Just A Little Boy
Imposes on an empty room-
A bouquet of parked cars, echoes from
A parking lot-
Other promises the moon steals- pretty
Ladders leading up
To second story bedrooms: but she
Has already gone to the nuptial-
She is a school girl at a
Banquet, and
She is not alone:
In a forest fire of uneasy businesses
Waiting to come home from
School,
As I fixate vulpine on the pornography of
Her saturated woods:
But I am just a little boy, and the canal
Lingers torpidly:
All of my words flood out to her,
Saturnine,
And she brushes her hair- the alligator
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In Her Beautiful Hair
Nubile poem on the cleft of an orb—
Silence slips over the curves of a river-
And the strange jewelry that decorates the housewives
Without a sound—
Sandlots of castles of missing cars
And other mouth less amusements—matriculating
To themselves until they happened to believe that
The most fabulous invention of all happens to
Be the hallways of their highschools—
And now if you can picture what joy they are in—
In the strange memory of fishes swimming around
A midway of an unbelievable palace that was
Never there—why then,
A joy to them- a joy to them—
A spark of a firework igniting in her beautiful hair..
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Mowed Field
Succession of alphabet: tongue of amphibian
Over a lover’s nipple:
Circus tent of areola sprigged by pubis
In the moonlight coming over
The house too close to the highway:
The rattlesnake flattened across
The road,
Halfway made it underneath the Florida
Holy where the kids have made it
Safely run away:
Across the street from housewives who are now
Lovers—
Adultery in midway daydreams before
The naked bodies of goldfish
Not even worth a dollar:
The television silent besides the Christmas tree:
The lizards in the yard basking like
A statuary of primordial deities:
The cats too sleepy in the mowed field to care.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Well of Moonlight
This moon,
This moon,
This moon is not real:
There is another moon up
On a hill,
And my that moonlight
I draw water from the well.
Now my sister is getting married,
While I am waiting,
Waiting,
Wondering if I should stand sometime
Beside her stone
Beneath the well;
In autumn, or in summer,
I cannot tell.
My scars are salmon,
Salmon underneath the stars
And the pallid aspens, like sisters
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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Not Even An Echo
As they dimmed over high school,
And the baseball diamond,
And the inevitable wives went home to
Their inevitable husbands:
From the malls as from the estuaries-
I thought of the romance
In the valentine of a firework: very cheap
Romance bought in packs
Like cigarettes- for an amusing moment-
To scare the children,
And annoy the neighborhood- and yet to
Come from so very far away-
And to be so profound in their beautiful
Daredevilry,
But too end up not really there- to last for
The moment of a lover’s holiday-
A honeymoon of overpriced nonsense-
And that is all:
Not even an echo, not even a sad knock on
A sad door.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Valentine Of A Firework
As they dimmed over high school,
And the baseball diamond,
And the inevitable wives went home to
Their inevitable husbands:
From the malls as from the estuaries-
I thought of the romance
In the valentine of a firework: very cheap
Romance bought in packs
Like cigarettes- for an amusing moment-
To scare the children,
And annoy the neighborhood- and yet to
Come from so very far away-
And to be so profound in their beautiful
Daredevilry,
But too end up not really there- to last for
The moment of a lover’s holiday-
A honeymoon of overpriced nonsense-
And that is all:
Not even an echo, not even a sad knock on
A sad door.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In An Anonymous Week
If I am not beautiful, nobody really has interests
Or love; and I am quite shallow,
The pittance of an unreturned dove:
You know, you know- all of our graves or quite
Shallow, too- like animal graves,
Like animals shoes; and this is what I have been doing,
Digging up shallow tubs of earth, throwing dirt
Over my shoulders like a dirty curse, and doing it
Without appeasing anyone in the eye;
If I should have to die, If I should have to die, let it
Be little animal tears for me, and distant cars,
And distant echoes of somnolent feet; you know,
I am not pretty, and the way the earth moves, I shall
Be dead in an anonymous week.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Into An Eager Morning Sun
Pollinating an instrument beside the
Bus stops,
While the fireworks worm in the overgrowth:
The silvery airplanes leap frog
Over the moon who is beginning to grow blind-
Like all the gods over their breakfast
An empty shell-
An empty grotto: the virgins fed upon, and now
All a cloistered in the barnacles-
Raped and nude,
Blushing wounds that sting in the tide:
The housewives shudder like fish in a glass sea-
The mermaids take the bribes of sand dollars-
An apiary bleeding golden sweat
The fish enjoy with their lips of haloes
Until they douse like pinwheels in her beds that
Separate
And disappear up into an eager morning sun.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Beautiful People
I will not live forever:
I will die and the waves will bury me without any
Sort of sweeter pornography,
But while I lived I’ve had the chance for my lips
To sip sweet liquor,
To believe in the braver paganisms that come rushing
Like the noise of sound,
To sit together with distant friends in an air-conditioned
Theatre and to look together
At the beautiful people,
Those who together best represent the species,
The milk men and astronauts who are floating
Together
Door to door, a careless fraternity without a sound,
Pollinating both of those lips of you and your sister,
While neither I nor your husband are
Anywhere around,
Around.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Like A Ship That Needs Mending
Pleasantly, your fingers run down the street
Like a barrette in your hair 'laying it down
Over the shoulders of
Your brown midway, doing away with the classroom'
Perfectly contented that your children
Will never graduate high school'
Or the sad roses waiting at your doorstep have
Disappeared along with my drunken footsteps
Upon your rooftop 'or that I've made the
Rooster hold its tongue until it has forgotten
How its instinctual crow'so the daylight breaks silently'
Milky, smoldering, waterfall
Cascades like tumbles of fire over grim amusements'
And you lean into him, like a ship that needs mending
Caressing the dragon that destroyed it.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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