Poetry International Poetry International
Gedicht

Fran Lock

Poem in which I attempt to adequately explain my process

Poem in which I attempt to adequately explain my process

Poem in which I attempt to adequately explain my process

Poem in which the sound of rifle
fire comes back at me like canned
laughter; where love is a fourletter
cautionary pain.
 
Poem in which a sour grief
grouts the mouths of maiden aunts,
who count their keepsakes out
like calories.
 
Poem in which the old cripple’s
Bombyx fists are burst on the low
corner of a tea table; where funerals
are manners, ramekins, napkins,
and a picture of the Late Pope.
 
Poem in which I cannot sleep;
wear faith like a verdict, blacken
the blackest Friday in recorded history.
 
Poem in which my suicide-cousin
gave it away to the stupid utopian
ponzis of God, his chronically
bothered Christian Science.
 
Poem in which the kitsch pity of ex-
lovers does my head in; in which I
walk the streets, banging my loss
like a one man band.
 
Poem in which I do not need
your pale carnations; where I
am prodigious with lilies.
 
Poem in which Saint Michael
appears in the rear-view,
a headbanging klepto in biker
boots, swinging a brick in his fist.
 
Poem in which madness
makes the heart grow thunder;
in which I have a look
that could spoil ointment.
 
Poem in which I am schtum
as a straight razor; in which
speak of the devil and he
will appear.
 
Poem in which yours is a terror
and mine is an incident.
 
Poem in which I dress for a
fetish: latex plaything; in which
my mouth is a crack in
a windshield, spreading.
 
Poem in which we open
the boy like a paper fortune teller.
 
Poem in which some detrimental
shit set fire to a dog in the rural
night.
 
Poem in which we glean reprisals
from radio static.
 
Poem in which a priest blares
flack and grace like a ruptured
stereo.
 
Poem in which oh God,
the ache in my arms; the flat
the flat finesse of medication.
 
Poem in which a down day
dragging its clubbed foot.
 
Poem in which a man’s hands
move like a heat wave.
 
Poem in which fuck everything;
the stiff bewilderments of experts.
 
Poem in which I am incorrectly
diagnosed; colossal folly in the flesh.
Again and again and again.
 
Fran Lock

Fran Lock

(Verenigd Koninkrijk, 1982)

Landen

Ontdek andere dichters en gedichten uit Verenigd Koninkrijk

Gedichten Dichters

Talen

Ontdek andere dichters en gedichten in het Engels

Gedichten Dichters
Close

Poem in which I attempt to adequately explain my process

Poem in which the sound of rifle
fire comes back at me like canned
laughter; where love is a fourletter
cautionary pain.
 
Poem in which a sour grief
grouts the mouths of maiden aunts,
who count their keepsakes out
like calories.
 
Poem in which the old cripple’s
Bombyx fists are burst on the low
corner of a tea table; where funerals
are manners, ramekins, napkins,
and a picture of the Late Pope.
 
Poem in which I cannot sleep;
wear faith like a verdict, blacken
the blackest Friday in recorded history.
 
Poem in which my suicide-cousin
gave it away to the stupid utopian
ponzis of God, his chronically
bothered Christian Science.
 
Poem in which the kitsch pity of ex-
lovers does my head in; in which I
walk the streets, banging my loss
like a one man band.
 
Poem in which I do not need
your pale carnations; where I
am prodigious with lilies.
 
Poem in which Saint Michael
appears in the rear-view,
a headbanging klepto in biker
boots, swinging a brick in his fist.
 
Poem in which madness
makes the heart grow thunder;
in which I have a look
that could spoil ointment.
 
Poem in which I am schtum
as a straight razor; in which
speak of the devil and he
will appear.
 
Poem in which yours is a terror
and mine is an incident.
 
Poem in which I dress for a
fetish: latex plaything; in which
my mouth is a crack in
a windshield, spreading.
 
Poem in which we open
the boy like a paper fortune teller.
 
Poem in which some detrimental
shit set fire to a dog in the rural
night.
 
Poem in which we glean reprisals
from radio static.
 
Poem in which a priest blares
flack and grace like a ruptured
stereo.
 
Poem in which oh God,
the ache in my arms; the flat
the flat finesse of medication.
 
Poem in which a down day
dragging its clubbed foot.
 
Poem in which a man’s hands
move like a heat wave.
 
Poem in which fuck everything;
the stiff bewilderments of experts.
 
Poem in which I am incorrectly
diagnosed; colossal folly in the flesh.
Again and again and again.
 

Poem in which I attempt to adequately explain my process

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère