings.

I wore a black silk dress with peacock spots. My back bare.

I can tell you this. I can sense you are not one of the slave mentalities,

One of the hoi polloi. One of the crowd, as Kierkegaard

Would call the fools. I can confess to you

That I am a normal human being, being a normal human being

Makes me greedy and endowed with a forceful desire

To show off.

But I cant find a single person, much less an audience,

That will watch me show off.

How Sad.


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In the class room, I tell dirty jokes, used the same vocabulary

The students use, four-letter dirty words, but my students

Never listen to me. They just read Cliffs notes. I am

Finding it impossible to show off.

How sad.

I use to show off to my mom and dad.

They would applaud loudly

When I dressed in a tight pink suit,

Would stand on an enormously large white ball and roll.

How wonderful.

But my mom and my dad are now dead.

How sad.

I once did a break dance in a shopping mall,

But no one stopped to watch me.

All were hurrying to sale of Vitamin E.

How Sad.

If you give me $200, I will watch you show off.

Wonderful! Well go to the motel on the corner.

Ill go up to my office and get the large white ball.

Ive kept the large white ball all these years.

And then when well rent a room at the motel.

I will stand on the large white ball.

I no longer have the tight pink suit from my childhood,


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So I will stand naked.

You can pretend that I am wearing the tight pink suit.

A HYMN, A LAMENT, FOR WHAT ONCE WAS,

SKIN AROUND STRA GONNES NAVEL

Stra, my darling, my poetry reading last night

At the Charles Bukoswki Coffee House of John Drydens

Absalom and Achitophel was so successful

That I was inspired to write this poem, A Hymn

To you Stra. The coffee house where I read

Is a replica of a sixties counter culture coffee house.

Everyone had those special bright eyes of someone

Who had taken an eye dropper and dropped LSD on their tongue.

When I read the Dryden line Down to the dregs of democracy,

The audience went wild with rapture. A boy and a girl,

Underaged, illegal at this coffee house where whiskey

Is sold, took off their clothes. My intense reading of

Drydens line put the pair in ecstasy, and as

I read the line, the couple was tossed in the air by the crowd.

This Hymn of mine is dedicated to what was

Once natural and untarnished, the skin around

Your navel. I remember the beautiful indentation


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When we were naked on a bench in Al Lopez Park.

The shadow of a cypress tree enhanced the texture.

I contemplated this gorgeous skin around your navel

In my dreams and in my MIT meditations, but know the skin

Is obscured by a tattoo. The beauty of the skin

Around your navel is gone. Oh Stra, why did

Did you get drunk from inhaling vodka in Ybor City, and have this

Tattoo, a Christmas holly wreath, put on your marvelous skin.


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Felino A. Soriano

Various Tessellations 29

after Dave Douglas November

Reactionary moments, the echoed bounce of cold

unyet whole though

language

of its preferential clarity

underlines colds various extensive paradigms as

fractals displays evening-soon, sooner

optimism against shallow swell of lakes ornamental ascending

mathematical

halos.


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after Mark Turners The Other Side of Time

Anecdotal sleep, persuasion-rest

occupies bodily

reenactments

:

physical fortunate

fathoms amid fragile escalations

unanger

optimal

regurgitation of systematic movement

discarding

tonal appositional frequencies of hope/hopeless


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founding

amid fevers dissipating claws

and

ornamental minings.


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after Bobo Stensons Pages

Because the garden lacks

landscape, |winds raking anger|

delineation the cluster retains warmth then watered dissolution, errant

fulcrum, broken at-leg pivotal

indentation turned or twirled containing method of fingeringrealization,

thus day as paginated revelation, persona

focus describes prose of hours sufficient errors, erased

by musical rippling (improvisation, here, the epitome of constant towardsustained ________)

listening

the maneuver engages, curtailing temporal assignments

visceral compromise thorough degrees of rising

demonstrations.


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after Paul Motian Trios Blue Midnight

Exhaled mobilizations

within leaves of shedding moments,

shade unneeded

between miracles and sounds of

saddened tributes

half among life against fractioned

semblances, unrecognized, verbatim

as the elder whose sporadic movement

remembers youth and the

pentagon of elation annunciating

halos.


