Eyeless atmosphere’s lust to open, inhaled…
The poem’s body.
And soft as stairs whose steps extend to
Cover my words finally as flesh so sweet. Door:
Each floor is a shaved bed and each piece of broken
Light on the crown, northern and left-brained,
Of my shrinking, bright, and enslaved to fragile logic,
Shaped gate to the old heaven,
Smiles primordial steam
From its swamps’ membranes, lidless pineal gland,
As horseflies land, externally,
Onto the wombs
Of pencils from inside New Orleans morgues.
O precious door dripping with the dew
Of the view from my cave, why can’t you talk
As you open?
Why do poems moon from your womb?
So many heaven-phallic virgin births under Muse’s wing!
As she sits outside herself, huddled in the corner
Of the shower floor,
Your helpless lips,
Of veins guard your entrance
Where you are always a precious mouth,
To surround the virgin world’s opening
Before your kamikaze dive
Hits the face of the water. I wanted to be alone
Instead of just a part of your departure from content.
Mark Fleury is a poet and stay-at-home Dad in St. Paul Minnesota.His poems have recently appeared in Transcendent Visions, The Storyteller, Ruah, Ceremony, Poet’s Haven and Down In The Dirt. He also has a chapbook entitled Spirit Light Naming Sound published through Scars Publications and Design. Fleury also published three poetry books through Scars, In Your Heart, the Apostrophe’s Teardrops of God (2010), Angel’s Syllable is Good Boss of Devil’s Spine (2011),and The 4D Window (2012). Mark considers his poems to be surreal, projective verse.