Skip to main content

RON ANDROLA

Jennifer's Feminist Poem
you can be a lesbian lapping
honeyed flesh-pit where warm clear lava
is like the goo of rolling worms, slop,
slapping tails like bull-whip snap:  ah love,

is freedom what tastes sweet? or her, yr girlfriend, caught turning on a
spit of delicious moans, stripped & skinned alive above gorgeous flames
of yr volcanic

tongue, rawness burnt away but everything pink remains, boiled?
i've never met a genital who wasn't metaphoric right at my lips.  most
clean

human bodies taste good a couple years, then bland, nothing, not even
dead-musky. cunt or cock
or big toe or

tit, we
ripen as teens, sweeten in our 20's,
sour in 30's providing the mind works,
& in our 40's nobody even sniffs us.

breaking skin, love is spiritual fucking,
ghosts enmeshed like clouds & sun-shades somewhere in the past
& very far away.

SYLVIA PLATH MEETS D.A. LEVY IN SUICIDE HEAVEN
(from the dual chapbook with paul weinman,
AIRY EL, From Da Dead Press)


"fuck that garble of intellectualized
depression, lady, take a hit of some this celestial dope..."

levy's face blow apart, rotting,
tip of golden pipette in a black, meat-ripped hole

"death is the mentalness,
debris remains of orgasm
this dream-soul Life created

this timelessness..."
sylvia is sizzling with happiness.  she don't want flowers & the flowers
implode.  she wants pain

& nothing is felt.  she enjoys the works of d.a. levy from a british
distance.  levy loves sylvia's
transparency & pink psychic energy.

they blend together in the hands of God
perfectly compatible
molecules.

they blow smoke
laughing
mummy-like over History.


SUCKING MY MORNING PIPE

   (for gabriele)


if you were here & how yr hair wld burn my fingers hoarse & gutteral
numbness unclogged like kitchen drain racing
hot water & our steam

this smoke i've clipped, sipping autumn-morning coffee, listening to
classical pbs radio, i suck yr face here all the way from chicago,
& yr smile & laugh

& when you bent to pick books from the floor
i saw cleavage & felt softness envelope my lips
i will admit this:  i pulled diane's nightgown up bunched around her warm
waist,

i'd opened my eyes to 4:30 on the clock, she
usually wears panties but wasn't & i hugged & pressed & went thru her
arm to palm a little breast, & she groaned she didn't want to she

was sleeping, my cock was its biggest & thumping against her pillowy
ass, rubbing,
i cld not stop, both hands went down to grasp
my branch, & i pumped it like a delirioius tuba

which burst ice-bubbles of warmth
over my belly & the sheets & diane's wonderful wonderful ass & her
snoring never stopped.

but i got up,
dried off with a towel,
& thought
what a poem i live

SPONTANEOUS SHIT


she set me up.
i am a self-involved poet.
every sensory particle of life
creates the art of poetry as confessions
of a soul.  the deeper inside the heart,
the rawness,
spillage
from the brim of sanity & reason.
she became a cowgirl since her father
is a cowboy, a middle-aged cowgirl
setting me up for years of free cash
via domestic relations.
heartless, brutal, cowgirl witch-bitch
is an apt description for all i want to
see of her.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Remembering Evelio Javier

Some of our heroes may have been more brilliant or achieved more greatly, but I find it hard to think of any who lived more purely and more single mindedly than Evelio... his commitment to democracy, to social justice and to a life among the poor in our land. Februay 11, 2009 in Panay Island, Philippines is Evelio B. Javier Day. It is the 22nd Anniversary of the assassination of Evelio Javier. It was a stunning and decisive event towards our eventual liberation from Martial Law later that February 1986. Many in our Ateneo community remember meeting Evelio’s body at the airport two days later, and the Mass and the long march from Baclaran to the Ateneo de Manila on Valentine’s Day, February 14, 1986. We had a Mass at sunset in the field beside the Blue Eagle Gym and ended the Mass with the electrifying experience of hearing Fr. Jose A. Cruz, S.J. read for the first time in public the letter of the CBCP on the elections. Evelio B. Javier was born to Everardo Autajay Javier of Hamtic and ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Many Feathers

Many feathers. In the silence of many feathers. - Robert Bly Today my window spoke to me in the language of leaves, told me of gravity and the tired hands of twilight day after day pulling at the trees’ thousand fingers, the trees with their lifetime of cycles, the wind, its invisible wings. I have seen things only words will outlive , it said. But even words kneel before the silence of feathers. Once a poet peered inside the hollow of a tree and discovered words, and now I steal from him, repeat his curved consonants, the illusion of presence. In the secret, dim light I run my hands over the carcass of some dead creature he might have seen still heaving its last sighs. A window knows nothing of the sorrows of speech, the weight of things breaking as wind carries them away from tongue. Darkness moves against darkness, night dresses its sleepy body in shadows, whispers its stories, and my window speaks what it sees. While I see only what is spoken: A poet peers inside a tree and sees ca...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Evening Star

Tonight, for the first time in many years, there appeared to me again a vision of the earth's splendor: in the evening sky the first star seemed to increase in brilliance as the earth darkened until at last it could grow no darker. And the light, which was the light of death, seemed to restore to earth its power to console. There were no other stars. Only the one whose name I knew as in my other life I did her injury: Venus, star of the early evening, to you I dedicate my vision, since on this blank surface you have cast enough light to make my thought visible again. Louise Glück Averno Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Post a Comment
Read more