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after Geri Allens Flying Toward the Sound

following alternating manias of

architectural

transgressions. Radial fears transcend linear collocations

too, of

errors momentary reaction

negative thus negotiating fallacy, emotional

fragrance

transposes transcoded murals melancholy as mundane

fellowships of rudimentary


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Neil Ellman

The Invisible Harp

(after the painting by Salvador Dal)

I , too, made music once

murmurations of invisible strings

tuned to dreams inside of dreams

vibrations on the skin

my harp grieved the melody

it made on lifeless air

the music came too soon

and disappeared too soon

my fingers having played their last

while I lived on in silent pain.


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Visage of War

(after the painting by Salvador Dal)

Once only a boy

full of himself

assurance

and patriotic songs

grown old before their time

his time

eaten by worms

where eyes should be

the gape of war

a mouth

full of sacrifice

the cries

of dead and dying men

once boys

full of themselves

no longer sing

an anthem

other than a scream.


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Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 35

(after the painting by Robert Motherwell)

Bombs whistled bloody black

as they fell

three at a time

a funeral dirge

where nothing would ever grow

or sound the same

again

charred earth

so much for resurrection

in a requiem

of blackened flesh.


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Covenant

(after the painting by Barnett Newman)

Singular embodiment of the singular

eternity defines its own place

red perpendicular

motion in its space

covenant irrevocable

passing through a sleepless night

truth

like a river

has no consequence.


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Alan Britt

MANNA

Pulverize the carrots, add beets,

celery, kale, one organic apple

and toss in a knuckle of ginger.

Guzzle the entire mix.

This juice will revive you from the dead,

will merge you with the One

so that you too can paint yellow

suspenders down the black shoulders

of a large grasshopper with round

drops of rust for eyes.

This juice will allow you to hear

tiny green bells shaken inside crucifixes

by infants newly awakened in their cradles.

Indeed, this juice will sustain you

through agony and doubt


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about the true identity of the universe.

Oh, yes. I almost forgot. Make sure

to include a wild poem as your holy biscuit

with every cup of this marvelous juice.

GERONIMOS CADILLAC

(They took old Geronimo by storm,

and ripped off the feathers to his uniform.

They stole his land, now they wont give it back,

and gave Geronimo a Cadillac.)

(--sung by Johnny Rivers

--lyrics by Michael Murphy)

Geronimo squats on a rock

overhanging a cliff

in total darkness,

except for certain stars

dandelion threads

crisscrossing the universe.


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Oh, now, take me back,

I wanna ride in Geronimos Cadillac.

Later Geronimo sells his autograph

at the St. Louis Worlds Fair, 1904,

25 a pop.

But, tonight, an icy southwest wind

nips the Appaloosa flanks

of an October moon

in Juarez, Mexico,

as it always has

and always will.

Oh, now, take me back,

I wanna ride in Geronimos Cadillac.

Oh, now, take me back.

I wannaride in Geronimos Cadillac.


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ODE TO GUILTY PLEASURES

Guilty pleasures row gondolas

through the moons unbuttoned nightgown

rippling a canals bare shoulders.

Cicadas and woodpeckers chatter.

Stars etch jellyfish light across an August sky.

Golden tomatoes moan.

Crickets, large drops of crude, take

magnesium bites from dusk's humid torso.

ODE TO SILLINESS

All the birds of our neighborhood

are here in my backyard, today.

Theyve commenced a meeting

of some kind

and seem to be addressing their irritation at me


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though I remain estranged to their demands.

If somehow I could discern

their agenda, I might at least

attempt to alleviate a modicum

of their distress.

But, alas, they congregate and chatter

incessantly, all at the same time.

Its like being married,

for gods sake.

No wonder I dont understand

one damn thing theyre saying!

ODE TO CRACKER

My mother says he was a cocker spaniel,

my brother says a beagle,

but Im telling you

Cracker was a full-blooded Irish setter!


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We bombed the house, had him flea dipped,

as he often wandered off Tuscaloosa Avenue

through our West Palm neighborhood,

ending up at a neighbors house or the pound.

Each time retrieved with promise of collar

and a tag.

But this dog had a legitimate sense

he deserved better,

starting with long, intimate walks

and regular hours.

Not one to give up easily, my older brotherpleads:Well, if this is the worst catastropheour family ever has to suffer!


