Peter Minter
Merciless
Sweet light, trust in whom
you enter, eat thoughts' imagination
out of pain, delicate signature
serifs bleak calligraphy,
ruination silent, sometimes moving.
Coolidge sings to think
I prune my eyes with the bramble
under hand,
just like that.
Words float by me, fired up
in ink. Night herons multiply
black & white manufactures
but in vain, feathers stuck
in lukewarm skin, their world
in no need of me, just less in fact.
Black Star
I talk and talk
of eyes of Mallarme, yellow halos
calculus in sand, your eyes
supine after sex.
Ink bursts white
where my lips kiss your eyes
of allegory, desolate thrill
de ma nudite,
black
blossoms in your thighs.
Blame nothing, troubled blind,
float above the thawing earth
& lick me straight, darling breath.
My teeth are dead,
satin eyes of
Mallarme.
Fishin' with the Bonny
You have cum in your hair & your dick
is hanging out
starts up as they come on the bite,
an answer to poverty
flowing from the wheelhouse speakers,
more brief nobody
placed in your pocket o' verses,
your endless
series of questions.
Fresh kills flap overhead,
drying already as we sit, eat, love
together under gaslight. Stowaway bugs.
The sea's lateral abyss.
Wealth is a bloody vessel born to lose
the more they love in store.