heaven and it's violin

 

 

I too am a princess in my low flame. Soft as a basket of net. Someone bring to me the made

up lovers of lovelessly where each morning the dining room is painstakingly meclizine

spinning, spinning with the cats stuck to the walls like the gray-brown Skittles of myrtle.

Me, flacking like a pie crust on the pink summit of Easter. Yet everything I ever wished

for is right before me in gluttonous detail, dirty as the w***e I brought home to hold

and laught with. Tomorrow I will start doing my walking at the mall with the other

colorless dead.

Wish me well.

 

I was able to tweeze out the close, fine, furry hairs from my nose yet I cried the pieta of

mourning. Does my orthodoxy show thru? My fedility? Heaven I thought to be so grievously

afflicted with the serious. Do dull pimps in a wisp of virtu get there? How about those

who suffered in and out of romance unable to produce, unable to give of themselves

what was truly needed and desired?

 

I know a transexual prostitute of a blessed state of mind and manifest, one who breaths,

eats at diners in loneliness and sorrow. One who solicits middle-aged bankers in front of the same

Joann Fabricks where she buys ornamental pique flowers for the clergy.One who cries a similar

ocellus as the eyespot on the red butterfly, who floats by this fucked up alley strewn

with broken glass as the lotus of dreamy contentment. But who sings in the mirror like

the hecatomb Roman sacrifice of 100 oxen.

 

Is there a place in heaven

for singers?

Reviews

[just_teague]

You use a much tighter and purposeful form from most of what I’ve read on this site. I really admire that. You also have what is probably the most esoteric vocabulary that I have ever seen. Meclizine? Somebody made that word up just to mess with readers.
I like how your writing has an androgynous flair; your definition of yourself seems to largely defy gender constructs (well, at least in this poem anyway). I’d spent a bit of time trying to figure out whether you were male or female, and then realized that it didn’t really matter. Don’t tell me. First stanza has elements of oscillating between the gritty and the divine, in that you rely heavily on religious allusions.
I like that you prompt your really good questions first by questioning your own appearance and how that affects your validity to enter heaven. Cleanliness is godliness. Apparently. But you’re right. When we have such abstract notions of heaven, where are the actual rules? If Faust can repent immediately after a lifetime of sin and be pardoned, who is to say that any repentance is or isn’t disingenuous? And then I like everything about the transsexual prostitute, and how that breaks all the rules and boundaries by floating between two worlds at once, clean and unclean, man and woman, blessed and cursed. You question this prostitute and where the boundaries lie, and then your last lines trail off thoughtfully, though there’s no real answer to your question. Wouldn’t that be funny though. I think in a way this prostitute is exemplary of the polarity in your life, how you see contradictions and question them.
I’ve realized that I also must get to a point where I realize that I may be over-analyzing your poetry.
I also thought you should know that my browser gave me an ad for Christian Mingle while I was reading this. I found that pretty f*****g funny.

A good read, as always.

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

OH GOD, NEVER STOP, THAT REVIEW WAS AMAZING. I made it a point to read it before this piece...The cafe needs you's as much as it needs dana's

[writing mojo]

how many different heart a facts can you lock in the cabin pressure of this piece, i dream of being this good, one day, leave my stupid vocabulary out to dry among the palm prawns amounting to just another storm and another prick of the senses where I was lost.. when I am once forgotten will you remember me and when I read your the whirl winds of your words like this..? I learn from you every day. you are one of the big dogs on this site ...thank you thank you

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..]

I don't have words for this except that I'm printing it out for when tears get stuck in my solar plexus clinging to the mall zombie parasites and little chunks of last night's fish..I'm gonna break it out and read it and drown in it when I need to.

[emmajoy]

'One who cries a similar ocellus as the eyespot on the red butterfly, who floats by this fucked up alley strewn ~ with broken glass as the lotus of dreamy contentment. But who sings in the mirror like ~ the hecatomb Roman sacrifice of 100 oxen.'

Apart from having to reach for my dictionary a few times - (the vocabulary is learn.worthy) - i found and find this to be an incredible post, one that should be read and read if only for people to discover the skill that's you. You introduce thoughts, people and places - plus, a vast inhalable atmosphere that sends the mind reeling .. thank you!

[Tree]

Sad and alluring all at the same time I was transfixed, reading this. That first verse just lured me in... and was not released until that haunting, final stanza. You can't fake the depth of a poem like this. A moving and beautiful experience

DPaz