Fully Formed by Jeffery Park

FULLY FORMED

It was just an idea really,

a fully formed idea in my head

corners, edges and planes,

smooth sensual curves,

warmish to the touch, responsive

to emotions like a mood ring

or a dog.

You could have put it in a box

at a party, asked party-goers to

put their hands inside.

What do you think it is?

Something artificial? Something

shaped, molded, fits so nicely

in my palm –

like a lump in my throat,

in my chest, a hard mass

down in my abdomen that could

be something dreadful

or just a momentary cramp,

but probably not, assuredly not

too terribly malignant.

End of Nights by Jeffery Park

END OF NIGHTS

It happened, as one might expect,

at the singularly worst possible moment

and in the worst imaginable place –

i.e. between the sheets –

as we were waiting and praying for the

second coming; happened exactly as

had been preordained, prophesied a

million billion eons ago, it was there and easy

to see and read and grasp every excruciating

little detail.

My boat was rocked, my mind was blown,

the earth moved, and not in a good way,

more in the planet-killing CGI epic vein –

Snowmaggedon, Crapocolypse and Shagnarok

all rolled into one jaw-dropping

chest-thumping nipple-twisting casserole

of existential anguish.

And there in the midst of the sweat

and rumbling and ultimate test-to-destruction

creaking of bedsprings I convulsed,

I retched, I bit my lips and clenched my toes,

all to no avail – you pinned me, pierced me,

butted me right in the temple –

I tried to cry for help but all I could hear

was my own shrill voice: the rapture! the rapture!

Look into my eyes, you said, what do you see?

Darkening fields, feasts of crows,

twilight of the gods.

Circutt by Jeffery Park

CIRCUIT

In the evening

hours after they’ve

finished dinner

as porch lights

blink on

they sometimes let

me out

to perambulate

along the gravel paths

avoiding

when possible avoided

always

by neighbors

who keep themselves

in their houses

listen for the

crunch

and occasional

squeak

glad they can

stay indoors in front

of their TVs

lights on

windows blanked

while I progress

ungainly

unhappily threatening

making

my solitary

rounds.

Human Skull in Space by Neil Ellman

Human Skull in Space

(atter the painting by Damien  Hirst)

Orion’s skull without a face

the contours of his cheeks

no color in his eyes

lightless orbitals

the hunter hunted

for his withered skin—

for him, the music

of the spheres, inaudible

for him, eternal night.

A Little Night Music by Neil Ellman

A Little Night Music

(after the painting by Dorothea Tanning)

As if in an old hotel with peeling walls

and doors like minds unhinged

we wander through its corridors

on groaning, creaking boards

somnambulists in search of songs

to wake us from our haunted dreams

we hear instead the music of the night

the clicks and chirps of bats on wing

the hiss and rattle of snakes

striking at our eyes

the buzz of fading incandescent bulbs

with the ceaseless drone

of invisible machines echoing in our ears—

and then the darkness speaking  

secret words that only we can hear.

Man Eating His Own Chest by Neil Ellman

Man Eating His Own Chest

(after the painting by Dana Schutz)

How delicious his own flesh

how much better than the meat of sheep

cows and venison

how much more succulent,, tender,

more digestible than the fattened liver

of a goose

more savory than an ox’s tail

how much more nutritious for

his brain and soul

how better to be so self-absorbed

with a beating heart

his own.

18th Birthday Prayers by Jeremiah Walton

With

the bed

unmentioned,

TV silence,

and backs

leaning chairs

The dry anniversary

of my birth.

Happy birthday kid

you're 18

no college notions

nor answers

Stare at the ceiling

because when you pray

your whispers are caught

pounding the roof

you spot a crack

and pray harder.