On Their Soft Brown Skin
It seems real that my joy is drunken:
My heart burns like peeling glass, the dogs run underneath
The overpasses and after class:
The cars motors purr, stamped by housewives, swaying in
The caesuras of their dreams,
Shopping, bearing the negligee that is hardly even there,
Like the spit of rainbows on her brown skin,
As her children come back home from school again;
And I wonder how her soft brown kisses feel on their
Soft brown skin.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Airplanes Coming Indoors
Then there is a womb opened in a new
Holiday,
Bright with her children and blind snow storms:
All of the wolves make a surplus
Around the orchard of her
Little house,
And the snakes hang down from their
Christmas trees,
Tired from their gossiping,
And her father’s car, and her husband’s car
Wait outside—
The day is equally beautiful, and she lays brown-
Eyed with her children
And never has to worry about the airplanes
Coming indoors.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Of Coins And Of Flowers
Unicorns in the soft meadow
Fogs,
While Alma is letting off of making
Love,
Dousing her steams and elated
Screams,
She will increase again into
Shopping malls,
Deciding again on the
Garments who will
Jubilee her pitch perfect
Skin,
While I will work for her
All day long,
Working over the genii in his
Brown bottle,
Until I have done something right,
And so deserve to call her home,
To play with her the lucky games
Of coins and of flowers
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Sun's Homework
The dream in the enigma
Of unmolded sound,
Passing through the lips
Of the bullhorn
Where keeps the ashes of
A once great fire
The young gods sat
Around, telling the first
Stories with just their eyes;
When ladies were sometimes
Lakes and trees
Sneaking into the unpolluted love,
Like arriving late for class
Without an excuse,
And naked the phantoms walk
The courtyard made invisible by
The sun,
Who can tell them where to go
Now that their homework is done.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Corsages and Cul-De-Sacs
Slipping into the palmettos like a serpent
Going to see a whore:
Underneath the open wounds of airplanes
Bathing in their two piece swimsuits:
Languishing topside of the astral planes
Using wigi boards to say I love you
To ghosts who try to tell you their names-
Inside a house of diamonds
In the eyes of the crocodile who never smiles
But ticks like a clock, giving fair warning
To prepare the boys for their bar mitzvahs
In the corsages and cul-de-sacs of their
Immortality.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Windchimes of My Girlfriend
There she is like a seahorse attending bar-
Underneath the halogens of the football stadium like a
Lighthouse:
She trawls through the night laughing with her brown
Eyes, serving drinks to freshmen and
Poltergeists- while my wounds get out like zeppelins from
The rose bushes, and they pull themselves like
A red wagon across campus- the wind chimes of my
Girlfriend mutely perverse, and I sing to her
To the library and to the other places that I think do not
Want to let her in.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like Zepplins
There she is like a seahorse attending bar-
Underneath the halogens of the football stadium like a
Lighthouse:
She trawls through the night laughing with her brown
Eyes, serving drinks to freshmen and
Poltergeists- while my wounds get out like zeppelins from
The rose bushes, and they pull themselves like
A red wagon across campus- the wind chimes of my
Girlfriend mutely perverse, and I sing to her
To the library and to the other places that I think do not
Want to let her in.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Jet Planes
I saw my little cousin today:
I see them almost everywhere, at the movies,
Waiting at home in front of the television,
But I cannot hardly recognize them
They’ve grown like weeds is the aphorism,
And they’ve removed their pea green houses,
And their unicorns aren’t for real,
But lonely in their front yards with the tenebrous
Blue weeds:
You know, I see them on the swing-set and I want
To join them, but I am too old
For the sports of Christmas trees and young
Jet planes.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Afternoon's Swimming Pool
With your spyglass,
Burn the hyper-active
Centipede-
Create the leaping
Energy that
Makes words dissapear.
Roll up the tinfoil
Into a crude bowl
And smoke your
Mother's weed
While masturbating
In the afternoon's
Swimming pool,
In the tall green
Grass
Whispering beside
The blue canal;
There prehistoric
Alligators swimming,
The hazy shadows
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Middle of School
Pranksters of my boyhood still lighting off
Fireworks across the roofs of another school day—
Like all of Mexico laughing
As they propagated and made new streams into our
Beautiful delusion—and shot roman candles straight into
Our eyes,
Scarring us with the song that was in their loins:
Not afraid of airplanes, because knowing that, like the moon,
They could steal that too:
Until I found you safely under a bus in a rainstorm
And we made love forever right in the middle of school.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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