Wednesday, April 18, 2007

NEW! 5 poems by Anya Cobler

Anya Cobler

Five poems


The breadth of this pile of pollen-drip day-
lilies, spread open to the sharp world, to
any passing genocide that may shut,
the wind pulling its parts out to rot at
the base of Earth. The man who they grow out
of, his arms not containing their full break;
he’s wash in talk about how for years now,
all he’s done is try to keep the outside
in, the outside in. He’s lost in a for-
gotten heat, ‘cause the two lost arts is dent-.
istry and house-building, as I am blown
over in his purple skin, repainted
by a sprint-flower that walks away now,
walking away from the bust, see ya babe.


You change, babe (pour chercher) velocity
will rip holes in grids. My behind stairs/fares
sliding down the hips of scree, hill by road
by works in the city. . . and then a green
paper plane in a red back. I hid my
breath in the dark V of its bend. I avenue
a future/tree-lined. Your bowels are deep &
open & sleek. and hunger by night. Who
knows the rove from Chauncey, the street-throbbing
wink-down plan-me: a tv screen tongueing
me knees in the floor. What that she bore is
just the deep parts of something very large.
Don’t whurry. One in droves and droves. Heard thru
the door, the wheel, wind, mills the night, heards, birds.


It was me and you in the terrible.
Old man black cycles past in his pyja-
mas thru the sleet or we cut him knees down.
But Jove is a river rat who finds the
floating pimps, sprays out not a letter, not
a pardon for the miserable life, a
howling dog in heat during your flood blank
night. You haf so joy, that when you laugh the
chord is quite sad; in Aug when it shines most
leperously, a thousand no-emit stars
show up out of boom town. Darken the gal-
lows, pray together away for their free-
dum. O my you. We did divorce my head.
His rat hole opening squats for a lid.


This red dress decorates me, it bleeds in
encloses, like the Tanzanian flag.
This corresponds to her and the hour of
flight, orchid black of tomorrow, a break
liberation, her flight picture: what you
have counseled me to do I have not done.
The green shrouding most poured I’d ever toughed.
Says mother, an anvil is always pierce-
ing my bladder, I shall not return o
seasons o silence like peace castles flees,
o hands in the man in the streets feeding,
which treats me so badly as I walk by
as if with a sword, as with skull raised I
should see the crust teeth white of tomorrow.


I made hen in the hoor lay, in my hoor
lay. Why am I output? A trail of my
mark mews about, then shrieks midday while do-
ing nothing. Mye ash do naught while I with
hoor lay, of thor, the horsehair pinks-a-pinks.
A-fore, lady, a-toon. Mind’s led you a-
loon. Was it from the nut. The wisdon of
nuts? From the boar--I lay in the hoor. I
lay as if a hoor. A heart-don tips tips,
cuts the muscles to their sin. Harbor the
sin-made hert in her moor. Moor. Moo. Not I,
not I count heads. Not nopevein. Watch her neck-
vein moo as the story, as the testi-
mony. Leaves her more talented than live.

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