All Posts Tagged "Poetry"

(View All Tags)

• 
  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…
  Read more
  
• 
  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.
  Read more
  
• 
  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…
  Read more
  
• 
  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,
  Read more
  
• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Thursday, July 22, 2010
  You can only flourish

  beyond the reach of words –

  past articulation:

  inscrutable; transcendent.
  Read more
  
• 
  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…
  Read more
  
• 
  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.
  Read more
  
• 
  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.
  Read more
  
• 
  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.
  Read more
  
• 
  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.
  Read more