Poem by Jon Leon

This appeared over the course of a few posts a while back on Lucipo. I like it when people put my name in poems. Makes me feel special. Or it has so far, at least. I probably wouldn't like a poem that said something like "Reb Livingston's ass is big enough to cook a turkey."

Improvisation on a Line by Reb Livingston

Eating candied suns on plutonian river
boat, choking
on the revenant mucus from your
middle copse. O cloister-fuck O
cloister-fuck. Dandelion me, holster
me, petal me. I am not the last
remaining innocent neon. Horse,
yes, explosions! Horse me, hmm.
And then my dick fell off.

In monasterial heat, battling
the continuous draught, O being-
unto, O weeping palms wet hush.
Orange the color of your adjunct
remissions. Torrid the want of rivers
wet coursing, coursing, coursing
twerry front tease. Cannot in reveries
channeling pwassions – seek pierrot's
flight in August's humid tantrums.
O terry not youse whose devastating
trials scream enjoy, aha!, being a slut.
Being-unto-blessed limit– no –being
unto heavens' welt crush.

Dichtung, and we fly with
the orchids. Your hummingbird
thighs mipping, addendums / knock.
Sleep sphincter sleep diptych.
Tireless whipping, yes!
spirited guile aerobic. Fainting's
awesome comminglers, purple
geso'd. Properly the sippy cup
together.

Not blithe to those women
whose beam talk
not gentler semen.
Argyle chappy, clapped dock.
More ferocious wolves in sheeps' coat.
Onward dash
into end parentheses,
into the brandied storehouses!
Hard vinegar hearts slippery,
I am hanging from your mouths –
painting these weighted mammaries.
O go down, go /
up. Irene Jacob is so sweaty-haired
huffing, puffing.


-- Jon Leon