Five Poems by Wayne F. Burke

 

the ocean

awake all night

thrashing, thrashing

in my

dream

gas station

hands of my watch straight as an arrow: 6 o'clock in the

a of m--on the dot--wake and be damned ye sot. Get

dressed and go to the gas station, the last station, of the

cross; go ahead, boss; start your engine--a checkered flag

takes you in--begin. Lug nut, wrench, wench, screw driver,

pliers, jack, hubcap, carburetor, throttle--the master cylinder

hath spoken, hath woken--cam, axel, alternator, regulator,

wheel well--manifold are the ways of the station--in the

glove box seek the dove--Crankshaft is thy name: go forth

with mileage on high gear revving oh dubayew dee forty.

pour ay am in the lorning dawn

polar ice cap air down the globe crown

Saga

Her left breast in my hand; I tug at the nipple and it comes off.

A trout with human head flops onto the floor. It sucks at her

other nipple: our tadpole baby--it raises itself, in the River of Lust;

filthy, but so what? We dive deep, our feet in muck. After we fuck,

baby Jesus comes out her cunt. The three of us head downriver

on a raft. The baby is the best: sleeps all night and wipes himself.

We stop to rest beneath Niagara Falls; we bathe in honeymoon

glaze and live on stuporous dew. The glue of togetherness keeps us

warm.

Insomniac Thinking

Tomorrow I take out the garbage.

Black birds of sorrow in the garden of

Unremembered Dreams.

One life: a thousand deaths.

Killed a gnat in a murderous rage.

Talk between their pauses because they never stop (talking).

Unending bla bla.

Talk in their sleep.

Talk of the Taown (VT).

Bourgeois Tubby in Her Half-truck Owning the Road.

Indian restaurant CLOSED.

I have poisoned myself and am in need of an antidote--

surely not more poison?

3:30am Death-Watch

Dreams served cold on a platter--along with my head, apple

stuck in my mouth--lust creeps into the house of love, oh

Swinburne, oh dream-girl, inhabiting the dark, I remember when

you liked me, just a little, now and then: now your eyes are

dead clams snapped shut; your face a mirage that comes and

goes as my thirst increases onto death...Shadow of not-you around

the bed: shadow of what never was--imagined caress become 

agony, all delight fled. I am slain: take and drink of my blood,

Vampira: I embrace the end.

I am fliesch und blut; I am breath. I am feeling. Feeling what?

Mortal. What does that mean? Mortal?

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print (including in LOTHLORIEN POETRY JOURNAL). His newest book, a novel titled NO TAB FOR SULLY, is published by Alien Buddha Press. He lives in Vermont (USA).