The Blossom on the Loom
Some few glitter strands
Silver and red
Though your sweater is grey and old
The glitter of threads
A sparkle of tinsel
Innuendo in blue
And paradise gold
Your sweater is grey and old
Your sweater was sold where sweaters are sold, at a store
full of mothers, I'm sure, respectful figures
Who kept to the right;
Discoursed with their daughters,
and cluttered the store
Aside and along with some other few clothes,
It left in a bag of newspaper pulp,
with fibers of plastic recycled from bottles.
and cardboard discarded,
then printed, then logo'd and sent to the store
There are colors some women won't wear anymore
Indigo-yellows, white-chocolate-magenta
deep tulip, pink opal, fertility green
There are colors in which they don't want to be seen
The sweater envelopes and covers your skin
box slimming and apron and matronly hanged
soft and unwrinkled and perfectly made
Though I have a passion for none of these things
Show me colors in which you wouldn't be seen
rivers you cover to hide from your age
soft water gathered in opening fingers
wear me your sweater and pluck at its strings
Though your sweater is grey and old
it is sewn
In quick flits of iris
A glimmer of silver
Impressions of lilac
amethyst, rose
Your sweater is grey and old
Save the light it reflects
Which my pupil collects
And sees you in nothing
in cloth made of gold.
The Redhead Who Dreamed of Being Famous
O Heavenly star!
send no vibration
to labor forever
in pressure and heat and brownian motion.
Unleash and release
forever and ever,
forever in heat
no new generations,
brute layers of pressure
that slave at your labor
to only increase.
What humped undulation
Once thrust above your slow and pubescent thrum
Could burst clean from such heavy solar thickness
And lash at your surface with the freedom of a wave?
The furnace of your power;
a tyranny of eternal illumination.
Your dominion aglow,
the steady stream of your great atomic question;
these are the things you radiate into space
Your beams bear no weight!
They reek esoteric millennial waste!
Emit your aesthetic particular bright
and bend like an arrow flung from a string
angled and aimed for a gaze in a night
only to die when your excess arrives.
You are of the florid cosmos!
No dim signal,
predictable, chilled, and orphaned of travel,
could trumpet the throb of the furnace eternal
deep within your ecstatic blast.
No fervid goddess would ever bid we seed
her blistering garden,
then herald the wonder
at universal speed
Do not seek a legacy among your scattered beams
You are of yourself above us
Empress always,
Celestial Scion,
rapture and engine to heavenly things!
Some few glitter strands
Silver and red
Though your sweater is grey and old
The glitter of threads
A sparkle of tinsel
Innuendo in blue
And paradise gold
Your sweater is grey and old
Your sweater was sold where sweaters are sold, at a store
full of mothers, I'm sure, respectful figures
Who kept to the right;
Discoursed with their daughters,
and cluttered the store
Aside and along with some other few clothes,
It left in a bag of newspaper pulp,
with fibers of plastic recycled from bottles.
and cardboard discarded,
then printed, then logo'd and sent to the store
There are colors some women won't wear anymore
Indigo-yellows, white-chocolate-magenta
deep tulip, pink opal, fertility green
There are colors in which they don't want to be seen
The sweater envelopes and covers your skin
box slimming and apron and matronly hanged
soft and unwrinkled and perfectly made
Though I have a passion for none of these things
Show me colors in which you wouldn't be seen
rivers you cover to hide from your age
soft water gathered in opening fingers
wear me your sweater and pluck at its strings
Though your sweater is grey and old
it is sewn
In quick flits of iris
A glimmer of silver
Impressions of lilac
amethyst, rose
Your sweater is grey and old
Save the light it reflects
Which my pupil collects
And sees you in nothing
in cloth made of gold.
The Redhead Who Dreamed of Being Famous
O Heavenly star!
send no vibration
to labor forever
in pressure and heat and brownian motion.
Unleash and release
forever and ever,
forever in heat
no new generations,
brute layers of pressure
that slave at your labor
to only increase.
What humped undulation
Once thrust above your slow and pubescent thrum
Could burst clean from such heavy solar thickness
And lash at your surface with the freedom of a wave?
The furnace of your power;
a tyranny of eternal illumination.
Your dominion aglow,
the steady stream of your great atomic question;
these are the things you radiate into space
Your beams bear no weight!
They reek esoteric millennial waste!
Emit your aesthetic particular bright
and bend like an arrow flung from a string
angled and aimed for a gaze in a night
only to die when your excess arrives.
You are of the florid cosmos!
No dim signal,
predictable, chilled, and orphaned of travel,
could trumpet the throb of the furnace eternal
deep within your ecstatic blast.
No fervid goddess would ever bid we seed
her blistering garden,
then herald the wonder
at universal speed
Do not seek a legacy among your scattered beams
You are of yourself above us
Empress always,
Celestial Scion,
rapture and engine to heavenly things!
