I broughte Love into mi bed
I broughte Love into mi bed
Forto kissen al his hed
And eek his stronge hols an brest
His swete lip me liste best
But I aliche kissed alle
Of his partes gret an smalle
An I freode a fide-cok
Which in the hosen hydde, lok
I did upon his herinesse
Eek of yerd his holinesse
Which mi hole hert did prikke
Then mi ars he gan to likke
Mi love he likked sweteliche
Seyd "me thinketh right an wise
Eek delicious it wis"
(So seyde noon afore this)
We groped ech his oune rot
Gronede he, an kyked his fot
The hondes werk of Love was swet
Which in the derk we did complet
Mi herte lusteli brennynge
Whan I kneu mi Love cominge
Sede that we haden, gaven
Ne povres weren we
Ne did we on thing lakken
An riche are in charite
a mouth is a cute asshole
I like how you say bag
any word could be a hassle
you wanna wrassle?
yeah give it a jag
a mouth is I guess an asshole
can you pronounce garçon
can you mount a nag
any one man can be a hassle
but two are kings in ass castle
a dag, what's a dag
a mouth I'd call that an asshole
lose your last lasso
on a long zag
yes you too can be a hassle
but this alas'll
be no lasting wag
if a mouth is too much hassle
and two men too much asshole
they fell into phoenician. into me, and my gaelic ward. great pamphlets, morning. i write towards a quiet conference. towards or to ward (off). i put that away and look at the sky. the windows are eating us tonight. i don't look around too much, it's true what you thought. then it shall come down, quicker than a store, everybody remembers eleanor. i'm waiting for this sentence to be over. and this one, to see behind it. but here in about the same place. they carried their sorrow. now.
beauties of english, who took me. i saw - i saw (light).
has a hard time speaking
so writes prolificly
Hard to be the one to listen when I can't
the one to write when I can't write haven't written
I have red I am painting boughs sparkly twigs
waiting in a pretend air
static ancestral demon
postcard snow dell hibernal lichen
a postal moss a weeping hole exceeding star a white planet
a grief lick succor sorry SORRY
The hairy flies of spring, rubbing their hands together.
At least--well, why push the needle, or worry about tiles and carpets--I thought I was going
somewhere, and then
To be here -- to speak to you, dead-eyed participant, Wake up and leave, look around you. I'll
keep here in the meantime, to see what I can find, to see -- gone
The moment's gone. The writing, contemptible. But sometimes it gives me great pleasure.
Logan said, "in the waiting room of dream land." We drove to Freezout Lake. He said "Oh no,"
and I asked what was wrong. "Nothing, just saying that." He let out a cry and again I asked
what was wrong--"I was just imagining if I cut off my finger"
Will Fesperman is a poet and translator living in Missoula, Montana. To get his poetry zines and fliers, contact him at will(dot)fesperman(at)gmail.