a tribute to Henry Miller
under my skin, what!
Aching feverishly,
ceaselessly, boundlessly.
Torrentially, my juices flow for You!
Oh Henry! Wanderer of cityscapes,
quixotic prophet of phantasmal resurrection,
magnetic angel of enchanted breath;
so brutally sexy
with your big mouth and bigger heart,
soul-piercing wordsmithing and self-regurgitations,
Taoist rants and pounding litanies,
and your soft and gentle soul
wrapped covertly in the mantle of your vitriolic prose.
What is it about you –
spending every last penny you get, no matter the sum,
loving every woman you meet, no matter how ugly,
sprinkling cold water on your dick
in the midst of a marathon fuck session –
that screams to all and sundry
'Now there's a man
who has the moment by the balls!'
who needs only to shift his grasp
to alter the course of time and destiny?
I think it's because
of the way you look:
As when you look at a face
or a flower, a wound or scar or deformity,
and see it whole,
with the same easy confidence
you'd use to run your fingers
down the creases of a woman's quivering cunt.
Spinning yarn, you'd call it.
Oh Henry! how you bubble up the magic
from the depths of your divine ambition,
the raging growl of your molting American spirit
saturating the coarse, scaly overgrowth
of all whom you envelop
with the viscous juices of your mad heroic plight!
And every presence you grace
is drowned at once in exclamation marks!!
The throbbing fury erupting at last
to scream our lost ethereal war-cries
above the senseless din of our delectable delusions,
that atavistic quest which rumbles so elusively
throughout the bowels and the womb.
Oh Henry! Perhaps
it is only a dream –
the Buddha was right! –
and nothing is sustainable
(as the bodhisattva in you once
remarked in the throws of a reverie).
But even so,
Oh Henry! How you resonate within me! Immortalized
not in words, but in the living
breathing, dancing, world-molding
inscribed and mummified
within the language you've expelled
to carve your destiny and visage
on the hallowed walls of Time.
Don't Stop!
Poetry by sasha khrebtukova
Read 978 times
Written on 2015-05-20 at 21:27
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Oh Henry! (Adults only)
Oh Henry! I've got youunder my skin, what!
Aching feverishly,
ceaselessly, boundlessly.
Torrentially, my juices flow for You!
Oh Henry! Wanderer of cityscapes,
quixotic prophet of phantasmal resurrection,
magnetic angel of enchanted breath;
so brutally sexy
with your big mouth and bigger heart,
soul-piercing wordsmithing and self-regurgitations,
Taoist rants and pounding litanies,
and your soft and gentle soul
wrapped covertly in the mantle of your vitriolic prose.
What is it about you –
spending every last penny you get, no matter the sum,
loving every woman you meet, no matter how ugly,
sprinkling cold water on your dick
in the midst of a marathon fuck session –
that screams to all and sundry
'Now there's a man
who has the moment by the balls!'
who needs only to shift his grasp
to alter the course of time and destiny?
I think it's because
of the way you look:
As when you look at a face
or a flower, a wound or scar or deformity,
and see it whole,
with the same easy confidence
you'd use to run your fingers
down the creases of a woman's quivering cunt.
Spinning yarn, you'd call it.
Oh Henry! how you bubble up the magic
from the depths of your divine ambition,
the raging growl of your molting American spirit
saturating the coarse, scaly overgrowth
of all whom you envelop
with the viscous juices of your mad heroic plight!
And every presence you grace
is drowned at once in exclamation marks!!
The throbbing fury erupting at last
to scream our lost ethereal war-cries
above the senseless din of our delectable delusions,
that atavistic quest which rumbles so elusively
throughout the bowels and the womb.
Oh Henry! Perhaps
it is only a dream –
the Buddha was right! –
and nothing is sustainable
(as the bodhisattva in you once
remarked in the throws of a reverie).
But even so,
Oh Henry! How you resonate within me! Immortalized
not in words, but in the living
breathing, dancing, world-molding
inscribed and mummified
within the language you've expelled
to carve your destiny and visage
on the hallowed walls of Time.
Don't Stop!
Poetry by sasha khrebtukova
Read 978 times
Written on 2015-05-20 at 21:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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