Between Cup and Lip

 

NOTHING, MENISCUS, VIRGINity grown back into, traVERSE
what hope REFERS TO NOTHING BUT THE CUPidity
SO SLOWLY knocked, with the candle, UPSIDE DOWN: this one A TROOP
OF SIRENS ON THE CEILING could not awaken DROWNS in blood liquor.

MY DIVERS means of alienating FRIENDS, suppose WE NAVIGATE
to the root WITH ME/my blood ALREADY ON THE POOP-sample at thirty-four.
i DECK YOU with surplus fat TO CONSTITUTE THE PROWess i don’t confess.
THAT CUTS THE crap to fit its cloth, WAVE-CRESTed, LIGHTNING-LITeral.

I’M BUTTONHOLED BY strategic DRUNKENNESS
THAT DOESN’T EVEN hurt, FEAR only THE SWELLing breasts
i bring TO BEAR UPon art, should RIGHTly acclaim THIS BENISON:

SOLITUDE kills real people, A REEFer is just for now, A STAR
turns on TO ANY TRICK THAT VALIDATES self, my image, cast down on
yOUR CANVAS, my motive, SEAMLESSLY OPAQUE.


After Stéphane Mallarmé, Salut.  First published in QUID magazine, 2004.  Reprinted in Between Cup and Lip.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s