This poem was written from found lines while I was in Auvillar, France in 2009
Fly Poem 12/21
The indescribable feeling of blankets – in your throat
Tin on the back of your tongue
Having your head poetically lopped – Emily likely
would have volunteered – With a seashell? The old garden shears?
They released spinal fluid, I should collect it in hollowed gourds
It is metallic and running – mercurial – gutter sounds in city streets
I have that looping old world melting feel – the kind east coast US cities have
accidentally – that oozing ironwork – the layered buildings capping eras – a stopgap – a murdered superstar
Why do the dying always smell roses – heavy flowers – speak in scaled riddles :
“Stop, breathe, listen…there’s a peacock at my feet…
the leaves of Juillet are thick, waxy – they feel like leather…
a Societe of Pigeons makes it difficult to move without notice…
today is the jours de wheels on cobblestone...
What I’m trying to say is indescribable, what I have to say is so important”