Exquisite Corpse - Issue 3
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Four Poems
by David Hickman



"It is noteworthy that what goes on
in thinking never interests us."
And it is interesting that without breathing
we could not think on breath.
But all day long we think and breathe
in spaces that we decorate against the void
and thoughtlessness.

Ants crowding a jelly smear.
Against whose fidelity to what they are
even Helen when compared
is mere shadow to the sun.

And besides I am aware that it is I who am
writing this and that my pure love of thought
is in some ways a defense, a "fortress of
solitude", a structured essence

Whose blue shoes were covered when he took
off his pants, to follow the serenade into the
sun's labyrinths and the mannequins frozen
into fists of regret
the pale cowgirl smoking a cigarette as
"the one"

Beneath The Sun

Beneath the sun
runs Actaeon.

And flowers that grip

the indecent soil.

"Their downsizing complete,

the company restructured."

And the sun fell down the flagpole

in rivulets

of its somewhat anal

and perfected glare.

In the halls of beauty runs Actaeon

and the hounds that will make of him

a bride of air.

The halls of their hunger

are emblazoned with desires:

while dolphins of light
picnic in the solar flares.

To his left is a door.

To his right a mirror.

" And that is how it is

both now and later."

In the halls of beauty

runs Actaeon

who has seen the void
that does not care

Apocalypse on the Head of a Pin
Time is an anchor
where the blessed may not sleep
and shadows fall abhorrently
across fugues of asphodel
becoming the impertinences of America
that aggravate the dull
"So think of putting your hand up in school.
Nothing need have gone on inside you."
No face on pale flower
or sneeze of desire whose weapons shine
"pulled down from clouds as from a promise
of grace"
While planners cull facts
from the ruins we will become

Love Song

Know that I would flourish and be your

that I would ache and sing and my body

when you would offer me a sample and whisper

and you would sing against hope and bend

and I would walk through the aisles and finger

and I would kiss from the microphone the
product safety warnings

and you would say "customer come back to me I have lost my  will
to die"

speaking softly and murmuring in the foundation aisle

and I will kiss you customer I will live your green

I will help you to sing I will help you to

and we will be each other's customers
and it will be impossible, ever, to marry down

and all that will be dutiful and sparkling and arranged

will be wrapped in brown paper and curbed on Thursdays

and we will live the great hotel with televised

and I will whisper to you "love" and lick your customer

and you will caress me and sigh and tremble as
your customer

and the earth will shake and the birds will writhe
and the air will taxi and the assumption smile

and we will spill into the earth a tide of customers
who will love and be loved there

and serve and be served

until we are finally taken down into the well-sold earth
unashamed and bright, bountiful and with certainty

and there we will serve lastly what has loved us well

and dream the last dream in our hermetic sleeps
customers of this earth that credits all things


Flashpoint: webdelsol.com/FLASHPOINT/index2.htm
Trope: Poetry and Graphics: www.erols.com/tsimonds


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