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Paula D. Lietz

Heart Flailing

In darkness I reached too far yet not far enoughlaying bewildered under the boughs of the tree, looking up

feeling broken a million pieces, by your lack of responseI don't understand thisinformation highway, I just know its full of stop signs

I was part of the storm, finding the strength to be but I,pulsating steadfast passion encouraging me to fly, thelesson being small steps need to be taken before flight

I was determined to make the perfect snow angelbody pressed agains the ground as sky and earth merged

I laid there, arms, legs heart flailing

the length of my scars

euphoria, your surreal mania beyond enchantment

sip of your essence and the reins fell from my hands

whetting senses thought dormant

I've noticed there is no path, entwining enchantment

amid cautious thoughts that nurture the ardor waiting ~

unfolding like fractals in mutual esteem


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shine with me your wisdom as I stumble a bit cry a bit

laugh at errors and wonders accepting the journey

where not knowing is the essence of being

pivotal twist of the stem, another realm

a quantum surrender of unknown quantities

losing myself deeply, immersed in this variable

yes exploring the unknowns

I seek my reply by leaning into self-growth

listening to it whisper, it's here within

rejoice the day my passion intense will

scream the length of my scars

If you Wanted

some say it's over I perceive we have just begunof this change upon change I sense the growing

I consumed you yet never let you in sadly a roll playedthe theory proved false what do we do know

you're unbearable tell me of this sensationthat flows inside of me - inundated with denial

no not me


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immersed in this one moment exploring theunknowns holding onto nothing as nothingdoes not exist - so you say

if you really wanted me you would find a way

Crash of the Waves

I claimed it as mine this peace upon the seashore

and laid upon the memory of you , listening to the

roll of the waves

I watched the wavelets as the engulfed today to become

the future beyond my control - it was then beyond that

moment that I knew I was the worn smooth pebble

dropped, creating a ripple

vulnerable and open I tasted your ebb and flow as

I birthed your rhythm, knowing it was never my dance

but one with all within this droplet of life

incessant ocean hurled her waves upon the shore

thrashing foam and inlets

wet clothes clinging - oh god the awful clinging

I and they discarded, a need to be naked


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I lay upon the grit of the sand warm from the sun

phantom kisses placed here and here

the music of your hand a simple seduction

one trace of your finger brings me to life

I thirst to sup the wine from your lips

revelling in the pleasure of your tongue a slow gyration

how can one be lost in the moment when it is the only

place I prefer to be my senses never more aware

roll after roll the crash of the waves


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Evil Dick

cannibals

my worst dreams

always center on cannibalism

still i find myself

sitting on plates

near cutlery

well basted

and believing

in the communion of saintsthe redemption of the complacent

.

it is all about commitment

choosing the right tattoo

paying for the skin graft

again

.

young smiles beaten flat

submission to the lost

the voices outside the windowprove the descending slope

the mastery of self and

invasive chemistry

add to the terror

the view from the platter

.

i shake my head

i acknowledge

the additive symmetry

the remembranceslice by slice

some parts stay

guarding rome while it burns

all matters

as individual waves

reflexive tragedy


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in reflected circumstance

.

sweet nothing gravy

makes its own sauce

and the meat

at the bottom of the pan

always tastes best

slaking curiosity

by the fork full

blessed be

the kindred know

this nights passing

will not be sweet

the complete peril

brought by this fading

this margin crossed

where no light escapes

the hounds

all abed

jack rabbit dreaming

of midsummer morning

save for those

which walk with the devil

until church bells

strike

calling the faithful

to remember disbelief

the disregard

the kindred know

meaning arrives

departsreturns

all on the same wind

the kindred know

to bless

all things

all of it


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pieces of silver

times path

each toll greater

the last obscene

more insidious

nostalgia conquers

painting sunshine

where dreary corners

should be

carving ham

out of soapstone

administering

tincture of iodine

drops of morphine

on ones best

forgotten

memories

00011011

near infinite

empty halls ring

cupping the hushed voices

the vermin the

parasites the

vultures of court

the anticipated cry

the man is dead

heads snap to sides

allegiances forged

glances etched

scrimshaw hard

lines drawn

to complete a picture

the new order


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emerging may flies

carry prayers

for absolution

upon their wings

still water

hand carved children

play spontaneously

as directed

he waits

with unsettling calm

wrapped in brown paper

on his lap

along side stray hairs

from a long dead cat

his hand is free

to loosen ties

adjust hats

ascertain

the validity of sunset

the package

tied with sisal

whispers delicate

obscenities

only to be spoken

between lovers

tears gather

but retreat finding

no path

until whistles blow

children gather

and the street lightscome on


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Andrew Scott

Awake

Tired, laying down, body so tired,

needing the sleep of never never land,

falling between realms,

feeling nothing but misty air,

rising from underneath me,

somehow massaging, pinching,

pulling, small scrapes.

