Around the Eye

On my sight hangs obedient walls
and these are hung with ugly portraits.
Having seen canyons, parched and shut
off from the era, having seen glass flow
like water, my sight has flowered its line
atop dirty films and lovely sights.

I play you images in bathsteam:
A lark at dawn, a trashcan, still-life
with dead woman and lily.

My sight, make me princes from pigs
and stack me an estate from pressboard.

In my portraits, the frowning seems
truly strong, yet the eyes shock me
truer smiles over all.

By Anomy

The dirty sun has never lit Mr. Morrison,
and his bike bits are seized in rust.
The ridges of his town are jamming enough
to possess counter-ridges,
and he has let the death into his drapes.

The water Mr. Morrison drinks is infected,
and his stomach has a first oyster ulcer,
outside of his rooms, his bike has been stolen,
and the wires no longer talk to him.

When his snout draws back and his teeth
prove autumnal, and where his eyelines
are crowed in book-feed night rattles,
Mr. Morrison has let the light into his mind;
incoherent states, chard-flimsy speak,
penitence for breathing.

The ridges of his town hang over the rooms
of Mr. Morrison and his wires, his drapes,
cutting out the air from reaching his rutted
nostrils, and throwing up high the dirty sun

I Blemish My Bed with Sleep

 The salty, earthenware pits for grinding
salt are skulls of fitful sleep.
The howlers and picking spinsters
rise up and make burden, wage,
become the fitful sleep and the
icons of their victim’s fit dreams.
Dreams as thick as spat, thicket
splinters in a heap, dreams rushed
from a cerebellic river, this ferret
trail of liquid, scampered
from a glacier of frosted moments,
of wants and whims, of cold, cruel things.
It runs in sketches of grovelling banks.

What sleep is feast enough for dream
that I can have no crock of mine, in them,
consumed so that I can not amble,
one season drunk at the end of a headwalk.

It is in the Earth, charmed apple
of seeded worms and dross—
conceited little pills of Hell
like men, record, sleep.

 

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, Laika, and Rock Salt Plum, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  He tries hard.

                         

For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com

 

         

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