Emerita rathbunae

18 Sep


Emerita rathbunae


there’s no crackerjack literature coming

and I’ve spilled beer on my typewriter

once again, and once again

the poet sighs and wonders why

you always describe me with the letter “g”

both adjectives and nouns (and verbs sometimes, as well)

gloomy, grumpy, great

gelding, gilded, groaning slightly

siren speak to me again

or have those shipwrecks lead your head astray

kept you distracted, reading lesser writers

a beached, tumescent paperback in hand

coarsened by salt air and sleeplessness

and as you turn the pages to find the avidly burlesque

sand slips off the paper like a teddy after a complimentary third date

and all of a sudden you realize

that the little fellow is holding on tightly to your leg

agog along the only deific path

smoothed over not by years

but by shitty gendered-colored razors bought cheap at local drug stores

and though you see that he weighs heavy

the product is always worth the baggage

and there’s surely plenty whimsy

to fill two hospice beds some decades long from now

along the coast of some new supralittoral European burghal

keeping their burghers tidy

politely colliding skulls together like an amiable greeting 

but, thankfully

I won’t be around then and neither will be any worthwhile words

the new ones will only dress up like pretty chirography

and wait to be kissed by handsome hands

adorned by silver and white gold

hiding tanlines and affections

and yet the little fellow

despite knowing

he holds on tight

to wait for it all to come to pass

while I feverishly lend books out spiting hope

to slow the clichéd ebbing roll

while the next lines of the next piece

that I was writing thanklessly

get washed away by beer

spilled on my typewriter

damned to have another daughter coming



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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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