Out of the foggy darkness,

an unholy shadow comes towards me,

dressed in tight, shiny black,

slowly hovers over me,

skin is twitching, tingling,

eyes so hypnotic,

staring when her body touches mine,

feels like she crawling into me,

muscles moving involuntarily,

soft scratches opening,


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feeling the blood leaving,

body lowering into the mist,

joining past bones she is leading me too,

heart slows to a stop,

takes my hands into hers,

leads me to my final resting place,

feeling my death,

nothing has never made me feel so awake.

Ghost Dance

The low muffles of a hypnotic dance,

days of slow movement towards resurrection,

cleansing by renouncing temptation,

voices of the tribes were the only instruments,

bringing back the Indian dead of yesteryear,

a time of family and rejoice not mourning,

sharing in the belief of the prophecies of tomorrow.

The prophecies of tomorrow were what lead to slaughter,

the hands of the white that had bullets of fear,


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fear of the ghost dance, shirts of the unknown,

extinguishing what they did not understand,

bringing fathers, mothers, and children to silence.

I stand out and look at the plains,

think of the unthinking minds of the past,

my ancestors that did not understand,

the slow singing and chanting of peace,

the hope for a tomorrow executed,

I stare at the embers of the dead fire of innocence,

and cry for the forgiveness of the lost ghosts of dance.


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A.g. Synclair

DECEMBER IN THREE PARTS

I

Just east of the Gallatin, we cling to little nuggets of time. A bone in the ear

reminds us that Christmas will be different this year, spending money we don't

have on whiskey we shouldn't drink.

II

Outside the kitchen window two sparrows fought to the death. A few broken

quills and a dying declaration that there is no god, from two young sparrows,

dead, in a tangle of frozen leaves. You try to imagine why they fought. Probably

over another sparrow. I suppose love is hard, even for a bird.

III

There is a story behind everything. Behind boulders. Behind stars. Behind endless

miles of fence posts. The men here smell like fish. The women here live in thespace in between. We are all once removed from small degrees of separation,

from the Bridgers, from the Big Sky and beyond. The natives saw you coming

from a thousand miles away. They are desperados. They know how you tore

your shirt.


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Amit Parmessur

Frog Hunting

As if hed thrown his toned body

into the lush grass,

like a lame stone flying.

To see those muscular thighs

what if he were to land on our nose!

I had to ask myself why

he should dangle on

that mossy rock like that. Hewas intimidating.

See, see if you understand the

watercolor stripes hes

proudly sporting.

The burn in his throat,

I see nothing more mighty.

You care nothing for

his youthful eyes that pleadfor a life smooth

as your favorite Kraft Cheese?

Wife, abandon this frog.

I am not a seasoned hunter

lets chase something else.

Im just a few meters from him

Wake up, big frog.

Im holding the blue bucket,

running, like a mad crab

towards him.

As if he would plunge into

the sound of the dull water now!


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There I go.

There he goes.

Where I Find Love

I find my love from

the dust on the windowsills,

from the blackened flowers

in a garden

behind my favorite bench.

If this vast sky can see itself

in a puddle,

why cannot I see

my beloved in the sky?

The human tongue is

never tired to spell love.

I find my love from

the whispers of holy silence.

If you play with love fire

jets out and

burns the whole stable.

Drawing scars on

dead love stories is useless.

The cops wont arriveand arrest you

for changing your name

one morning

because of love.

I find my love from

a tireless, tiny river

flowing over unknown lands.


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Starfish

Whats that, Starfish!Fulsi. Fulsi. Fulsi, stella.

Why are you stuck to this old pole?Why have you been tossed onto this cheap

pier by a heartless, blind fisherman?

Fulsi. Fulsi.

The sun is up, and the tides going out.

Youll die, Starfish.

You are still fire.

Thats what I see, in your keen eyes.

You are water.

Thats what I see, plentiful, in your future.You are earth, like everyone else.

You dont want

to be just a handful of air right?

How can you be a doomed

traveller, so early, on this infinite horizon?

