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09 July 2010 @ 01:04 pm

By D. A. Stafford

Touching tickles drop below zero and keep the goal
—hit the arrow tawdry talk televised: “how easy do you feel?”
Catch me quick like Mercury glassed: a greenhouse envy, weathered vanity:
Look at me, “I’m puzzled by the gram.” Taunting touch
And stomach ripples—hot is the arrow’s mark: punch a hole
Through gypsum wall: trick me, color me
Drain me of all my honey: write me, censor me: performing pantomime for my
Liquid helium: ‘she’s a super fluid escaping all embracing’
Dropping an explosive piña—hit me, feel me, point the arrow:
Skip the silence & overpass suicide threats:
Kill me with the glazed-over happiness: launch rockets up into the Sun
Explode the faith and allow me to tickle the clever box: know what needs me
Is what also feeds me: alliterate my literature, sign language all that I see:
The matter of the rain neon liquid trolling, laying claim: someone caches
What the moon has spread: “Kept it for himself is what he did.”
—cut me, bleed me, lap up my seed: point my arrow straight up at me:
Claim for yourself what it is that holds me: if I appear thrown out,
Reuse, recycle: I’m worth every ha’penny as I wander, exploring and tripping up
Through the shards of your all-too-broken heart.
28 May 2010 @ 10:07 am

By D. A. Stafford

Sickness desired & burning hair smelt
—she comes and I revenge the playboy horror
Designed to deface, I askew the psychosis:
"We are lovers in this circus – biting the bit & misaligning our parts into fiber bolts."
I want your killer and I want the falling down dream:
The turning pages of an ill-conceived practice
—she comes disjointed and prepackaged in her bathetic antipsychotics
Determined to miscarry, I French kiss the freak-out:
"We are killers in this placid bed – squeezing out the liquid remains from misappropriated hearts."
I want your throttle and I want the cage rattling:
The sickness of dejection & me underneath her broken personality menagerie—
21 April 2010 @ 12:36 pm
“Packing my Bags”

By D. A. Stafford

Cling you close (lie down & sound)
Be beautiful close
Like glass the harder we cry the more we crack
(Laid in sound) make it home where the smell
Is felt evaporated and clings holding my head
In a swimming ache (I murmur to myself)
Came apart there were seams here (I did not know she spoke)
Passed over eyes hearing your screen door close
And the rain sweeps in (fucked over)

Let in the sounds of comfort a womb-warmth within a car
Crash weather pours slicked roads and reflecting face
(Be beautiful close) and I’ll make it home to your lingering
Slip away the sheets stuffed with a pillow to represent you
(Lie down & make believe the sounds even closer)

You taste it wet
A face I tried to place and push away
I made a home a hearth that lingers (as per usual)
Where breath is frozen as a cloud
I remember the smoke (the suspended perfume)
And I thought
I’m being fucked over (as per usual)
17 April 2010 @ 12:16 pm
"I love allure; and I still wished for death:
It's plastic and fun; so, what's with the disasters?
To picture it now: clearly depicting hair-pulled-out grimace.
What happened to the famous? The Plastic Fashion
And high-priced God: still lured by cigarettes; slurred
By top-shelf howevers: from here on out,
It's me on the floor, flashing, flashing; and stars
Swimming through my head."

"Velvet Humor"

By D. A. Stafford
14 April 2010 @ 04:10 pm

By D. A. Stafford

Slippery feel : a billion fallen grains from now
While stars burst & pop : bubbled drinks & a slipped-off-not-soon-enough dress of blue
In rational : an equal ratio
Between here and the sea : a slap upon the wrist
"Can you please cut me free?" : "Could we please just fall into the sea?"
Where monster roam & fallen angel still ache : to splash & play, to forget all else that ills…

And away we break, to watch the rollers come forward, to recede back again, to tease us
For the hours that we've wished away, from the drink we've made, the permissions past,
While stars continue to burst & pop, to lead us away, far from the billions of
Grains of sand (we still had far too long to go)…

05 April 2010 @ 12:48 pm
“Showers That Bring Flowers”

By D. A. Stafford

As if brightness came, swept up into & past Winter’s slow wake.
It came as an intake: a Lilliputian chamber; four-roomed, it still ties down

Cycles back, to a repeat reap: waiting for God and those lowered eyes.
Past is the road, a swelled rapeseed leak: it spreads apart, speaks: “Trust is earned.”

“I, prophet, am.” Refute, now. Have the haunted say of things, from tomorrow’s past
Into a sorrowed, weeping road.

