My neighbor, Donald from surfside bums,
now recuperated into the Christian manifold,
is conspiring to build a wife from his prostitute.
She will mate with him endlessly,
digesting fire and smoke and seed,
and he will haul her to his church by a hitch.
“We have to be equally yoked,” he states,
“as Christians; and no drugging, no other men.”
They’ll gossip on rat backs when this couple
arrives, but the women will outreach:
Oh honey, we want to help you.
The men will eye her breathing, being silent
but for sleepy jibes between car doors after
He’ll build her. He’ll ascend on her.
They’ll smell her perfume and his come
when he sets out the whore on their kneelers
pew, in service, before the good churchers,
and they’ll hold hands and sing, offering
her prostitute soul to the improbable spaceman.
Deluge of Desks
Now hawking day for all modes of work,
you haunt as camphor fumes over breaths,
yelling beneath deadly assurances of time.
No long span of parched day
can collect in such a manner as day,
no work as stimulating a form as day,
yet doleful papers are dulled in print,
spells creased in envelopes—
let the receivers graze on receipts,
let the grisly hours echo.
Now spending moments in the stomachs of
chairs, articulate, loved, modern, you
work as you must, and let so few pulses
escape their dreary box.
Copyright © 2009 Ray Succre
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in a variety of publications across dozens of countries. His novels Tatter-demalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. An ebook of poetry, Other Cruel Things (2009, Differentia Press), is currently available for free online. A third novel, A Fine Young Day, is forthcoming in Summer 2010. He tries hard.