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From: "jeff.worksonpaper02@gmail.com" <jeff.worksonpaper02@gmail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.surrealism
Subject: 3 poems
Date: 26 Sep 2005 15:41:34 -0700
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THE WAVE
Over the refuge of dizzy millions
Over the television our spies tell are dead
Over blinking sevens up a damned daisy
Over the icy rain of inexcusable contractility
Over the death certificate sticking from his fly
Over the time machine gasping for breath
Over the legal mind in front of my fireplace
Over the hypodermic gone seventeen hours large
Over paint and broken storm windows
Over the sea as a cheap closing act
Over emergency rooms filled with ecstatic flags
Over a vague patch of admission
Over the bone-white Flamenco machine
Over immortal bargains in king-sized doses
Over the rasp of perpendicular blackouts
Over an ever-growing open standard
Over "a wolf's _expression dashed on the ocean's knee"
Over the whole array of a footnote's lingerie
Over an old friend of the night's family
Over young cherry trees secured against hares
Over the inky tarnish of wet meat sub-routed and assertive
Over untrue wounds speechless & shut
Over lightning toppling Life's inaudible fuck
Over the crypt lining her mouth with contrivance
Over desuicidal robots who fire pairs of filth
Over noctambulism accidentally killing MIDAS cave
Over a long syllable equal to two short syllables
Over the possibility that dark spots are also stars
Over a green of any strength hardly modeled
Over a precipice with a vegetable Tchelitchew
Virginia, wave!
_______________________________
BELLY PHARAOH
fire (hot), rich singing (get), tight vest (I),
body out father hot hope (bat) full pleasure phrase
kit orbit climb 1 belly rouge (hOp), appeared (kit), lady (dA)
crowd (sad) sofa (oil), ginger clear cite in father (lOOz)
_____________________________________________
THE DAY THE LAUREL HID TWICE
soil reads what you speak
soil through lace is dew
soil's a simple word to be able
to lure grass along a long wind
when you walk under the moon
the soil is your foot's mirror, that
came out wrong but you know
what I mean, while you gather up
dollars the soil sleeps in, side by side
with the poor dead scientists, soil's
furrow has as much in it as the grass
has on it, even thru the slime the
letters "S" - "O" - "I" - "L" still clang
together, ring dry and crisp, I mean
http://www.muse-apprentice-guild.com/mag_special_edition/jeff_harrison/home
.html
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