Words of varying strengths fucking and punching one another, lighting cigarettes and putting on coats. All creating shadows that we call poems with a queer read on them.
PART ONE Letting go is the easy action Reaching for a grip is hardest The words belonged to my mind that day Under the masculine sky So masculine it would not bow to even Juliet Nor any other heroine so fragile and able I stood beneath it a new knowledge Disturbing what had been my former self Previously I was perverted enough To race from keyhole to keyhole And spy on life Like an insect buzzing criticising and relaxing Though always chaste Perverted I may have been But forever I was chaste I would be chaste enough to never open a door and enter For entering would mean intrusion which would lead to introduction Introduction into a world In which one has the boast of already spying into The situation is not a comfortable one It would be best if the Sky remained as the sky Never the ground This day the sky was broad, heavy Thick with bawdy masculinity Drunk with its own weight Wanting desperately to fall and become the ground As desperately as humanity is stupid Though it is our nature ...
Sandwiched between regret and some kind of love Where the layered leaves of autumn fall The damp stars all glide over such a mouldy moon And our ships were christened by the naked man- called Salvation Our Wisdom was king and we heard the sirens string section Yet we did not know where we could go that day We just merely sat there with frozen limbs and fortune was plagued by Nemesis Who could we seek underneath that mouldy moon Who would paint us as we sacrificed that which we held excellent and new Between that which we chased and that which we could not believe in The arrows within our compasses all pointed upward against our pockets And the string section was played backwards as the soft skin changed colour in the heat and light But the rules had been written by Salvation and the granite had been carved The dreams had been lost to night and no one could remember The knives were as silent as the saints, the angels were loud as they fell to the water As they rolled i...
THE 7th. A poem written after contemplating 'The swimming hole' by Thomas Eakins by Sattis Factionne Here it is the pinnacle viewed by the 7th this portrait of unintentional sensuality this innocent canvas my eyes are drawn to 1884 my eyes are drawn to the stance of pride Eakins the neglected real-life dreamer the realist from Philadelphia the 6th, as I understand it but which is he? The diver? The recliner? The bather? Here is the 7th looking towards them more real than any realist could ever accomplish wanting to join them exchanging splashes and smiles and sunbeams blinking at their pagan splendour It could go on foreverthis refused commission These gentlemen are older now than I shall ever be these gentlemen are older now than even their creator (eternally 71) Forever caught naked forever caught holier and prouder than even Zeus and Ganymede and I, the 7th, the viewer. How will I be portrayed? me in my jeans, my jacket, my white and tight underwear Cold within the walls of ...
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