Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 58
Previous Next Table of Contents	february the pill had the opposite effect and I grew more depressed in dream I was at my best, remembering the small head of my grandmother, substituting one boy for the next the sky which had revealed its under- hue dropped blank instead I wanted to wake up, but the day did not return, did not, in fact, exist   Lørpsliç Bierkegårt __	homebody demise I imagine there is some dreadful scene displayed behind the door of the silent apartment, the one that used to resound with screams, and now has suddenly gone silent I used to tiptoe past the door, embarrassed for its contents, not wanting to, by my noise, include myself or trespass on misfortune. stepping silently across their welcome mat, I’d enter my apartment and now I tiptoe past their door as though the screams continued. I grit my teeth and creep like an accomplice. I do not picture that they’re dead, but gathered at the peephole laughing silently and watching   Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__ __________________________________ primate the way the wind courts sound fits your semi- victorian sensibility it doesn't need liquid articulation by former members of heavy metal: it says itself onomatopoetically at night, and in the seventies, entities make lumbering attempts at echoing it doesn't need vestigial utterance the way your androgenic hair describes the hemisphere --- part world, part world away --- set off by air above, below the high totem of your face   Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__	job never died born in a funeral home full of speechless friends I walked in the dark, rubbed each body, applying make-up even to men. my life was dressing the dead. I took off my clothes and put them on them. some of the dead said no until mice made them naked   Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__	under the underworld we live on ancient ash hard figs brown oranges we've no connection to the past we understand direction we newly age, invent prophetic wrinkles (it's not the loss of life we fear we fear the loss of death) we are dead then dead again like worms pulled in half and halved again there is one season--- dead as dead summer about to die again we are communal (the super-greek, the hypo- moles, the morbidly deceased) community is not the same as sympathy--- joint, advanced practitioners of death beneath the world beneath beneath the world we practice and practice death death is our process we progress to death I don't accept bribes, I have no ins, I don't trust flattery flattery disgusts: you are not dead enough   Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__