This is a dark street, very big.
It has many cellars;
I stand in a quiet corner under a doorstep,
I must make more children.
A policeman stands in his shell
Bent under a bundle of crime,
His teeth are chattering like a poor leper’s.
He also is in the moon’s ball.
I am aware of an absence, presently,
Growing inside me, chalked-handed,
My belly does not move;
I eat my way to a fat sort,
Food smells in a potted chamber.
Here is a cuddly mother.
Little humble love though;
It is warm and tolerable
In the bowel of birth;
A stony hole. He is to blame.
I find no face but my own,
It is good for me,
For thirty years, poor and white.
I tried praying for forgiveness,
But God chuffed me off like a non-believer.
The child in the white crib revolves and cries,
His little face is carved in pain
Hungry for my breast.
We touch like cripples.
I am nun-hearted and blind to the world,
It does not injure my attention;
Is this love then?
O heart, exit like kisses.
The dark moon shadow stalks me down,
Its dust bags of light scar me;
In a touch, flesh, bone, blood quickens,
I pick off the worms, drunk from a lick.
I walk the night, haggard through the
White street lamps, singeing filaments
Cataract my eyes. Obscure vision
Corkscrewing down storm drains. And the
Shadow, like a black wolf, each paw on
Me a brier; my doom consummates a bodily need;
It snares me, hungry, hungry. It eats
To satisfy a need, I am gutted to an undertaker.
Blood floods to a spot, purple; the rest of me
Is whitewash board, stiff as I crawl down a sidewalk.
Its tread is a weighted enemy, my heart shuts,
It peels me like linen; its breath anesthetizes and shoves
Me into a bad dream. It feels like hell;
Charred and ravened in snarled thickets of ash.
I disappoint them, I pray for a heaven,
To a god. This earth I rise from, let my soul writhe in like dew.
I am stepping from this skin, featureless into eternity.
Copyright © 08/14/18 lance sheridan®
for touching my life in ways you never know.
Smell of night, mumble-pawed, teary and sorry
Drifting into a cupboard of chairs, food, dishes;
Patrons unloosing their jaws for a meal,
Mouth after mouth to a purpose;
In-between a smile, etherizing their square white heads.
A curtain of neon-lights exhausting the dark,
Hunting the shadows while quietly humming;
A colorful veil that molds to its face,
Its mind is searching, the moon is no door.
The noble gases bury it like a wounded knee.
At the dead end, the pushers bonging on their white sticks,
Tremulous death at the end of the line for a user;
Their lives are snapped out of breath like a dead eyelid.
Black veils on a family smell so sick;
Here they come in their hysterical hearses.
The night will not be got rid of, it closes the old day chambers
And the gullible sun-heads shaking hands with the long horizon;
It is dark weed silk, and the blind will not notice,
Yet, they will take off their veils tacked to their pupils;
Everybody is nodding a square black head.
After the publication of your poems translated on my blog, Francesco Marotta, a well-known Italian critic / poet, has noticed and admired you. He asked me to be able to obtain an ebook with some of your poems to let you know about your work in Italy, I have translated a fortnight, but before closing the job I would like you to authorize me.
I have the highest regard, dear friends, for your continued support of my work- through your follows, your generous comments, and your likes. Thank you, Lance.