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  • Flarf Out Loud
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, September 27, 2010
    Oh, to make passion a king! To revel
    in the colors of his ancient palette, to paint
    the ruffians with one fine stroke of his engorgement.
    Before, our mouths were gagged with the cloth of a grim censorship:
    always unyielding, moribund, and not in the least bit sensual
    (unless you’re kinked that way – however you like it).
    Nevertheless, who can discourage the deft flash
    of that bristle? Who would waver upon the approach
    of such an experiment? Upon which folds of skin…
  • A Quorum For Worship
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Thursday, September 23, 2010
    At the submillimetre level, things can look shaky to the even-handed
    twenty/twenty visionaries in all of us. For stability to be ensured,
    only a man (who are essentially calm) should attempt to navigate
    a course for the masses to follow, and even then he must be in
    the company of ten good men. Men of sound minds. Men of faultless
    instruments. Men who chart off the graph in terms of their belief.
    Rituals can’t be bought with pennies. That’s how it unravels, and the ultimate
    reason to have so many witnesses. To climb the mountain you need the support.
    To lay siege to the fortress you first need an enemy. And to suck the
    marrow from the Lord’s grey bone you can’t be an isolato. You need the comfort of many,
    for if you are daunted with the presence of his face, if you are shaved with the sharp
    wit of his sermon, you will need good men to brace you.
  • Love
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Wednesday, September 15, 2010
    Just four letters in a mouth,
    you are a swollen word,
    an impregnable word,
    a dazzling swarm.
    A toast to all things:
    to the shape of men;
    the fathomless water
    of women;
    to the song in the damp earth,
    to the light,
    the heady air;
    the lotus bud; the grape; to the
    pitch of a note; to the memory
    of green days; to nights, thick
    with celestial bodies
    and the cries of the newly born…
  • I Did It Again
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, July 26, 2010
    So, I must have woken closer to the sun than ever
    because it’s needling the back of my eyes
    in harsher and more complicated ways than before,
    and this headache is so phenomenal
    that I feel like framing it and hanging it
    as an example to all who complain in the future.
    I’ll refer to it as the great headsplitter of ’10
    a pain among pains, women will weep and men will wince
    when they hear my tale. It’s not the hangover,
    but this proximity to the sun, which is, I guess,
  • Mum’s The Word
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Thursday, July 22, 2010
    You can only flourish
    beyond the reach of words –
    past articulation:
    inscrutable; transcendent.
  • Canticle Of The Neck
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Tuesday, March 30, 2010
    Neck:
    river of life,
    thick vine
    of sublime flesh,
    volatile succulent -
    your secrets
    are Creation’s
    sacred crafting…
  • Canticle Of The Lips
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, March 29, 2010
    From the womb
    of bliss
    the gentle lips
    were born -
    generous unions;
    paired magics;
    magnets
    for their own
    ripe kind.
  • The Things You Couldn’t Take
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Thursday, January 22, 2009
    Moving day, and I should have faced this dawn,
    should have swaddled myself in armour and rose,
    a warrior, from this bed where I, damaged,
    lie as a lump beneath white linen,
    a snowdrift, but colder.
    As the home becomes house, I listen:
    it grows bigger – you empty from it -
    and him, my son with the dark eyes,
    bristles in the hallway, all excitement.
  • Poverty Jag
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Wednesday, January 21, 2009
    Thursday. Soft light. The motherlode.
    Sheets of absurdity rain down in
    clumsy torrents –
    silence bends each rule
    of acoustics.
    Hands are too soft
    to pick it up.
    All this sharp grief.
    All this grief that spins
    a virile web through
    the doorways; the hearts;
    beneath foundations –
    a pounding tapestry;
    a garotte for the
    unctuous air.
  • Third Floor Confidential
    by
    Jé Maverick
    Tuesday, January 20, 2009
    The schizophrenic is
    pregnant.
    Her belly is full
    of onions, and zombies,
    and wild laughter.
    Soon it will move,
    and dark ideas will
    scuttle on insect legs
    through her mind,
    scratch like small beasts
    in the corners, incessantly;
    grow larger;
    howl for attention.