(Raymond Foye 1981)
Watched from behind the
Scenes, as Bob, Rene,
And Eric,
Imploded,
-Dodged pose, pressed into
- Paper edge, shaken
-When fledglings
-Hit concrete;
I can't sleep on floors,
Bum cigarettes, beg
For my food
On the streets,
-Wisecrack with wordsmiths
-Wearing their prep school
-Blazers to
-Drink cocktails;
Got to be outside
Of my head to hear
Oracles
Proclaiming,
-Coffee shop windows
-Muffled shoplifted
-Faces from
-Rumors spread;
Seeing something through
Someone else's eyes,
Emperors
Wear new clothes,
-Stream of consciousness
-Dares you: colourful
-Curlicues
-Enshrining;
I can remember
Thinking, 'How can I
Do that?' while
Protected,
-Skate the treachery
-Of benefactors,
-Misreading
-Ice thickness;
Or eliminate
Accumulated
Lechery
Of art books,
-To delineate,
-With refined brush strokes,
-Eros of
-Spines subtly;
Pile quotidian,
'Til emotional
Connections
Have surfaced,
-Dial cerulean
-Static reception
-So signal
-Penetrates;
Poet delegates:
Each a camera
'Nailed on bone,'
Then dispersed,
-Words, which 'sledgehammered
-White walls', misprinted,
-'Saxophones
-Infiltrate;'
'Would you wear my eyes?'
Mattress disheveled,
'Bargaining
From steel cage,'
-'Rimbaud bleeds over
-My stolen pants,' 'dipped
-In poems,' to
-'Wrap my corpse;'
'Painter, paint me a
Jail,' in the red paint,
'Yellow-eyed
Dog whistled,'
-We devoured each
-Other word by word,
-'Plucking rolled
-Balls of sound;'
'Bathroom stalls have ears,'
So share no secrets,
Billie's pitch
Stuck to walls,
-'Doctors hide foreskin
-Strips inside chart notes,'
-'Strangle with
-Noose of books;'
'Jazz, listen to it
At your own risk,' with
The needle
Going down,
-'Songs are like tattoos,'
-Razored blues, speakers
-Blasted in
-Stereo;
The carefully made,
Startling beautiful,
Remembrance
Of lost time,
-The fully bared, laid
-Out, encumbrance of
-Transient
-Perceptions;
Journals, notebooks, dumped,
Retrieved, burnt, soaked, dried:
Words, arranged,
Rearranged,
-Radiator steamed,
-Painted over, torn,
-Obtrusive
-Abstractions;
'I can get very
Bored with my own things,'
The mourning
Of a poem,
-'I sit here writing
-For fear of seeing
-What's outside
-(Of) my head.'
30 January 2021
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