And the manna fell from the sky
You rascals,
be filled with an inspired
intoxication. Make it a divine
drunkenness. You, making the dead
alive again with the sad staring eye.
They are losing their dignity.
It was for the life of the majestic
that I wanted the words to be just right,
to breathe life into the deathbed
and feeling like a half-assed Tahitian.
Your darkness is a luxury,
you want people to play by the rules
and when you get what you want,
you no longer want it.
Then, the rules are meaningless.
Always wanting so much,
using the sorrow that you have,
to understand the early sorrow,
that which you inherited.
You try to be small and declarative,
wanting to leave hidden meanings
between the gaps. It was more
what you didn't say, than
what you said. you implied
that I loved her more
than you, my Sunday girl.
Maybe I did, but only for
a little while. It is you
that I always come home to, remember
Catherine? Sometimes, I grow
tired of you both.
It was then that I vowed
to never tell anyone ever again.
I never wanted you to do
her things, even though
you know her ways so well.
I wanted you to be you
and not a copy of another
person. Is that too much
to ask? Making small discoveries,
escaping my duties
and being bored with
a talking mouth. I can hear you,
but I can't feel you
any more. She has a slightly
discolored eye.
Throbbing
you swallow up the oblivion
the glass of shrouded thicket
cuts into the dismal past
like new murdered thoughts
the crows stroke the foam
they watch as it comes
topless twirls all girl
all cry and fingers
wrapped around the taunt
drifting undulation
a communion of thigh and chime
pouring chariot frenzy
you are a deadly marionette
a red smile of addiction
chosen closed window
your tendency of compromised snippets
begins with a long dead god
at his feet are the oppressed
and we choose to stand apart
to break free from your rules
they no longer guide us
we have found them to be filled with error
and misunderstanding
only a fool would enslave himself to such stupidity
your charms have no effect
see the sword in my hand
I will cut you in two
send you running to your mother
she waits for you in the darkness
crawl back into her womb
and make a home of flesh and fear
these two shall rule you
as you dwell in the underbelly
that white pinkish flesh
of morbid self-fascination
Above the Fluid Self
watch the wave move
mindless is your derision
the thankless shuck
of a half-willed catcher
grafted by the touch of pressure
the lives of mass appeal
hugging the body
bent on destroying
an avalanche of dreams
odd time signatures
dance in my head
always pre-sentient
in the greater disruption
and you with
full frontal perfection
as backward fades and pinups
I watch as you walk away
your perfume weaving spirals
afflicting the senses
with your hard spun reflection
you are a molten surprise
the sparks ignite all
I am left merciless in your wake
alone in my rented room
complete with monkish ghosts
finding myself deeply divided
between this life and the next
watching the moon outside my window
silent in its romantic patterns
to know this dangerousness
watching you undress in the queen’s mirror
flinging myself into your arms
head first rush into the sensual
against the bleating goats
they know their time is short
and we soon will meet on the eleventh floor
there you reveal purity’s lie
The Glue No Longer Holds
you pull it apart
the seams cry out
for an unresponsive mercy
spilling over the walled masks
in a decade of sunken down
no more strength for love
no more glory in the shadows
string the wet into dry
on makeshift hopes and dreams
a terracotta putty
resplendent only for awhile
pulling the wings off of flies
your kindness is so cruel
so unfeeling against the tide
like a wall of indifference
the sun shines through
the hopeless window
onto nothing
only unkempt lives
trying to find a way out
from the mountains of tragedy
as you try to squeeze
every last drop of meaning
sharing your despair on the internet
in little pockets of video
the sunglasses add to your illusion
a fabulous package
you market to commonplace
the shared misery
maybe they can relate
Glen Lantz is 47 years old and lives in Dubuque, Iowa. He has a BA and a MA in Sociology from the University of Northern Iowa. His work has appeared in 10K Poets Zine, Bad Marmalade, Calliope Nerve, Clockwise Cat, the Curious Record, Deep Tissue Magazine, Ditch, the Dubuque Area Writer’s Guild 2009 Anthology Music & Dance, Full of Crow, Heroin Love Songs, Lines Written W/ a Razor, Lost Souls in the Fishbowl Anthology by Subculture Books, Madswirl, the Plebian Rag, Poetry Now, and Zygote in my Coffee.
Glen’s book “Boiled Tomatoes” is available as a free download, HERE.
Glen is co-founder of 10K Poets and the managing editor of 10K Poets poetry magazine “Deep Tissue Magazine.”
You can find more of Glen’s work, HERE.
