Ever So Motherly Limbs
It’s no holds barred in the venal
Contagions of the sound:
I almost have $200,000 dollars and
A c&ck as hard as spikenard,
And a Jewish lip that I want to press as fat
As a cherry red mollusk who’s been making
Its fornicating rounds around the sea,
Who has been eating legumes and thinking of
You and all the sounds you make with your
Husband deep in the crèches of your bed;
And I just want to move up and wet my pants
In your basin,
Maybe once hold the gossip of your hands,
And throw back your spirits and count the changing
Of my wounds,
Perhaps fart and navigate for one afternoon through
The mausoleum of your rooms:
Sharon, I am not beautiful, but I can go on and on,
Meaningless and harmless, erecting my art like
A child,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Ballad of Ecstatic Truth
The days feel good coming home with no darker
Thoughts sunning in the grass- just the opal palms of feminine
Flesh testily over crackling wheat,
Farmers of spikenard and cormorants unwieldy in their
Turns, sell their poetic stock for a saccharine carnival;
And all throughout the night it yearns very sophomoric but
Upright, pacaderms of gears trying to throw off little gallant
Men- Girls with hidden sores and holes for snakes and
Hummingbirds- The true feelers of the world always branching
Outwards, always reflecting in like gaunt and garish faces
Rippling down into the wash basin’s porcelain;
And right about now, as my feet go stomping by on those roads
Of sparking time, realizing how the beautiful lies spend off more
Perfume than an entire pyramid of dry good truths- I would sell every
Button, every leathered soul to forget the delusion of memories
Myself extols to swing up there with the forgetful menagerie
Bought by the high mountain’s vacillating fruits, guarded by
The irreverent farmers, now insouciant and rhymed-eyed,
Clapping together all across the stone-gemmed waves, a
Ballad of ecstatic truth.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Muse of Honey And Applesauce
Muse- I want to see you wearing barrettes
In Paris-
Alma- rings of golden satellites between brown
Knuckles-
Warm sweet kisses underneath broken school
Busses- Alma-
Warm sweet places, like hot clay in
Art class- and easels waiting in the broken
Monuments of honeysuckle daylight
With saw horses underneath open hearts:
The way the wilderness waits across the canal
For you- Alma,
To step into the crepuscule of the burning sugar canes
At the dead ends of suburbia,
To leave the senses to go to sleep behind you,
And to start our barefooted, your feet
The size of toy boats, as you exhilarate the heavens
And pull them down to examine your own heavens-
And they see the truth to your passivity,
As the canoe lays tinkered up to the bank, underneath
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like Bright Sunlight Underneath The Moon
Muse- I want to see you wearing barrettes
In Paris-
Alma- rings of golden satellites between brown
Knuckles-
Warm sweet kisses underneath broken school
Busses- Alma-
Warm sweet places, like hot clay in
Art class- and easels waiting in the broken
Monuments of honeysuckle daylight
With saw horses underneath open hearts:
The way the wilderness waits across the canal
For you- Alma,
To step into the crepuscule of the burning sugar canes
At the dead ends of suburbia,
To leave the senses to go to sleep behind you,
And to start our barefooted, your feet
The size of toy boats, as you exhilarate the heavens
And pull them down to examine your own heavens-
And they see the truth to your passivity,
As the canoe lays tinkered up to the bank, underneath
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Swan At Some Distance
Bannered and awaiting the snows, don’t
You sit and wait under your mountain of all things-
Like a dark eyed jewel:
Alone, on a dark road near sea level,
So far beneath you, I have sexual dreams of taking you
Along Southern Blvd,
And you are so needy and pressed
Like something god has been kind enough to
Return; and you don’t know how to play
Soccer; and I am a dream myself in roller-skates
In the crepuscule of soft dinners,
Your eyes engorging on the fictionalized ice-creams
Of that wild satellite that isn’t even real.
A mollusk travels across the dog hair on my pillow,
Gets caught in the sharp tinsel of my scars;
And I awaken and moan. Even before I awaken, I sense
That it is the barren establishment the sun’s strings are returning
Me into- the silver fish blue lipped on the prow of his
Apathetic ship- and here I’ve never been able to achieve
The rights of beauty. For there you are all done up
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Down Their Awful Hall
You are my secret prejudice
I haven’t yet found a way to give up:
I don’t believe you actually love the
Human race,
But you sup right beneath the football
Coliseum;
It would be better if you more appreciated
Baseball,
But your hair is so perfectly auburn.
Listen to the way it swings,
Back and forth like an unhurried sea.
Even in your coffin it should swing that way.
You are like the titillating prize at the bottom
Of a crackerjack box,
The very thing I used to drive to Miami with
My father for deep after midnight,
To get my fingers sticky,
To populate my soul,
To watch the winos basking against the fire drums;
But the prizes are getting cheaper,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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If She Does
We’ve got in pumpkins-
Entire bins of pumpkins- and my job today
Was to kill the ants,
And think of something:
And this really beautiful mother came in today-
She looked like someone’s sister.
She looked like she’d played soccer in high school.
Then a man came in with gold teeth,
And I think he made a comment about my face
Under his breath-
I shouldn’t like to think what he had to say,
But I know he was Italian and a painter
And from New York,
But definitely not an artist,
And I was glad when he went away,
And after he went away I thought again of myself as
An artist
Who must try and look at his face from the sunburned
Shadows from the best possible angles
And try to make the best of it,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The First Steps of Outside
Making love in front of coquina fireplaces sometime
After school,
While all of the debutants were getting ready for
Their decathlon of enviable plays,
Jogging in place, and combing their hair:
The unmistakable angels in the iron clad air, kissing the
Follicles of their perfect skin,
The tryst of crepuscule make vulgar machinations
Around the four corners of their house,
Like liquor around an Indian reservations:
But they would soon all go out into this, a sorority fully on
The metamorphosis,
With or with out roller-skates, and making love,
But never so far as to make it across the canal,
Or to think so long of the commercial voyages of the wishing
Airplanes,
As to remember or think of me, as I laid like something
Amphibian against the banks of their parks which they would
Hardy think about anymore, which they would so
Easily be stolen away from,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Get Up Good
I want to get up good,
And go to work, easy open sky work,
Like the open lips of love-letters:
Good easy work,
Like being back in preschool and going on
Field trips to the
Naked galleries in the over spilling
Art museum,
Inebriate, leggy women- their first explosions
Of chartreuse rhapsody,
The easy, every day spilling spume,
The alarm systems and identical sisters colonnading
The rosy earth, and I don’t want to every have
To get up again with a tooth ache,
With a bend; I don’t want to ever have to skip school
Again,
With these two legs, or a bicycle to listen to a lion’s
Stomach growling all day while watching
Cartoons and the trash the housewives are made
To watch in stagnant captivation:
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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How My Story Goes
Walking out in the roses and the waves
Not knowing where I am,
And you not knowing why you feel the need
To bring your body so near to me
When your eyes are so far away,
Engorging.
And the mountains are filled with evil spirits
While Pedro takes off his close,
And the Christmas trees sleep like starving conquistadors
Fearing that they have been brought too
Far into the wilds of the state of Florida,
Beautiful men so full of turquoise thrills.
Men on roller-skates,
Men slinging the news to girls who live in their mothers
And fathers trailer parks,
Girls who always go out tattooed and runny like liquid
Throws,
Who know the cries of unbowed rebels,
And who sing once they have their Christmas tree decorated
In their tin cans,
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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