StarCat/CatStar

TWO POEMS
By harley lethalm
Under-TITLED (LYDIA ATTEMPT 1/3)
I won’t slip through your tragedy without first envying you. Lydia? Why,
darling of my deeps, are you not called Lydia? It is settled then, that when
I am horsed to the electric chair I will lick the icicles of falling neon
fingerprints – my fingerprints – that blow downward like typewritten
confetti, touching my ghost who waits in the burlesque spade to accept my
transportive bones. And my tongue will burn Lydia; it will be excavated
from my mouth that does not know aught but Lydia; it will survive as a
globular idol. Its shape will be Lydian. You are Lydia. I have loved Lydia
and at last when the Sun shrieks us all away come billions and billions of
years, there will remain that one important second where I loved you,
where you were Lydia, and the Earth will rattle like a child’s bobbing head,
smiling and shooting out a tongue of my languished Lydian axiom.
Why Are You Genevieve?
We had played in the sorrel mouths of July
Freshets of teeth, noses, the basicness
Of youth
Where we gathered in smallish kingdoms (the tonsils
Of our Christian intellect jammed spiritedly into the
Gardenia)
Under trivialized amnesty of rust – for the monarchy is
Sometimes not so precious -
You pleasured yourself with the clenchings of a skirling branch
Which to-day is still wet: fifteen years later, the Prov. Journal construes a
permanent