Two Poems

October Moods


1.
sticky, massive Indian Summer,
mosquitoes reawakened, rising
like carbonation, their blooming
limbs made of nothing more than
false hope

2.
spent the morning bartering
with the sheets, now I must droop
two sacks of English Breakfast,
because the moon shifted in the night
and frost will soon graze
these feet like cacti needles―
that plant, so fully aware
of the worth of its own fruit

3.
—I haven't had blinds since July,
that's four months, that's four
months where you saw me,
in my awkward dance, sliding
one leg in, then the other, then stretching
the whole wretched cocoon over my head


4.
tonight, the sky,
a salmon shimmering
above the fog before
it settles on the soft pond
near all the identical houses
where whore is a word that hovers over

5.
I know you will passover soon,
Indian Giver, the welcome mat
has been dipped in tomato soup,
a contemporary metaphor
for the blood
you so rightly crave


Nick Cave Cento


Once she lay open like a road,
sprinkled with wedding confettis—I married my wife
on the day of the eclipse. Torn to pieces
by her long-fingered hand, her hair was falling
down her shoulders, she stroked a kitten in her lap.

I put my hand over her; My typewriter turned mute
like dying moons. “I searched the seas and I’ve looked
under the carpet. There is a dead man
in my bed,” she said—the gaunt fruit of passion
dies in the light.

She put her hand over mine
while all the men and women slept under
fifteen feet of pure white snow.
And I kissed her goodbye, said, “All beauty must die,
get ready for love, praise Him.”