Into An Eager Morning Sun
Pollinating an instrument beside the
Bus stops,
While the fireworks worm in the overgrowth:
The silvery airplanes leap frog
Over the moon who is beginning to grow blind-
Like all the gods over their breakfast
An empty shell-
An empty grotto: the virgins fed upon, and now
All a cloistered in the barnacles-
Raped and nude,
Blushing wounds that sting in the tide:
The housewives shudder like fish in a glass sea-
The mermaids take the bribes of sand dollars-
An apiary bleeding golden sweat
The fish enjoy with their lips of haloes
Until they douse like pinwheels in her beds that
Separate
And disappear up into an eager morning sun.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Beautiful People
I will not live forever:
I will die and the waves will bury me without any
Sort of sweeter pornography,
But while I lived I’ve had the chance for my lips
To sip sweet liquor,
To believe in the braver paganisms that come rushing
Like the noise of sound,
To sit together with distant friends in an air-conditioned
Theatre and to look together
At the beautiful people,
Those who together best represent the species,
The milk men and astronauts who are floating
Together
Door to door, a careless fraternity without a sound,
Pollinating both of those lips of you and your sister,
While neither I nor your husband are
Anywhere around,
Around.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like A Ship That Needs Mending
Pleasantly, your fingers run down the street
Like a barrette in your hair 'laying it down
Over the shoulders of
Your brown midway, doing away with the classroom'
Perfectly contented that your children
Will never graduate high school'
Or the sad roses waiting at your doorstep have
Disappeared along with my drunken footsteps
Upon your rooftop 'or that I've made the
Rooster hold its tongue until it has forgotten
How its instinctual crow'so the daylight breaks silently'
Milky, smoldering, waterfall
Cascades like tumbles of fire over grim amusements'
And you lean into him, like a ship that needs mending
Caressing the dragon that destroyed it.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Emptiness of Your Car
I am dying in a pontification of shadows,
And perhaps I will never have
To be famous-
But my body will succumb, as it were,
Underneath the
Celebrations of your sororities,
Just as if I was the very earth underneath
The jubilations of the heavens,
As another song dies out as:
As you just make love to him again
And again,
Through the pageantries of tour particular
Stars:
Do you not know that they’ve already
Burned out,
After you’ve driven home in your car:
And I’ve tried being beautiful,
But I’ve all together given up,
And this is just the apiary left gossiping
In the very pornography illuminating in
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Where Your Paper Angels Turned
Pomegranates growing outside of the
Orange and yellow flea markets:
But you will never forget about me,
How I brushed your sugar cane shoulders with
My astral fingers,
And made you come out loud like a full color
Television turned to its highest volume:
Made you scream through the minuets
As the girls high school volley ball team was
Playing a tournament-
Made you weep and orgasms right on the rug
Of your childhood living room,
Made you sweat and beat your breasts
Right up to the ceiling fans,
Where your paper angels turned around in
Dunned moats: but eventually they came down,
And rested quite perpetually underneath your
Sweat and tears.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Through Her Clefts
Ribbons in the sea, what will you do-
Now there is a fabulous holocaust,
As you come down from the mountain,
Losing your candle wax on the rocks- going forever
According to the way she does,
Sleeping in her midnight busses, underneath the
Armpits of marionettes,
Or inside a dark forest that never stops to linger
For its knights-
Filled with witches underneath the seething stars,
Keeping wolves for pets
Who melt the snow to get to the wild nurseries
Before the foxes
To eat the things that grow- underneath the spindles
Of her sorority,
And through her clefts which tend to lose a
Person,
Especially a man who falls too deeply in love with her.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Ribbons In A Sea
Ribbons in the sea, what will you do-
Now there is a fabulous holocaust,
As you come down from the mountain,
Losing your candle wax on the rocks- going forever
According to the way she does,
Sleeping in her midnight busses, underneath the
Armpits of marionettes,
Or inside a dark forest that never stops to linger
For its knights-
Filled with witches underneath the seething stars,
Keeping wolves for pets
Who melt the snow to get to the wild nurseries
Before the foxes
To eat the things that grow- underneath the spindles
Of her sorority,
And through her clefts which tend to lose a
Person,
Especially a man who falls too deeply in love with her.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Words That Their Poets Came
Words that burn infinitely burn for women:
Lochs of women, virgins breathing and snorkeling both
Above and beneath the sea:
Women of green and amber eyes, like the resins of super holy
And Christmas trees:
Women I was afraid to share the stares of, so I skipped
High school and listened all day sweaty and hyperventilating
To the lions choosing their mates,
Just as not much later the women chose theirs:
Then they jumped through hoops of fire in the street lights ofs
Their carnival ling bars:
And when it rained, these women stepped bare naked out into
The rain and fell in love, open mouthed,
Their bosoms bared, to the words that their poets came.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Heartless Reptile
The alligator makes love to
A cloud of the shape of
Grecian beauty; an entire pearled
Orchard bilious and queasy
In the heliotropic shadow of the
Broken down school bus;
I am the only one who
Sees;
Because all the kids are raucous
But well behaved in their
Lunch room,
And you are out on the soccer field
With scraped knees-
Tonight they will itch and scab in
Your bedroom,
And when you pick them you’ll
Stain the sheets;
And when famished, the
Cloud slips away,
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Football Games of Your Tomorrow
Kind of candlestick in the mud-
Hoary light in the swamp
Turning undone,
As the housewives moan like alley cats in their
Beds of predestination:
As they seem for awhile lost, pill bugs underneath
The covers,
As their pools glow altogether as if infected diamonds-
And their canals move slower
Filled to the brim with narcoleptic mermaids
And the fabershe cenotaphs of likeminded conquistadors:
See how the moon glowers over their
Strange visage swimming in the mud:
Each one with a candle undone just beneath the skim-
As the tadpoles dance
Innocent of what they will become,
And the minnows wander around aimlessly perhaps
Dreaming of the footballs games of your tomorrow.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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