October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
All women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain, and now they stand as dismembered webs. It is not just this rain, it is the rain set thinking by musicians. The rape of a dustpan against the wall. All women in their tiredness notice the loose electrical plate. The equality of thunderbirds. Sixty centuries of exploitation is the zucchini of logical astronomy all women have suffered, and all women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain. The macho moon in bits of light. But girls will scratch your heart with grandmother’s citrus.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
My heart is a stopwatch shuddering and burning to death. It is a one-hundred-year-old nutcracker inspiring me with her scintillations at the Christmas table where the moon unwrinkles. Those of you who are now persecuted, what gods and what madness brand your century with the espionage of unoccupied faces under the blue sword? A crisp garden scene beds where the shadow bled from couplets to vulture in a train blackened by the sex meteors coloring my peace. Smoke knocks on the planets: hammering and woeful rust. Now we smudge out a mosquito, reddening John Barclay’s Pauline commentaries.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Black ice of the moonrise hangs like a cold steel nerve of brass-white charcoal, but there is unrest to the electric sparks of its brilliant golden spill! All of our red chromasomes get older, O nocturne of the anti-war cherry breasts. The dial-tone is the best thing, the green onion slices on a plate like six heart attacks, in the nocturne of the anti-war cherry breasts. Nectar of the Mozart Requiem is a sapid portrait of the artist in block print, the muscles of the sea, and nothing else but a rash nocturne of the anti-war cherry breasts.