I know, you are stubborn

and wont let anyone pick you

up and gently throw you into the ocean.

There are millions of starfish

gone astray. Make a difference,

by saving yourself

Come on Starfish!

Shake yourself again into symmetry.

Rejuvenate your hundreds of tiny feet,

with the brave boots of a second life

its now, or never ever.

Come, however or whoever you are,

lets make the searocks the roundabouts of risky adventures.

Lets hide in the stone pockets,

dream madly under the tides rough lip.

Sing beautiful, little Starfish! Look

at the light in the ocean above and sing.

Cantare. Cantare, stella. Cantare.


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Fantasies

I sit on the tip of fragrant, evening pines.

I breathe the clouds.

A train often whistles,

with a fountain of flowers flying.I see myself jumping out,

with the pure piano of dreams

escorting my dance.

I know if I have received

the phone call of tomorrow

I shall receive the

voice of tomorrow too.

At night I envy the stars.

I see red tongues in the

rocks that talk secrets to me.

I nourish a myriadof illegal feelings by the window.

Death is ugly.

The death of dreams is uglier.

I know out here,

therell be another way to be.

To forget philosophy

I sleep on the windowsill.


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The Moons Paramour

There was rain last night.

I stood in the middle of the road,

holding a red umbrella.I looked in one direction, then the other.

I did not see your light.

There is no rain tonight.

O Moon of mine, creamy as

newborn, lost lambsnever have you been

nearer to earth!

I am the happiest lark around,seeing you after so, so long.

I wish I could pluck

you and make love

with you in my poor pocket.

I will be old with the scars

of your face etched into me.

I will give

even your shadow a name.


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Linda Crate

scarred

you haunt me in scars

they are pearly like moon

tears yet cling like moss;

I cannot just discard them

as easily as the trash I am

forced to look into theheart of them and face the

music that entrench me in

they carry a sad lilt to them

like a star in mourning I

see a falling bright beam

of lantern shattering to

the earth; a shooting star

that overshot its aim, I am

your vestibule you pour in

all your lies and all your

truths; I cannot tell where

I end and you begin, I am

a sea of guilt and regret,

embalmed in your silver fog.


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46

anger of a woodmer

I am the mermaid of wood

painted on your ship, you do

not pay me any mind as we

fly through the adventurous

sea, seeking riches and the

mayhem of pirates; I am not

appreciated or even cared for

just one of these days, just one

I will pry my frame from you

and slip into the sea, my oak

will become the sinew of flesh;

I will flash harpy teeth and

become a siren in my rage; you

will regret never talking to me

or knowing me as you should.

died among the lilies

I laid in a field of poppies,

you poured your white wine

lies into my mouth daintily;

I chewed the grapes slowly

you drenched me in ecstasy

of euphoria and desire, I felt

a twinge of pain when you

left me here in these blooms


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47

I never wanted to be possessed

by anyone in the world but you;

you left me stranded in the inky

black ocean of deceits sorrow,

I laid myself to die among lilies.

to: the goblin king

my soul is filled with trepidation

whenever you come around, I feel

fingers prying into my soul without

meeting your gaze; I know you can

see through me as if Im transparent

you make me uncomfortable in my

own skin; you make me itch from the

inside out, in places I didnt know

could itch like inside my fingers; orin my very veins, you wash sorrow

onto me more quickly than the rain

can nimbly wash it away; every time

you come around you erode me piece

by piece; youre killing me with hands

of the ocean, and I am going numb

but mark my words, one day, when Im

stronger, Ill send you back to hell where

you belong; you will no longer have any

more power over me, your handsome face


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48

will be withered like autumn roots in winter.

cut by apathy

loneliness thinks of me too often;

melancholy settles in my brow far

too oft, they snatch at me when my

joy is lilting ever closer; I shove them

away for a while, but always return

I have cried all the tears my soul can

hold; I have been dashed upon the rocks

as many times as I can stand, I dont

want to face that place again; hope seems

to be an illusion singing on wings that I

can never dream of catching; happiness adelusion that only exists in movies, the

warmth of love a salve washed away years

ago; weathered by time against me, I have

cried tears that arent my own, I only wish

that I can breathe again on my own terms;

that one day I will remember the topography

of a smile, that autumns golden laughter will

wash a new wave of joy over me that cannot

b h d i th i f dli d

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Deep Tissue Magazine 15

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