Poems by Duncan Hose

Elvo New Yorko
 
Lust      the toothless whale-jaw                    
open up       !Horse thief O’Grady
 
Angelhair we
                                                                            Tickled New York and its glow-
      Worm assholes from above
Rue de St. Curse
                                      Rue de Ear Muff, aortas
              Flickering with terror, terror of
A cheerful mariachi band that follows you and won’t quit like black
Balloons court in the birches on Bleecker Street
 
The greater achievement of the West    that    involved
                                             Me at least
Was holding the C14th hand of the Madonna for a day at the Met.
We forgave each other that is
                                                      She didn’t forgive me
Might I make a little tapenade
 
Of your spoils the bit of you I spoiled
Wake to find I have groomed myself to Death     
 
(Balal, o fodder: — anoint, confound, X fade, mingle, mix (self),  give provender, temper
The fig ripened at a pinch, that is ripened by pinching
Beelzebub)
I was swallowing
I was swallowing
   Iwasswallowing
   I was swallowing the coast
 
Sun comes on the swabbed   Deck as I
 
Sweare a circle around Manahatta
                                      Everything about a vessel is tension
                                                                                        These boards are bowed and so pact
United by thr. Desire to splinter
                                                                   That’s the check that keeps this
fucker together
                                HMS Logarithm
                                                                      Later and lost In the streets of Harlem
 
w/ the seventy-proof pride of being          Grandly Drunk   (we do these things alone)
 
 
 
                                                                 I think of Zelda Fitzgerald Facing up
                                                    To the carpets in the foyer                                   of the Plaza Hotel
Hi ,  Zelda-in-pyjamas         
might I share your snuff?
 
 

What Would You do
Without Me?    Explorer’s Lament.                       (Note found with the remains
                                                                                                   Of Humidore Wyatt.)
I woke up in Spittal and
       I don’t know how but
the morning moon is in the South and
              it  never is.  Odd.  And
Ugh.
 
Not hungover I count the skulls inthr. container
               Rolling like Pepperkorns
 
I have a tiny botanist’s aspiration
                 Close to your buds
The smell of you on your left side of me
      Is pure propaganda.
Why don’t we jig anymore instead of lugging
Blue potato bags is’t a
      Vast calumny?
 
O don’t starve yourself cottonlegs.
Winter breeds in the backs of trees   knit knit
  Winter composts hues, doesn’t it?
                   Hues and soups.
Note how there’s no
           Slang for piano           like
“busterguts”   or   “black mmoby dick”  or   “Consuela’s martyr”
 
I love this winter he’s
After saying  it maketh Time
       Consumptive.
 
I am in my tent.
   I ate my huskies
   but not the fur.
One last read of
    “cigar aficionado”
       magazine
  then  to
     Expire.

Liquor’s not like that
 
Liquor’s not lk that I said
              Digging in your skirt and learning thereby  banjo
     I understood the meaning of “braves”
Only in my freedom t’ fuck the whole world
 A great gnashing of britches
 
When          did        Tasmania        get       so
German                                        Anyway
Here we are in German Tasmania                         
Appeldorff,        Little Alp,        hills are randy
w/ tearful horses,      
                                       Hohenzollern barns engineer the air to chasten
horny grasses\
 
Nostos (Excuse me)            Put me to charge
Nostoi (Excuse me)
Satan flying west a returning hero
  Soft as Titian and as tender, straight
                          In to the lap of Saint Cherry Smythe.
Superb
                 Fooling with the red painttube I spilt
Abit “what do I do with is?”  you lifted your shirt
   I fingerput a red rabbit on your furksome ladybelly
 
Menstrula;  she’s laying her labours down
That tought sits there on the painting table a soft pear
Rimbaud still stares out of Carjat’s studio    at it seems me                    Hello Arthur
Shall we make madrigal? You shitty little monarch
 
Two mill. Kilowatt muse we make carpet ahead of us with roughs of your hair
Sunday’s shears — do nought but play me for the sounds of pleasure
Sex dough three split eggs carnal interview
Sherry Bee     my birthday bitch     my sunny church
                                                         Door my ticket booth attendant my warm
                      Mouthpiece at the hopped telephone exchange
 
    joy-pellet
Be my peace of fruit flying at the bus window
         & Thrown of childe’s hand      
                                                I don’t require the form of you just
the atmosphere of turnpike
                                                                                                                       Affection