John Grey 2015-05-23T18:35:52+00:00

John Grey


 

HYPOTENEWS

 
“seeing-as-how-you’re-gonna-be-going-out”
{that’s people again)
a crowded rocket ship on course for Andromeda
a dream or maybe a thousand other circumstances
Almighty Octopus Country of the Merciless Supercomputer Vipers –
always hold the eye – its contents – my father would say
always hold the eye by its innards
and eyes are at the center of the network
and I’m next door to the chamber of the
and people stop and gawk
and tears, the great seer
at slivers of eye
bearded lady or when I’m poring over Burroughs
better than hearts and souls and schemes
better than the newscasters from the
blinding, spaying radiation of an ancient television :
but apparently not tight enough.
but is she the dazzling Aphrodite twin sister
cigarette burns in the carpet, the crack in the wall
ever)’ lip suck, every nose nuzzle, every blue eye bulging
everything naked and useless is brown
front desk at the peace of mind studios
her dim-wit husband’s been seduced by a better man
her hand up your shirt and her
hold the eye – the eye –
I am in hock to his knock when I’m delving
I live with a woman who sits up nights enduring the
I live with her
idealistic crap and the fact that of all the notions
impales me on a letter
in my head and my heart and the alcohol with, its
Intergalactic prankster in dirty sweats pepper beard
is brown is brown is brown is brown
is my sister bawling on the telephone because
it ain’t easy to pick up what’s inside I tell her
it’s been raining brown rain
it’s people from-Illinois who don’t know I give easy instructions
it’s the eye which is not even my eye
its this woman I can’t do without
I’ve been thinking
I’ve given my brain leave to evacuate my body
I’ve had about women I never once wished they all be lesbians –
just about to slip through the fissure –
leaden newspapers stacked up against the wall
licks the back of me like a postage stamp
like all good Karma, it shows up in the hot-dog
like corpses, who lives amid annihilation
love her for what’s inside –
my books and my deranged guitar and the lesions
my father would say:
my lover says
never hold the eye by the eye –
never love a woman for her face…
not even my quest but the great empress of
not when it accidentally drops like this
not when the eyes are brown
not when your pocket’s stuffed with her
now I am in hock to’ Stalin the landlord and his
now I live with a woman who can never be happy
now trying to do without me
now why can’t you do it alone, I’m asking
of all his dead sons, who wants to be part of
of snow melt with a sign cautioning about the
of things that tear
or just the nag-cloud and the dull tempo of
out of its socket like ifs the next messiah
people mostly, people who show up everywhere
phones with their invisible people,
prime exhibitions of private madness
ridges swaying and swinging in the wind and
set, who keeps files on soap opera love trysts like she’s the FBI,
she’s conversation about Nina Simone tunes
she’s water in the desert of dry lonely moments
six-headed mirror assassin and the sheer buggery of
sometime next October
tarot reading harridan, to the shredded drapes, to the
temporarily — the eye like
ten buck note and her shopping list and
the asshole climbing up out of dark meres
the exploding glass eye
the eye was clenched to my eye:
the eye was wet
the greasy cook in the next-door diner
the idea of escalating his awareness
the last seductive winking eye
the oaks in the park are brown
the rain beside me
the smashing on the sidewalk eye
the tan of her heaving stomach is brown
the throne in the sky is brown
then going to its gutter hell.
then mails me to the planet Saturn
through the porno sideshow in search of the
to assiduously swipe the sweat from his forehead –
to better apprehend pride and greed and desire and…
unveiling the vision
who inform me the station is closing down
who makes sure you know that there really is no out
who trades hi great tongue
who’s counting?
without any real content, like muzak, like flesh and
you vote yourself out of the great democracy of need…

 


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Big Muddy and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.



Issue 1.0 Table of Contents