The Emptiness of Your Car

I am dying in a pontification of shadows,
And perhaps I will never have
To be famous-
But my body will succumb, as it were,
Underneath the
Celebrations of your sororities,
Just as if I was the very earth underneath
The jubilations of the heavens,
As another song dies out as:
As you just make love to him again
And again,
Through the pageantries of tour particular
Stars:
Do you not know that they’ve already
Burned out,
After you’ve driven home in your car:
And I’ve tried being beautiful,
But I’ve all together given up,
And this is just the apiary left gossiping
In the very pornography illuminating in

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Where Your Paper Angels Turned

Pomegranates growing outside of the
Orange and yellow flea markets:
But you will never forget about me,
How I brushed your sugar cane shoulders with
My astral fingers,
And made you come out loud like a full color
Television turned to its highest volume:
Made you scream through the minuets
As the girls high school volley ball team was
Playing a tournament-
Made you weep and orgasms right on the rug
Of your childhood living room,
Made you sweat and beat your breasts
Right up to the ceiling fans,
Where your paper angels turned around in
Dunned moats: but eventually they came down,
And rested quite perpetually underneath your
Sweat and tears.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Through Her Clefts

Ribbons in the sea, what will you do-
Now there is a fabulous holocaust,
As you come down from the mountain,
Losing your candle wax on the rocks- going forever
According to the way she does,
Sleeping in her midnight busses, underneath the
Armpits of marionettes,
Or inside a dark forest that never stops to linger
For its knights-
Filled with witches underneath the seething stars,
Keeping wolves for pets
Who melt the snow to get to the wild nurseries
Before the foxes
To eat the things that grow- underneath the spindles
Of her sorority,
And through her clefts which tend to lose a
Person,
Especially a man who falls too deeply in love with her.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Ribbons In A Sea

Ribbons in the sea, what will you do-
Now there is a fabulous holocaust,
As you come down from the mountain,
Losing your candle wax on the rocks- going forever
According to the way she does,
Sleeping in her midnight busses, underneath the
Armpits of marionettes,
Or inside a dark forest that never stops to linger
For its knights-
Filled with witches underneath the seething stars,
Keeping wolves for pets
Who melt the snow to get to the wild nurseries
Before the foxes
To eat the things that grow- underneath the spindles
Of her sorority,
And through her clefts which tend to lose a
Person,
Especially a man who falls too deeply in love with her.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Words That Their Poets Came

Words that burn infinitely burn for women:
Lochs of women, virgins breathing and snorkeling both
Above and beneath the sea:
Women of green and amber eyes, like the resins of super holy
And Christmas trees:
Women I was afraid to share the stares of, so I skipped
High school and listened all day sweaty and hyperventilating
To the lions choosing their mates,
Just as not much later the women chose theirs:
Then they jumped through hoops of fire in the street lights ofs
Their carnival ling bars:
And when it rained, these women stepped bare naked out into
The rain and fell in love, open mouthed,
Their bosoms bared, to the words that their poets came.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Heartless Reptile

The alligator makes love to
A cloud of the shape of
Grecian beauty; an entire pearled
Orchard bilious and queasy
In the heliotropic shadow of the
Broken down school bus;
I am the only one who
Sees;
Because all the kids are raucous
But well behaved in their
Lunch room,
And you are out on the soccer field
With scraped knees-
Tonight they will itch and scab in
Your bedroom,
And when you pick them you’ll
Stain the sheets;

And when famished, the
Cloud slips away,

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Football Games of Your Tomorrow

Kind of candlestick in the mud-
Hoary light in the swamp
Turning undone,
As the housewives moan like alley cats in their
Beds of predestination:
As they seem for awhile lost, pill bugs underneath
The covers,
As their pools glow altogether as if infected diamonds-
And their canals move slower
Filled to the brim with narcoleptic mermaids
And the fabershe cenotaphs of likeminded conquistadors:
See how the moon glowers over their
Strange visage swimming in the mud:
Each one with a candle undone just beneath the skim-
As the tadpoles dance
Innocent of what they will become,
And the minnows wander around aimlessly perhaps
Dreaming of the footballs games of your tomorrow.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Plated Upon Another Day

Palmettos panting in the frosty glade
Easter eggs lying where they were laid, and the sun
Going up and mollifying the earth like
A stone
The pantries being raided while the heroes are
Un home
And the bold earth is lying with the yard
The dogs are basking in the perfumes of the spirits
Acquainted with the tulips
It seems as if each four legged creature is in love,
And it is not hard to find them out
In the open
Believing that they are free to leap through the keyholes
Into their latchkey homes
While the sugar canes burn across the canal
And the lions wait yawning their yellows across the
Concrete, like eggs running waiting for their
Breakfast to be plated upon another day

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In Vermilion Accolades

If the night is freckled with ixora, then I will make a wish,
While the children are like kites waiting in their doorsteps of sky
For their fathers who come flying in,
Hoofed and in chariots of airplanes; and I have been down so long:
I have cut my fingers to feed the minnows in the canal,
While their homeopathic silver ness has gone on to feed even
Bigger things:
And it is nice to lie here in the fat oxygen in a house painted with the
Soft colors of a seashell
And do things for Alma, even while new souls are getting ready to
Graduate again from high school-
To get up and stretch their legs and go a little further down their
Ways,
While the emerald waters rush in vermilion accolades.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Each of The Peninsulas

Wearing a baseball cap to
Disguise identity,
You stood barefoot
In the shade
Cast from the nude
Lamps of the
Trailerpark;
But you grew up and
Were blessed with all the
Amphibians
That crowded the stadium
And sang through the
Rains
That united the cats,
Collecting them in the cinderblocks
With the moths
Where we perennially
Sold Christmas trees
With the Mexicans- your
Uncle amongst them-

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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