Sunday, May 21, 2006


Love chafes off my edges
like old brittle paint
falling in pieces of hooker green
on the bathroom floor.

I am devoid of touch,
hollowing at the center;
spank strike me with a spoon
and you can hear me echo.

The dust in the old room settles,
like first lips, gingerly on my skin.
It’s like age materializing,
faces reappearing after the fact.

Lorca dreamt me tonight.
He spread my legs
across the streets of Cordoba
and asked me to call his name.

I yelped until I went hoarse,
tickling the letters with my tongue,
rolling them over like a nipple
on toothless gums.


katy said...

i praise you enough to be justified in the occasional critism. while the line "spank me with a spoon" made me laugh, it undermines the intent of the poem overall.

on the other hand, i love the loraca stanza. it's superior and powerful.

arch.memory said...

Hurray, my first critism from katy! You've certainly more than earned it, dear (I just hope it won't be a spew of them ;)
I was actually thinking of "clank" initially, as with a jar, I just thought "spank" is kinkier, especially when it's so disproportionate as with a spoon ;) But I do see your point.

katy said...

the changes work.