Anti- » Dora Malech Poetry

Ante

Steve — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:39:05 +0000

full throttle to choked forward motions denied saw her tailspin and raised her a nosedive all pressing questions applied to the wound saw the romeo saw the tango jilted the juliet quick as a foxtrot spin around the blocked advance meant tip off bet on that glass bedroom eye and near miss sighted saw her cherry and raised her on top of a lucky breaking point game point and stare and played her where she lay and lied about her whereabouts and said great mindless always think a likely story raise their hackles and rise to the bait the grin saw bared it all indentured gift horse raised a sprint some spirit fingers hunted marching pecked for orders cried dear diarist sinking shipmate still my best man overboard to raise a bucket saying need an extra hand to bail the blood now look what a mess you’ve made of that heart

Our Fair Sentence

Steve — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:36:40 +0000

Those days were still wearing their brand-new welcomes,

putting one word—world—in front of another, blazonry

and all good faith therein where was writ dexter, sinister,

pick a number. Any everyman was proud to proclaim

the state of even our disaster’s faster, trophies soldered

fist to plinth to tower over in precipitous dazzle down

to the waterlogged potter’s field in which listed fits pitched

for the night, the beaten band and the broken bank, the seep

where the earth wept up its ichor, war cry whittled to dumb

ditty—shoot first, shoot later—dialectic left for dead and

the closest exit indeed behind us by way of frayed refrain:

say when, say when.

Remains

Steve — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:33:33 +0000

Mama,
he’s not like
the other coroners.

Took me upstairs
and showed me
his coelacanth.

Sutured the last
of the suitors at sunup.
Straddled the strata,

solved for salve.
Same river begging
to be taken back.

Prayed effigy, efficacy,
something to sign for.
Bodies? Flutter fodder.

Fit start to endgame.
Last rites, riots,
stage left in a whisper,

best left beheaded,
behest left unsung.
Secured the parameters,

opened the aperture,
cut me a switch
and learned luck

a new trick.
Wind turned tail,
broke stride and won

over, air on the side
of the nacreous acreage,
my far cry.