is grotesque, the drivel between them stuck to a man,
tock, red weeping eye and tarnished limbjoints
anointed in ruddy time.
The tank grieves holding in its piss,
in a caffeinated collapse of structured dozing,
wonderrhea, tock, eagle's shriek morning
approaching his whiskered mice.
Wires snugly into his mode,
lately habitual in restaurants,
and here, his home,
drinking and sweating, his stink in the walls,
cups, couches, underwear, tock,
the window a dingy route to where he has stepped from,
amped out of, where townsfolk crack eggs by seven,
post sunrise, and woke quickly as yolks let to bowls.
While the clock ticks inward, his home,
where blacker a.m. is seen square as lively color,
a quick gag's end, tock,
his use of sleep became ambiance,
a mere two cups back.
Prototype
Takes a step up downward stairs,
man riding a stick
with a horsey-head end,
or spotty pouch end,
reeling venomous at his own foot.
He lights and converges on the
prototype cigarette, loosely held like
an empty briefcase or disappointment.
He breathes the hippies up from
some other human's times, snuffs out
the cherry, upset by a jibe, on his arm.
I'll heal it, he says, sketching bark and
bullshit across the burn-wound,
the drips collating blood cell drop velocity,
the speed at which life begins to break up
into pig-snouts, tiffs, blazing Nintendos,
boils on love's tongue tables,
the era.
Coils unwind arms outstretching
and he takes another step,
scalding preemptive snake
who's bifurcated lick
leaves its stink permanent there,
the beast in a cactusy myth.
The Broth of the Tongue
This english now and raised, pole to pole,
and where, even as spokes into a rim,
my fingers speak easily into volumes,
is the inedible yellow fruit of my azedarach,
and all around it, but the raw beauty this makes
slowly consumes the view.
This english like apricot
spits meat upon my mouth?
It balls fits and snaps the base-tongue
sudden backward.
In the opened mouth, by which this
inkstaining is surf, I twitch from the fierce
grate of that pumice and quartz,
and am lulled within it, english,
ever now and raised.
Near the Tumtum Tree
This sheltering lull congratulates,
these frabjous and happier moments.
Once I was and may be soon
shattering from pin-taps,
beak of the jubjub bird,
century mold across the empty passes.
Here in excerpts of my survival,
eerie inner as a rotten memoir?
My body of stock, pan-drippings,
the damaging boullion floor like
an opaque salt flat.
Is the worst yet to flow?
Is this the grand warning joy?
Or have I greater jogs to dole and be dealt?
I search optically left, audibly right,
pinioned as by ballast line, while
waiting with vorpal glint for its attention,
the storm illness or the bankruptcy,
or the slithy shit in one mimsy hand,
and pace my ugly, cow-headed wait,
at the edge of the tulgey wood.
Ray Succre
Ray Succre is 30 and currently lives in Coos Bay, Oregon, a small, coastal town where art is sparse and, when it does exist is of a general relation to driftwood, deer, dying romance, or various maritime subjects. He has tried to leave the town numerous times. He is married, has just become a father, and loves the south coast. He writes each day and is driven to better himself and his work. In addition to poetry, short stories, and essays, he pretends to be a novelist and is an avid loiterer in restaurants. He is between dishwasher jobs and is currently a stay-at-home dad, which he loves dearly. His poetical fugue theory has been published in several publications and has appeared in the 5th International Anthology of Paradoxism, and his work has also appeared in The Book of Hopes and Dreams, an anthology out of Scotland. Ray has published hundreds of poems in publications spanning England, Ireland, Scotland, India, Canada, Finland, Singapore, Wales, New Zealand, Italy, Australia, Germany, Israel and throughout the United States, as well as in many online magazines. He is also a winner of the Adroitly Placed Word Award, for spoken word.
I can write better than anybody who can write faster, and I can write faster than anybody who can write better.
