Author’s Note: The title is supposed to be “Saturn: A
New Look at an Old Devil”
His amber rings glisten through
the crack in the trapdoor.
Quiet deaths &
sound in our globular
oubliette. Saturn is
he is not mine.
He punishes you by smashing open
& pouring out that bag of powder
the one that you planned
to eat for breakfast.
This inner adult screams
into your virgin ears
that are lining up
the summer snow in
I need this. I need you,
speaks your seductive susurrus
at times held,
behind the lip,
between the gums.
Young folks talking: Who will help us?
During the day they press down bent signs into the earth – made from an image scanned.
Scheming in shades of crimson, clouds and cerulean.
Meanwhile, their nights are paved in absinthe,
sitting around a screen that plays, cuts, and records
the senseless ramblings of those whose
clothes are bathed in glycine detergent:
The zeroes sit on couches, in rows and trap their blankets in airtight hugs. They
live in homes with slipshodden shelves and wallets that mar their owners in doubt. After
a Monday fat with blue, the zeroes unwind by sinking into their uncontrollable bed lust and reciting their credit card numbers as they fuck.
Hope gets them on their feet, out of bed.
This hope sleeps in the tall tales that trail from between the teeth of the demigods.
LIVE: on screen the demigods battle to defend their decrees. “The sour bawling of men shall end/ Chronic bigotry is its own dysentery.”
Observing creatures present and those zeroes, millions of miles away, pine at voluminous promises of protection and grandeur. Each demigod tries to hide their beefy sins by means of other sins, attempting to eclipse eyes from the absences, the stitches, their videos of group masturbation.
The red ones grew up with whitewashed picket fences and the blue ones played in the alleyways with the street kids. Even so, they both hiss and fizz in a mauve amalgam of sordid untruths.
The blue ones try to write down their fictions
but the letters can’t stick,
the red ones’ letters’ sink through the opposite side of the page,
gooey ink sticking onto the cherry finish.
In spite of their differences, the two kinds of demigods both know:
Control was the vision and hubris was the answer.
Use a felt tip pen, she says.
It must be black. Start outlining a
This will be his head.
Blur the lines around his mouth.
Pencil in the ears,
Erase them in an hour.
Make sure to shade the haughty eyes
Blue (Aryan approved).
Make him like Saint Peter, she says.
Crucify him upside down,
His world now inverted.
A family of stick-figured females
Stand behind and watch.
Define the gallows.
Illustrate the secretive face,
Fingernails freshly clipped, and whitening
Eyebrows. Beer belly, large and wide
Yet thin-limbed and well lotioned.
Stencil in catatonic wrinkles
(After they cut out his lying tongue)
For he knows not what he has done.
Man never seems to know what it is that he has done
To deserve such punishment.
Darling, you have always
Been so tired.
Now it’s time to get some rest.
You lay there next to me,
You look like a worn pairs of sneakers,
All creases and scars.
I grab your hands and observe the square digits
The unusual reduced length of your index finger.
Your pupils so deep
I could almost fall into them.
In a panic, I choose not to.
Your square jaw,
So sharp it could slice me in half.
The sidelong glance you give me
Reveals the side of your shaved head
Now outgrowing itself.
Hair combed over the other side,
Your roots hidden.
You turn to lie on your stomach,
I stare at the isolated hair on your lower back,
And admire your creator’s detailing
Of your mole-flecked skin.
Your smooth voice rolls across the bed
A slight hoarseness
Like rocks on a river.
Of worldly concern tremble
Between your lips
Trailing behind the occasional
Quiet chuckles that
Fall like dewdrops.
You usually smell like alcohol,
The whiskey sits on your breath
Like an anxious wedding guest
Searching for someone to talk to, a familiar face.
Your clothes sometimes smelling musty
Like the dust fanned
All over your shared bathroom.
A whiff of your hair
Some commercial fruity shampoo,
Its saccharine chemicals
Filling in my nostrils.
Your skin wafts
Of the clean lines of
Warm little fires
Your touch feels like a child
In need of sympathy
Hair as soft as
The undercoat of your friend’s kitten
That you take care of.
Thin limbs, death-gripped.
You taste like fresh linens
And a fruity cocktail of
With an aftertaste
Of a frightened whisper.
Author’s note: My love life is like a roller coaster.
I’m not sure if you know
That you ate my heart,
That time you invited me into your home.
Mahogany iris aglow,
Practicing a black art,
Depressing cuts into my styrofoam
To the fragments on my tongue.
This union irrevocable,
Eclipsing inner dimensions
Of reason. Panicked notes unsung.
And these notes
Lie now at
The end of my carnal bed.
A passionate cutthroat
Saccharine lyrics at me instead
Of words cruel
How I wish you voiced the cruel words.
I, the April fool,
Am now inclined
To cry the mornings like a songbird.
Of consolation, a pat on the back.
Untruths of your jowl
Masked in sighs
Now pierce me with a smack.
I make these
Producing a vaudeville of my heart
For all to see.
Worn to keep you far apart
Your gloves thicker
I can’t see your hands
Crusted with algae
And hard liquor
I will sift you from the sand.
Thing of beauty
Your teeth so rotten from all the sugar
You never knew me,
Sincerely, your forgetful stomach ulcer.
I will however,
Acne scars and pupils so deep
Never to sever,
Your openings sore,
Confessions from a black sheep.
Pattern of hair,
Gracing your body when you lie on your back.
You are Venus
I am Pluto, cultivating your dental plaque.
I want you
All of you
All that you are, the karmic stars tell of me.
I want your truth,
I will not stop until you’re on your knees.