h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s

 

 

.........
PATRICK LAWLER



...........
BLESS PYTHAGORIAS AND HIS THEOREM
BLESS TRUTH AND ITS SERUM


  

The Beautiful Boy is looking down
the barrel of God        He says

“I don’t know which side
of the canvas she is on”

Bless the kids in haz mat suits
Bless the tollbooth operators

Bless lucid living      Bless the ice axe
Bless circuitry                  Bless debauchery

Bless the beauty spot
           Bless the transvestite
 
who dresses
like an oil rig       on fire

The Beautiful Boy and the Beautiful Girl
dance the death out of the Dying Mother

The Girl is voracious and vulnerable
The Boy is beatific

Sunlight is a language
Dance is a language

Bless the one-legged river
The Dying Mother dusts behind the stars

 





...........

BLESS CAMUS BLESS ADORNO

  

Cathedral of the Milky Way
Clutter of stars

Every day we dig for the objects
of our loved ones that have been buried

Oolong tea      a timepiece   
fluidity            a gold whistle

There comes a time when you need to stop
looking for the dead

Mournful
soul friend

The Beautiful Girl
is a spiritual Lauren Bacall

In cemeteries
death flows through the earth

The library drips books—
the books drip words

The Beautiful Boy and the Beautiful Girl
experience the amazing everywhere

The Boy who came out of the sky
has a piece of cloud in his pocket


 




...........

BLESS KWAKI ANANSI BLESS KOKOPELI
   

The sun is a eucharistic ash
Bless               Bless               Bless

Sunset smashes
Time rolls over bodies

Prayers come with roots
The pulsing beneath

You must stay drunk
on the staggering everything

record the beauty in the brain
The Beautiful Boy sips her soul

Straw mansions/mud mansions
The heart sparks

The eye is a lake
The Dying Mother hauls an empty suitcase

Together the Beautiful Boy and the Beautiful Girl
                      must eat her soul

The body is a book
The heart is a big moon inside the book


 




...........  

BIO: Besides writing instruction manuals regarding mortality, I am a lifeguard. Flailing arms around me, I never learned to properly swim.  Winter is the most enigmatic season when the drowned purposefully float up from the bottom—their purple faces pressed against the almost purple ice. I write: Step one.  Step two.






 

Copyright © 2016 Literary Pool, Inc.