Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 58
                                   
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february

the pill had the opposite effect
and I grew more depressed

in dream I was at my best,
remembering the small head

of my grandmother, substituting
one boy for the next

the sky which had revealed its under-
hue dropped blank instead

I wanted to wake up, but the day
did not return, did not, in fact, exist

  Lørpsliç Bierkegårt __
homebody demise

I imagine there is some dreadful scene
displayed behind the door of the silent
apartment, the one that used to resound
with screams, and now has suddenly
gone silent

I used to tiptoe past the door, embarrassed
for its contents, not wanting to, by my noise,
include myself or trespass on misfortune.
stepping silently across their welcome mat,
I’d enter my apartment

and now I tiptoe past their door as though
the screams continued. I grit my teeth and
creep like an accomplice. I do not picture
that they’re dead, but gathered at the peephole
laughing silently and watching

  Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__
__________________________________

primate
the way the wind courts sound
                fits your semi-
         victorian sensibility

it doesn't need liquid articulation
by former members of heavy 
metal: it says itself 
          onomatopoetically

at night, and in the seventies,
entities make lumbering
         attempts at echoing

it doesn't need vestigial utterance             

the way your androgenic hair describes                       
the hemisphere   --- part world, part 
world away --- set off by air above,
                     below the high 
                  totem of your face

  Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__
job never died

born in a funeral home 
full of speechless friends 
I walked in the dark, 
rubbed each body, 
applying make-up even 
to men. my life
was dressing the dead.
I took off my clothes 
and put them on them. 
some of the dead said
no until mice made them
                         naked

  Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__

under the underworld

we live on ancient 
ash    hard figs    brown
                           oranges


we've no connection
to the past
              we understand    
              direction

we newly age, invent
       prophetic wrinkles
                            

(it's not the loss of life we fear
we fear the loss of death)    



           we are dead   
           then     dead again 
like worms pulled     
           in half    and
           halved again

          

there is one season---
         dead as dead 
                              summer 
                     about to die again


we are communal  
(the super-greek, the hypo-
    moles, the morbidly 
                     deceased)

community
is not the same as sympathy---
                                    joint, 
advanced practitioners of death




beneath the world beneath 
beneath the world



we practice and practice
                                    death


                                    death 
                            is our process
                            we progress
                                to death



I don't accept 
                  bribes, I have no
ins, I don't trust
flattery 
           flattery disgusts:



you are not dead enough     

  Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__