December 5th, 2015

crumpet2

OUT OF THE QUARREL WITH OURSELVES WE MAKE POETRY

SYRIA DECEMBER THIRD

My words are useless. They will not prevent
a single starving child or stitch in place
an arm torn-off or smooth acid burned face
or turn aside the bloodiest event
heart can conceive. Perhaps announce my grief
in organ tones of sorrow, bring a tear
to hardest heart's stone eye. i disappear
from my best work. A poet is a thief
who stands inside the mirror of her eyes
watches the world bleed, but I can never change
the pieces that I steal, that I arrange
in pleasing shapes. At best I offer lies
pretend that art can make what's damaged whole.
I damn myself pretending to console.
crumpet2

They are tearing down the Munchen

LESBIAN BAR FIGHT 1987

He took a long draw of his cigarette
then threw it in my former girlfriend's hair
affronted she ignored him. We were there
me, her, her current girlfriend. I forget
what I was drinking. Had to throw it quick
to quench the burn. Schwarz threw him to the floor
and punched him. And we all got shown the door.
Perhaps because his quiet friend was sick
I hurt his hand wrenching away the glass
he emptied tried to brain her with. My nails
dug in a pressure point. That never fails
You twist in, they collapse, down on their arse
they fall. And there's the thing. What point is love
if you don't hurt men when push comes to shove?