Monday, August 16, 2010

Denis Robillard

Medical Exam, age 38
The doctor’s office is
a somnambulists soliloquy
revolving in a gelatin eyeball
not fit for Necromantics.
I’m half naked and strapped to “the chair”.
Waiting for my own little execution.
Doctor’s exams, I’m told
are always cold and impersonal.
In a few minutes,
a man whom I don’t know,
wearing a snow white smock
will be asking me to cough
and grope at my manhood
in the same impersonal manner in which
he was reaching for his morning
cup of coffee
his dreamy stethoscope
impinging upon my shy skin
searching through the fat folds
of my stomach and burrowing deeper
than my embarrassing
mechanical meat gurgles
that have remained at the surface.
“Pathump, pathump...”
The shy poet’s heart echoes back
flipping and turning inside
the monitor like an abused weather vane.
Dolphins at Marine land.
These irregular aortic lines
resemble a star cluster of fighter ships
joining a vast robotic fold
against a black hole backdrop
I’m lost at sea on this cold, cold
the black prow of the
white liner looking
for open water.

Eternal Snow Globe
I’m tired of wearing glass slippers
all the time around you and
having to account for
everything I say and do.

Take these words back with you
like a special delivery package
lay them gently upon your lap
and unfold them word by word

until you arrive at the beginning
again for the very first time.

I want everyhting to be an eternal
money back guarantee Christmas snow globe.
Burning Beauty

With the machinery of day finally quiet
I ponder the moments, these days
become a postulant of heresy
break all the values in
my magnanimous heart
barter my old habits
in exchange for skin
throw ballast
into the frugal wind
become a participant
in the timeless adoration of your looks,
your Lux, appreciate
the weapons
of your beauty for what they truly are.
I flounder before you
like a vestal crab pinch
at the blue Kryptonic air
reach for a simple truth
found on your perfect body.
I’ve already thought of doing secret things to you.
The bush telegraph of desire makes holes
and my ganglions do not lie.
Burning, burning.

Your beauty
is the imprint of a newly minted coin
that I must learn
to circulate again.


Roading, roading, roading
Wheels turning stones
Over back seldom used roads
Eyes roaming fields
Scanning for Riel and the boys
Another Frog Lake Massacre in the mind.
Gentle mind roaming at points.
A dry compass to pin prick
And hover into water.
I’m thinking about her clear blue eyes
An unseen lake never found.
A magical intersection
But sometimes only detritus and dirty leaves
But I must go
Re-orient my memory to solid land
Or go forever insane off roading.