Five Poems
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by Charles Kell
Buffhaüsen He’s in the bar bathroom again, checking out his abs, black shirt pulled up to his chin, half- erect cock gripped in his left hand. There’s a vein pro- truding in his stomach, he feels blood pulse, flexes a bicep, stares at his eight pack then spits on the floor. Outside the door sit Sunday people swigging Hendrick’s, stuffing fried onions into their gaping maws. His skin is almost trans- lucent; his green eyes reflect a swamp teeming with wooly sedge, marsh flies-- Giovanni's Room When the window frozen in life reflects not just your eyes but a mask stretching until the contours reach the floor to crack open. David, you are no longer living. David, you have forgotten how to pray. Bruised purplish-yellow flesh an ouroboros. Take off your clothes it’s getting late. When I was a child I thought as a child; when I became a man, I put away childish things. The torn blue envelope blows back in your face. David, you have been hiding for so long you have turned into air. He’s dead. Do you care? Saturday Blues My father hit my mother and I didn’t run away. Father beat my mother and I sat there listening carefully. G.I. Joes, in my room, on a December Saturday. The air was pink insulation; cut it with a knife. Air was Pink Panther’s insulation you could cut it with a knife. Mother was crying, staring into the window of her life. Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow fight to the death. Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes stab each other to death. I’m walking in a circle, in the dark, out of breath. Tomorrow is Sunday, Saturday’s fool. Tomorrow is Sunday, my father always called it Saturday’s fool. The windows are frozen shut and I wish I was in school. Oedipus Rex The son kills the father, burns then eats him; ash on his lips covers the mouth’s gash. The mother lies naked on a bed, bare mattress wine-stained blood red. Words separate flesh from bone, each syllable a pill. He’s digging in the guts to obscure the past. The gash is stopped with yellow gauze and ash. Looking down at the skin is like staring into a mirror. He’s put out his eyes so he will see; he’s here then he disappears. He is slurping shark fin soup. He guzzles Chivas Regal from a silver cup. Masochist Blue jeans this song “Rat Face” which plays over a prayer I don’t believe where I repeat come home I’m sorry I’m weak so much weaker than I knew sober for the moment to feel you’ve gotten your wish roll in your filth wallow jack off stare into the mirror rat face tears jet of semen I’m learning this you must swallow whole what you wished sleep pro- truding ribs empty bed (did I want to be alone?) I’m alone Charles Kell is is the author of Ishmael Mask and Cage of Lit Glass, both with Autumn House Press. |