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7 dream machines

iii. I woke up damn near in tears. I felt like a startled infant who could not quit crying. I had not started, was stuck like a television between channels on shrooms crawling between the walls. All I remember was Him and the nightmare man had the same twisted, burned down blackface. As I stumbled to the surface of consciousness the last thing–the first thing–after gasping awake–no. The images are chained to that man’s land, the elephant graveyard of my brain. The cling-to, the dried marrow in the bones suckling what is already anemic. I am not your melancholy baby or an atomic sex bomb ready to demolish God’s spoiled children. In a swooping fell my mood. My rare sapphire sickled into soul. My beat is splintered. I walk on shards leafing a loping trail of sap and blood.

22. I was a professional wrestler. I wrestled against Mickey Rourke. I kept winning. I defeated every opponent, all men. Trained in the Brazilian martial arts I was unstoppable. If you crossed me I would nail your sack to the floor and set the whole house on fire leaving you with a rusty butter knife. At day’s end I would drink my beer through a straw. While stroking the peel of a straight banana.

iiiii. In Kansas or Nebraska there are pure salt of the earth vaginas. In a place like Houston the bedazzled vaginas glitter gaudy but you feel them pressed against your back before you see them. The wet rope through the camel’s eye. The lymph pencil in the ear. And if there is tongue or teeth involved, the forecast is clear. Humidity will flirt with your mouth. And if your feet leave the ground, you just know.

89. I wake up searching for you in my tea dregs. You are there. An elephant dancing in a cervical wishbone. You wouldn’t stop kissing me. Your hair was short again and puppy soft. I was afraid to cline too close, to moat too uncoquettishly. Are you on my side? I tried to resist being subduced by your honey vugs. Even so I couldn’t induratize against the force of your cratons digging into my upper arms. My lips stay hopeful, begin to buzz with finfungality, like fruit rotting to be plucked from betwixt branches.

521. The sky heavy gloom could not erupt, picking its way through the room I’m writing in. Window is too opaque for a streetlight’s single glow. Silence leaves you longing, keeps you voice but I want the concomitant pristine chaos of the forest before the flames. The spentday storm never came but I want to tower over the trees. To nibble their parsley montagious tippy tops. Lazarus ruined, dirt dared to flourish ochre mother’s milk but I render the bone soil parrot shrill. I bask in the ashes. I need to be the smoke that thunders. I need to return to the volcano of my genesis.

31. You came to visit me. Barely in the door before our jonquils joined the musicality of ice melting, ink timidly disintegrating. I take pleasure in the pinch of the underwire. I felt all amethyst and emeralded. I let the silence slide and the damp steal beneath my equestrian socks. You broached my Ignation legs and we traveled a skeleton grove of prayers. I’ve never held your canary but I imagine how your innards. You hold me like a bloodstone and I just want to inhale you like cocaine cut with sweat. I keep my virtue close but my vices closer.

9. Does it turn you on? Do you like that? You’ve got the best mouth. I like those tits. You married? Please don’t tell me you don’t got a boyfriend. Where’s your man? Haven’t you ever been in love? Come here. You don’t have to pee, it’s supposed to feel that way. Promise me. If you tell, we’ll get in trouble. If you ever want to touch it–Don’t use your teeth. Did you? I had a dream we went to the movies. She told me she was always jealous of you. I want you. I want you still. I love you. Don’t you need love too? Unless you don’t want to be loved. Can I call you sometime? I can’t get your number? What’s your name baby? Stuck up bitch. Fat bitch. What if I told you I desired you a different way?

Posted 09/10/14
These poems are from my forthcoming book, Dream Machine (co-im-press, November 2014). Here's an interview I did with Paul Cunningham on the manuscript over at Montevidayo, http://www.montevidayo.com/i-want-to-write-poems-that-touch-something-chaotic-and-messy-without-destroying-myself-in-the-process-paul-cunningham-interviews-sade-murphy/
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