As if brightness came and said something obscured by clouds.
This is me, cruel & bubbling over: a sleeping wonderer
As if clutched by “my father’s hands…”

Creamed—and fine desserts: justly carried this way
Are the dripping wax sticks: all lumens passed off as mountains
In a succession of blood.
Bended face, painted Death: a single dot as I am taken to another.

Move a piece.

Dust forever.

And a snow-white horse.
She came, overshadowing a Gaelic song.
Red pieces instead of black. May he receive what she delivered.
If only to play, tongue-tie, even foreshadow.


I came from dead lilacs. I will not turn away. If only to take another. Another lover. A passing change, much like the weather between March and May. You are cruelty. You are a voice. A postmodern script gone entropic. Lost between the empty and the full. In a universe of only two numbers. Not even faith. Not even the pieces moving. Not even.

5. (revised)
He came to the funeral. He dropped the flowers. He said, “It’s fake. It is false.” That was all, as he headed through the arch. Off to the Unreal. The City—


(—was meant to be my lover.)
02 April 2010 @ 04:47 pm

By D. A. Stafford

Twinkling-Star, I will absorb into you what you want: your fantasies—

And you believe that end is to come: as you clamor, collide toward other particles:
Gigantic suns eager to explode; to leave a mess, dismantling your made-up paradise.

Falling-Star, I will come through: puncturing & setting fire to the paper tigers devouring you—

And you still hold with vice-grip intensity that this desire is undeserved:
Combining words with symbolic measure, your hand shudders: a fear set in imagined stone.

Dissolving-Star, I will the moment that your shards freeze: suspended—

And you cannot believe, still, that when faced with a friendly embrace, harm is naught:
Only that which will still walk be your side as you dream from escape to fantasy.

25 February 2010 @ 01:03 pm

By D. A. Stafford

When in Rome, I kept up with silence. I saw curiosity
Flying between where our sets of eyes should have been.
Come-lately, change the time with me: search to find…

The way we wound; pent-up surface tension: I saw shadows cast
Where no one now stands. Urging on, I should hear a dial tone,
I now only speak to she who, seemingly, no longer yearns for me…

When in Spain, I keep up with the drops of rain. I saw a finger
Phantomlike, beckoning to a spot, a place torn in time…where I should—
And if I were a king, I'd decree home to be that which searches to find me…

The way we found; signs & symbols—as if language
Could ever be that clear. Memory tried, my recollection is nil,
Only the touch of flesh still sings to those lustful lonely (such has me).
18 February 2010 @ 03:56 pm
"TAT-1 (Transatlantic No. 1)"

By D. A. Stafford

So phone me, you said
—I remain in silence

Last night,
I lost my brilliance; a faded recovery
Still claims me: in cable

Came to me: a billowing sail
And all that symbolic majesty—

Yet, you remain
Silent and changing clocks:
So far away: how I would call…

Claimed from me by sail & rushing sea—
All you said was, Phone me please

Last night,
I lost brilliance to another's face: so broken
I cannot recover: nor am I able to receive

Through the night, I lost all of the day: the mindless beat
Of a British tone—
26 January 2010 @ 12:04 pm
"The Music Maker"

By D. A. Stafford

It is refrain: repeat: middle 8
Lost on the floor of home: bridging the gap: where are we meeting?
Is it you I hear sighing?
Singing your name after the letters bleed—is it you?
Sometimes we love without focus: is it you who's laser guided?
Is it you pulling closer?—catching your bated breath on electrostatic?—
Upon the sharpest edges of the stars: it can only be you—
In refrain: chorus bridged: a middle 8's sensual sigh:
Is it you still lost in bed, between sheets?
Or did you wake in the middle, between twilight's brushing touch
And day's piercing stab?
Are you edging towards it still?—are you your father's daughter?
Are you still clinging to escape, empty bottles, your father's fatality?
Closing in and filling up: it is the plot, the body paragraph, the contrasting point:
Have we lost what had fallen?
Is that you I hear scribbling?—your name is blood:
I have seen proof from your songs: bated tones in rhythm & rhyme:
Have you written down your liner notes?
Still lost and falling: still meeting in retribution and kissing lies:
Is that your song I hear creeping forward?
Is that your amplitude envelope?—have you issued an attack?
I know you've been here: your decay is sustained: my release
Is the octave you've been seeking: the bridge that falls away—
It is refrained: fade out: chords of a minor beat—a coda executed:
Are you your pulling closer?—or pushing away?
Whichever, my score been struck: attacked, decayed.