well fuck me, right? - Mark Prisco
I
If my days were a broken vase with all the bits scrambled on the floor,
I’d make a start - set aside the blue
skies, identify the bland skin, teeth, eyes, glass
on the sand like sea shells, a night in the cells,
the long walk home.
The street’s lined with shit but in my dream
everyone’s on it. The emotion is…
excessive. I’m mastered
by it, recognise my soul
mate, kindred
spirit. The police officer, however,
doesn’t, & I’m dissed, un
dressed, arrested. But he doesn’t know me,
so it isn’t his fault.
II
I set it aside, as an aberration,
not up there with post-modern torture,
bad nevertheless. At
9 I knelt on the bedroom floor, forlorn,
smiling for the camera
was there. The sun
had cast shadow, framed
the light & I shone by the window.
You told me I was beautiful
& I wish you hadn’t;
I’m dumb-
fucked now, when I think about it.
III
But I lay this aside for the bird song
that stills the bare trees of winter;
you in the morning, pale
after love, yes; &
crushed; the freesia
ossified between the pages
of your book: a man in love
with his solitude –
ladies, gentlemen…
Giuseppe di Lampedusa!
I’m bewildered by the
multitudinous fragments:
shards from a cup hurled 15
ff-fucking years ago.
I can’t say it without my,
chest contracting; stench of
carpet, non
compos
mentis; Mentholatum, non capisco
niente. Gynolium. Bathroom. You make me
sick, but it’s not your fault-it’s-my-fault-
really. For being – what did you fucking call me – a Vulgar
Latinate? Interesting &, this too
I set aside
in the 2 dollar basket to rummage thru
when I’m almost
broke.
*
Here’s the day when I wept at a funeral & said nothing because
what can you say.
I don’t care for the lovable scoundrel & all that
sort of thing. The sentiment
is false. Not worth uttering,
the respect. I hate
in the dead
what I hate in the living & I don’t forget
just because you’re burnt.
2
The bees are humming, or thrumming – whichever sounds more
menacing; plucking the fruits of my flower.
Unheard melodies are sweeter. I’ve been
your honey since the sixties. Give it to me
still, tho I’m Rubenesque &
always hungry.
Milk goes to the skin
of my thigh, my indolent
posture. Slide your finger.
Mother. Gentleman
caller.
3
I Remember a day so distant
like it’s Ancient Rome.
I’m in
the hall. The sun
strikes the hard
institutional
floor;
& I walk toward,
like the dead,
the light
& then there’s
nothing after that.
II
I remember nothing, howls
over the mountain; & when the sun
rose… flocks roll with the season;
cattle bow, slowly.
Drift. Become,
into. How lips
form, the tongue curls
the word. What you mean.
When you talk. Talk
slow-
ly, like
we’re alone in the room
& the world
stops.
*
Resumes.
It’s difficult.
Hard. Every second
Hour
beat
the bass - Master/Slave –
drum. & in
the interim hit
the high
hat cymbal.
III
Pain is good if you deal with it, under-
stand how it happens.
But no sod knows nothing about it
except for scientists & they don’t know shit;
the metaphysic. The
Rock ‘n’ Roller
whips
Sisyphus still; chains the
Hero &,
rapes him.
Calls him names.
Bends Him [sic] to his [sic]
will. I discover this
as the Son shafts the crack
thru the stained-glass window,
& when it’s over, there’s
resonance.
drift - Mark Prisco
I’m wasted in the strange city.
There’s reason to be
& not. In the haze between
light & dusk. My knees are where
the heart was.
I live it still
like it is. In morpheus
dreams wild pigs are driven from
the precipice.
Lord, what dost Thou think?
of that?
II
Flat as a bedspread, I’m on
the Nod,
between blinks I know how god’s
mind works: is slow, an’ ee- zy Fuck
me, Son: you wanna watch where you’re going. Save the World,
then orgasm. Think of the children.
Recycle. Public morals Oh,
Scandal. What if I?
finger the cracks in
my cell, embryo. Decorate
the wall, paint it shit
brown
to express my displeasure. I’m not
young but
I’m an animal the in-
articulate King,
the Lord
in a manger.
Drooling on the sofa. Deus -
come, why-not. Now.
In a brand
Spanking. On a
Motorcycle ex
Machina. It
happens. For reals - I’m dead! &
the Hand descends & lo(l)! I’m on
the street again, Lumbered but,
ok.
something out of nothing - Mark Prisco
I
0
<
II
An eye
III
behind the bush; the whole
IV
face, twin-
starred.
Lord scorcheth.
I can crawl but,
…
there’s skin where a scar was.
You was. Framed
by the abstract
beauty
of the flame,
slow but
curious
as a cloud
sails across,
V
Libra, Centaurus,
as a hand
waves across
the night
like a
Magellanic cloud.
*
All things tempt us
2
Turning something into nothing also feels miraculous.
The wife in the photo, mother, has that look about her
like she’s gone, not coming back & never was, there
in the frame, even the furniture’s arranged, props
for the mind. There’s only emptiness, atoms of
our experience, a soul-less chair in the corner,
blade on porcelain, talcum powder.
Do you feel like such a liar? when you comb your hair
in the mirror & take your shoes off at night.
Anyways, it’s like you’re really missing, which
demonstrates the passing of time: you’re in the room
they were in –
& they’re on the outside,
looking in.
3.
(As an aside - )
Do you think you’re better than me?
I know people that ask that are wankers but,
Do you think you’re better than me?
4.
I punched him suddenly.
The feeling that prompted my reaction
stirred gradually: a minute
thirty passed from the initial surge
that penetrated the back door
of my system,
& went like a brick,
out the
fucking window.
5.
If you were a bat or a cat
would you (want
to) be anything else?
*
In a parallel world I did something so bad
& you beat the shit out of me.
Knocked me down, struck your
boot in so
hard – cracked my
ribs jaw. Skull. Out
there I heard the Word
Stop.
You knocked 2 times
more.
I never answered.
-
(I can’t think to line the stars,
anymore, & the shape of things are,
extraneous;
none of my business.)
6.
*
Contributor's Note
I'm a Masters student, & a tutor of Creative Writing.