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


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__

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 

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

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under the underworld

we live on ancient 
ash    hard figs    brown

we've no connection
to the past
              we understand    

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 
                     about to die again

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

is not the same as sympathy---
advanced practitioners of death

beneath the world beneath 
beneath the world

we practice and practice

                            is our process
                            we progress
                                to death

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

you are not dead enough     

  Lørpsliç Bierkegårt__