Hymn To Black Mouse
in praise of cold
beauty which cares
not whether one
suffers, cares not
that the mouse may
suffer, and the dove,
that the mouse,
objectively,
its black fur,
is magnificence
very soft, it
appears without
shine as does the
ice shine in
severest beauty
sear (now I know
the flash sure was
that of a tail, is
neither light nor
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Lovers Jump To Death From Burning Building
From late night collapse of limes
rum lovers leap to death in each others arms.
Upon the sill they lean resigned,
dead calm revolving in a yellow light.
Neither fright nor anger nor drunken joy
calls them to this moment but habit.
Each morning settles something and so
they resolve half asleep in the window to
disturb the air. With thickened tongues
they obediently fall bidden by fire
hidden in all alarms.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Sing To Knees Now
.
backyard empty
clothesline silk slip,
one pin down,
dip shyly in brick shadow
pornographic breezes
I sing to my knees now.
when did I marry Lonely?
can't recall but fell kid-hard
beyond Manhattan Bridge
sudden heat lightening
a good night with cool rain
old vinyl Nyro
needle scratches
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poem by Warren Falcon
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In Excelsis Deo - A Surrealist Carol For Madrigal Choir To Be Sung While Bathing
.
Hair of soap and head of tears
rinse mine eyes of Christmas stars
O bells, the bells sear me
Wash my hair of splendid fears
water me hot and redly rare
O trumps, the trumpets blear me
Scars heal me up to here
scald me pinkly if you dare
O gay, the gay sleds slay me
Is that flesh floating on the surface me
who swims or sinks fraternally?
I know a strange me
with soap for eyes
and suds for see
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Giving Darkness In Giverny
.
Monet might have seen,
giving darkness in Giverny,
defiant to the last optics fired out inevitably,
nerve light made the more dipped,
smeared on clutched pallet bent to his gaping will
struggling to 'ope' eyes,
wider see.
Was failing him the light.
Closing-in world reduced to all horizon.
Tints, brushes, memory
frames these final pieces
canvased, inwardly conformed,
recalled light more light than all raw day.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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In Excelsis Deo - A Surrealist Carol For Madrigal Choir To Be Sung While Bathing 2
.
Later revision
Hair of soap
and head of tears
Rinse mine eyes
of Christmas stars
O Bells, the Bells sear me.
Rinse mine eyes
of Christmas stars
Water me hot
and redly rare
O Fey, the Fey stars blear me.
Water me hot
and redly rare
Scald me pinkly
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Ars Poetica Redux
Dying trees fall easily.
Poems, too, as they should.
Dead wood rots from which
One good poem may grow,
The better to hear in the higher
Branches, the creaking lower limbs.
Sequestering lovers late afternoon
Whisper. One is carving the bark,
A crude heart with names within.
Now unread, unspoken but for the overgrown
Path, a bark-less scar now where was the heart,
Without thought, without desire, write only this,
'How arms entwine, how branches break'.
poem by Warren Falcon
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What the Orphan Knows About Light
.
for Anna Kamienska**
'I don't believe in the other world
...But I don't believe in this one either
unless it's pierced by light.' - A. Kamienska
Hidden behind a star
the ash sings without self-pity -
stake your claim in Beauty.
Flame-near dreams
are of Far.
Jab the mausoleum
majesty of State
in the eye.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Tio Tangles For Love
the love-mad one
in piss pants
sways embraced of
the Woman Tree
reunites vistas
seen above
tearing opposites
of the seen world
mean in over
extended glory
coagulates
the promised
black boots
of State
Unpersuaded he
in primordial arms
innocent
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poem by Warren Falcon
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What Remains, Remains
Stricken with 'arrhythmia',
or so my doctor do say, which is
the name of an ancient queen, Ethiopian,
first century, leading caravansary into
dunes and what remains undisclosed
beyond weighted horizon,
to Her I yield my heart no
matter its many loans overdue.
Here is my trifle then in
earnest, a release.
Call in the priest
whose ancient hand's
most unsteady,
a lifetime of withholding.
I remain for the moment free.
Between St. Marks and the horizon my fingers still work.
poem by Warren Falcon
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