Lorca Doesn’t Respond to my Texts Anymore

crystal petals of an extinct flower
floating in the bathtub
by the neon light
from across the road

an eyeball in an anus
watching me with contempt
through the mirror on the wall
me waiting for a wink

savory-sugar ironness of blood
passing through the lips
into the pail of the sink
another nightmare made in flesh

I was once that bastard
lying in the grass
eating all of the worms
breaking the backs of adders
to suck the poison from within.

Heart Flutters as a Leaf

I desire your Love so much
that if I were to finally receive it
I would probably not believe it

or I would shatter into so many pieces
that the Architect himself could never
reassemble me

and you would be stuck
dragging your clitoris
across my fragments
trying to reach satisfaction

so please
be gentle with me

and I will try
to be gentle with you.

Blood Monkey

In a minor way

What had to be said

A triad
Of God’s love
And rebonded again

And I love
At random times of the day

And I feel that love
Running through the pain in my neck
The cavities in my teeth
The veins of my meninges
The glaucoma blurring my vision

A love that needs to be fed

Feed the blood monkey
And hope for good luck

Daedalus Who?

If I can survive a day
I might live a week
If I can survive a week
I might live a month
If I can survive a month
I might live a year
And if I can survive a year
I might just live long enough
For the grey hairs to sprout

It’s like thunderstorms:
How nice it is to know that somewhere
The Earth is getting on with things
While you sit there
Worried about being hit by lightning
God is Frankenstein
And you are his Monster

Prometheus searching out fire
But the rain has put it out

Icarus and his father should’ve flown in the rain
They might’ve stood a better chance

But not me
I only have a week to live
Or a month

The Sweet-Talkers

The sweet-talkers act real smooth
selling you things you don’t need, or
things you already have, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I asked one of them: why do you do

It all anyway? And he said to me: do
you think I like doing it? And while he said it he just smiled right back
at me. He was gross. And nasty. And smelt of death. But by golly did
he talk smooth. And sweet. Always

Picture a kingdom that is the opposite of perfection.
A kleptocracy run by kakistocrats. That was their homeland. And
we helped turn it into a Cockaigne.

Harris Coverley has had verse published in Polu TexniCalifornia QuarterlyStar*LineSpectral RealmsCorvus ReviewAriel ChartTales from the Moonlit Path,Danse MacabreOnce Upon A CrocodileThe Rye Whiskey Review5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.

Posted in