Take it to the Mat
Barely lit and soft-edged
you will be mine.
Let me name you, pin you down.
You’re so pale, let me
put my mouth on you.
Everything is hinging,
thinking of the big things.
Three hours of inflatable madness,
the pube in the throat of the week.
Can we wrestle?
Let’s work this out.
Get in here.
I use these words
[Carnival ramps up I’m ready]
Carnival ramps up I’m ready
to hose down the sandiest dry spell
and crack the oyster of falling in love again.
Another damned half moon slid my coat
open then you started showing up in my bed
every week. I’d felt like a nun.
Still bless me anyway; I want more life.
Ishmael, the Simp
No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world
Do I dare sleep aside this tall harpooner?
From what vile hole has he come
below the throbbing and heaving sea?
His body is something I’d like to describe for you
This is a thing which carries more of true terror
Does shit disgust us by
evoking the primal fear of death
or is shit just gross?
Or is shit just one more thing we can’t control,
hopeless tasks like finding a single creature in
this whole wide world, whale or whaleman
To consume and be consumed
Bulging through the oysters
Full tilt rushing headlong and tossed?
The heart interferes with the translation
and I intend to feel it all
*a previous version of this poem appeared in Antigravity Magazine
Clark Bucko is a 43-year-old who lives and writes in New Orleans, Louisiana. Their work has appeared in Poor Claudia, The Portland Review, Haggard and Halloo, Antigravity Magazine and elsewhere. Clark is also part of the Tilted House editorial team.