Come to my House; All my Friends are Dead, Waiting & Arthur and I

Come to my House; All my Friends are Dead

The poetry has calmed down
Its plans, its plans.
The poetaster disaster of
Problematic misspellings in
Phlegmatic dirge, dirge, dirge.

I understand myself, sometimes,
Better in a mirror than in the sole
Of a shoe, or that black hole you
Meet with gazing, down, down, down.

Biscuit face, eat me, jump, jump, jump,
Forest, ooh, oh, my ma, say mama, rock!
Cool, cool, cool. Ginsberg helped me
Realise me, release, release, release.

If you came to my house
I would put on my Daniel Johnston
Vinyl of ‘Hi, How Are You’
And we could lie down and
Listen to it on my unmade bed, in

Seams, seams, seams, sew us into
Light circulatory air, smorgasbord
Of love, coarse, of course, in due, in you;
It’s ours, it’s ours, it’s ours, for the
Taking and the making, making, making.


Waiting

Tongues of change,
Lambs of cortège for bonfire
Memorials. A smattering of
Sandwiches lying unkempt
On sidewalk street. Wants
A new home, a loving home,
Put me in your window, put
Me in a book, tie my hair up
In knots, misunderstood. A
Love life left withers; well-
Wishers sneak to graves,
Astride Californian cosmetics.
Put me on a cross, put me in a
Box, put a bow on top, light a
Candle, wait, wilt in waiting.


Arthur and I

Reclusion in a tarantulan microcosm is this
Haunted life less ordinary than others, less
Innocent than I. ‘I is another.’ Arthur is I is
An Arthur. Arthur won’t you help me? I am
Past twenty and have fallen sloppy dead, I
Live inside this head, projected, protracted;
Broken.

The problem of the problem of the problem
Is the constant change of speed; whither
Velocity? Velocity and me. Cruise control
(Out of control), pause for a breather, for
Thought. It was that these palpitations would
Stop in a Cotard’s delusion, but sever instead,
Like you before you, dead.