Sunday, February 5, 2012

the art and poetry of greg anka

looming under heavy lidded impatience,

a robust blue puffed with tinge of black

waiting hard in liquid both fallen and poured,

pushing stubs of swollen hand helplessness

into linty containers of well worn use.

cracked, turning, swearing, bloody lips

down on sleep street, loosens and burps,

whistles to the sauntering heels of trade.

in a clouded nude baggaged dullness

that leaps on here and settles into tired

(could we, that we i am one of, stay a bit)

crashing i crashed laughing into arms unclean,

two boxes measure themselves leaning on elbows

it's the sideways going down turning off that kills you.

a small attic window
somewhat facing south
off slightly to the right
frosted in evening darkness
softly lit from late sun yawning
cold glass in cracking white wood.

relentlessly eyes peer through
seeking, offering a question
so hopefully spoken
small cautious fingers
cupping over an open mouth
exhale into flowing lines
a warm and subtle breath
wrapped in a young skin.

an emptiness waits
paused in rumination
guiding itself blindly
a seated shrunken child

on a barren field brown in slumber
wind placed snow puddles
creating mosaic abstracts
melding into the mind
as anything it wants to be
such a grief and anguish
squeezing out life
in awkward restless fits.

the lifelong success
amounting to nothing
can be fulfilled
with all your efforts
and every stress to
be all they
said you would achieve
can be amassed into a
and that may be your
the nots you were able
to conquer but, and yet
did not.
it ripped you to pieces
not knowing which
you were.
they told you everything
was obtainable
and they lied and
the child believed
and set its sights
on it.
the nothing achieved.

sinking and floating,
treading in the flotsam
wrapped onto the ankles
like ropes of thought
providing no help,
only hinderance.

tons of uselessness
from a wasted life,
like so many memories
turned slowly inward
as if to form a solace
of sorts, a blanket,
of partial misuse.

well my sweet
more days have passed
without vision of your
and still i wonder
as i raise a lip to glass
is she, the only she,
still the somber bubbly love muffin
i once knew
then the small man
in the corner mutters
over his bagel and paper
“you must talk to her,
my son for she is the path
to all things vegetable.
she is the
goddess cucumber with broccoli chaser
and for that you must bow to
the green wet greatness she possesses”
and then i said what the fuck
are you doing in my kitchen
drinking my coffee you grimy little shit
how did you get in!!
then there was a fight and things were broken
and bad words said etc etc
and still there is this longing yearning
abyss in my soul for not having
a warm giggling pussy chat
with you for so long that i've forgotten
to take the penis out for a walk
in weeks and lonely does it cry
at night all too much for the poor
thing of soft flesh and weak bladder.


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