“Periods Beyond Pain”
A guided parachute wins ruined leaves
from a hunter on the verge
of sprouting deer wings,
incited by a chorus of blind serpents’
leggings crossed gloss our fish legs
tied to stirrups in a bottle of spirits
by a chipmunk’s skull
until a riptide of oblivion involves blossoms.
“Gifts of Essence”
I’ll swear by the jacket of your destitute
of hairs and flies and paramours
when long hairs stick to a murderer’s
white cotton cape, brief top hat
smoking mustache
ire destined for cannon-fodder
a grin to wedge past centuries
bikinis, at bottom, ferocious pests
and like snarling, staring into ore
long past microscopes
the gypped oath, chipping
along candy-cane lanes
legs for dollars, our sweethearts
when all dolls have laughed enough
gadflies or gallbladders,
one last innocent look,
before the droppings of coal
the ecstasy of rabbits
footprints in the snow
which shall hold no name
known bearers of the sun’s weight
barren as the pockmarks
shattered bullets in our lockets.
“Worth a Trace”
Let’s make a truce,
draw lines in the sand,
pull fruit from the bottom of potted plants,
pull fools from stars,
crown the crutches, deliver the imps,
outline the jesters in magic ink,
for we are the rivers of twice-told tales,
the tomfoolery, the barns without answers,
bars filled with ice skaters,
we’re in our pretty dresses,
ready to be placed on cakes,
and we were you,
holding hands in the sunset distance
vanishing but with a streaking trace
we were here for your temporary rescue
we were your lover’s regrets
we were your missed-you tissues
but we’ll come flocking back
we’ll always need to recollect the roses.
Elizabeth von Dracula number 2 is done and Elizabeth von Dracula number 1 is now out of print. Note: there are still some online retailers that have EVD number 1 in stock still. EVD 2 is 5 bux plus 3 bux shipping & handling.
“I’m Sorry, Nightingale”
& I’m sorry in May
& I’m sorry for the daffodils
my matted hair; my pleated skirt
& I’m sorry for the idea of it
& I’m sorry for your everlasting love
& I’m sorry for being a bank robber,
a hairdresser; a scoundrel and a thief
& I’m sorry for horses in September
their breathes of rose smoke,
& I’m sorry for the bridge, for folded hands
for table manners,
it’s like the disease is beneath you
it’s like we’re walking a plank
to a madhouse
& I’m sorry turtle doves
& I’m sorry for the roasted apples,
the chipped teeth, the carousel evenings
even if a magician wears white gloves
even if thou
should tear away from sorrow
in loving memory.
“Band Without a Leader”
If it leads by the teeth of your leash
pour me into the blind white pint
of a bald leopard curse striking pink
these goggles know holy waters
dead lips
these goggles last you merry winters,
for merry are we the “volcano sisters”
in seismic semaphore,
in seizures casting grooves in holy silence
splashing a hold on you:
the veined gloves, the throttle of control
I’d like to breathe a birthday wish
through to your carcass in ripples
these swirling universes
the steel private of a thief
whip-its of lead
peel me a rose from a real treat
titters and an ice-cold glass
the grapes are window-dressing
and tell me, tell me, tell me
to tease your wings to flakes of frost
I’d fall all over the weasel of you.
“When you were going back to Guam”
Tears in your sandals
made of sand
your father was home
but your mother was alone
split garden shears, splints
and roaming roses
did if you breathe your fog breath
in the mud room
and you played a gold guitar
in the sparkling stars of weighted blankets
and straitjackets
as if this arrow could be straight
enough to point print
lovelies to the shining sun
your burnt hands
pale legs, wrung pleated skirt
let go this twisted weekend
braid your mother always home
your father was lonely too
the lizards stretched
and breathed a smile
caught sunning on the deck’s skin
like if the shark is a wolf’s friend
like a shadow
and this ghost ship will plant you
in future deities.
“Arguing Over Nothing”
It suits you in half clay
on a riverbed far away
breasts and breaths
to the windows of your soul
a beacon too
fog-bled in a fist of nuns, low to low
and bra buckles,
burn sweetly leaf,
and phantom oneness
I’ll leap from every arrow
forever forward of you
fed to the dead grass of leftover arms
and skin
in a nauseous gaze
deciduous as the disease
the laughingstock is undressed
forever silt to your stockings
what’s the point of a tongue
when all you taste is bullseyes
on your backward lives.
First Aide Medicine
Psychedelic Horror Press
First Aide Medicine Tumblr Page
PoemCulture Blog
nicholauspatnaude 