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
Crippled
In a minor way
Saying
What had to be said
A triad
Of God’s love
Split
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
Or…
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
sweet.
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 Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, Corvus Review, Ariel Chart, Tales from the Moonlit Path,Danse Macabre, Once Upon A Crocodile, The Rye Whiskey Review, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.