Adam Fieled (editor, Plymouth Meeting, Pa): "Apparition Poem #1342, 1352 (for Jenny Kanzler)"
What I see in hers is
mixed greenish silence,
somewhat garish, it’s
past girlish (not much),
but I can’t touch her
flesh (set to self-destruct),
anymore than she can
understand the book
her cunt is, that no one
reads directly, or speaks
of, there’s no love other
than “could be,” but I
think of her throat cut—
that’s her slice of smut.
......................................................................................................
Then, there was this—
the creepy sense that it
had all been nothing
to you (everything being
nothing, no one being
anyone, nothing being
anything), & that you
had your own set of
spiders (exquisite or
not) to cast out into
the world to do your
bidding, so that betrayal
was never far from your
blood-rotted, starvation-
besotted, pistol-plotted
mind. And so it was.
That slightly nauseous
green, your paint insignia,
was in your aura, too,
so that blooms of youth
became lands of the dead,
& your domain was as
much visionary deadness
as mine, yet ready to do
real, nauseous, disastrous
evil in the world. I don’t know why.
© Adam
Fieled 2010, 2025
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