to the moon

“When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” - 1 Corinthians 13:11

Feeling I’ve arrived at an age
I should only masturbate to the likes
of Joan of Arc.

Religious discourse, then.
Closing the door on future,

on prophecy, we rise refreshed a

tantric
bicycle

that we ride
empyrean.

I go down on Joan
’til Joan comes vision of fire
in the cab of a horse-drawn carriage.

The horses smell
the sex, are undisturbed, but
the squeak of tantric bicycle spokes
sends ’em tripping over hooves--“Holy fuck!”

in her native French,
Saint baisé,

the only water
worth drinking.


creative ambition

If I ever get into a knife fight,
I want my final scene to be

sputtering blood, a single stab; a short blade,
albeit thick, and between two ribs-- high abdomen--

and after, obviously, a red-drenched dramatic gurgle:


“I really hope… there’s a religious experience…
after this mess”-- referring to the cornucopia, red.

[insert literary hallucinatory sequence here]

Sidebar, with present and future friends:
I’ll never want to knife fight.

[hands over freely the hallucinatory trophy,
red-drenched, engraved and insincere.]

They spelled your name wrong.


my novel is about you

reason writers are lonely,
is, has to be alone to
speak directly to another person.

Hi there. Are you single?
Of course you are.

My car is mispronounced marigolds.
My house is blue. Have you been?
but, blind all your life, have you,
in your life,
wondered,

how I wandered in?
what, are you paranoid?
Yes, I was previously your assassin,

but today I'm delivering flowers.
I'm leaving out the back.
This is me leaving.

Hug your wife more.


fidelity

a familiar face at the bar,
grizzled, worn in, a derelict,

thirty years later:

alcohol's love also kills
but is consistent.

Drink specials run until eight,
stores are open until midnight.

Putting out cigarettes
in a goblet of Goldfish,

we don't know any better:

I'll keep kidding myself
until someone says,

'I love you best,
you're my favorite,'

and means it.


D.S. West is a poet, painter, pedestrian and help desk attendant in sunny Colorado. His poetry has appeared in Wraparound South, Lunar Poetry, and Birds We Piled Loosely. A list of his published works and personal projects is available at https://icexv.wordpress.com/.