Friday, 7 April 2017


for Christophe Tarkos

He brings me tongues,
         so many tongues,
and he says the tongues are poetry.

Look! as a fat wet meatslab
thwacks across my desk. A sonnet. 

Or Here! a small catlike curl,
pebbled and pink. A haiku!

These are not poems, I think.
My notebooks, my shelves,

begin to bloat and drip. Thick
cords of drool slather

the floor. But who am I
to judge? I’ve said

so many things are poems

—cunts, mainly, but also
bicycles, cherry blossom,
the Glasgow Subway System...

So I gather his tongues
            in my arms
and recite them one by one.

This is a poem, I say,
while our Bambi feet begin to skite.

We end up horizontal and dripping,
searching for meaning

in the gush. Hands and knees,
pawing through flesh on the floor.

No comments:

Post a Comment