Marcus Slease



doBRA, tufted &
                                            torn, the will to exist
       as a man impassioned continues unabated, what
       I got from one country to
                another? mysteries and smiles, the odd
       man out,
a week of no work and I’m off to live
                            in Zory with a 50 yr old Polish woman, dream doll
still on my mind, skin pinned together, an unknown son and an un-
known god rumbling in my stomach, clumsily creating, my chicken was undercooked
and now I got gas, want to ride the bride, florid funeral, the sound

of a mirror filmed backwards, vaults of floating cows, the word is a made place but I’m in Katowice, naked streets full of sausages & loud bells, exalted fox, awakened degree zero, a queer way of talking, real beats for the Post-Communist thaw, creaky old trams, someone spray-painted RESIDENT EVIL BIO HAZARD in the subway, suck the thick seas, chilly nothingness in the heart of the cosmos



ornamented & defined by
never enuf, can’t touch IT or
smell IT or
          see IT, dead fly under
                   the kitchen table, big bulbus
ass buzzing, IT’s about time & my legs
are long
         Karateboy, burst
turtle, there are no
fields or oceans
         in Katowice, pale buildings,
colorless city, grayed out, accursed, barefoot, what
am I made of? Underwater
one cannot tell
         what reason is, oxygen
indeed, blind contradictions, impulse
to touch, carving
a wax heaven & pickling



waking up armed and tangled, lamp-
posts and composts outside
the window, your sounds raised
my flag, nightcoughs and hiccups, fish
it up, a laughing bandit
with square flowers, stubby fingers
in the air duct and not enough
sleeping pills, hope u’ll come too, aided
by exquisite cheese and wet tomatoes, black
beer floats in the sky, I’m a runaway frog
still sweating the lillypad, torso of iron &
a hankering for junge Menschen, there’s
turbulence in the slippery line, contact
high, tell me what you find, can you read
my mind, let me show you the ghost
in the boat, spell IT and sell IT, SASS &
pumps, the writing lies, behind the rim
of the clockface is a piece of dry celery, cleric
overload, damp mischief, the curve
of the letter U, time doesn’t pass, mouth
of mud, pawned by endless
hallucinations of paradise, saint
retreat, my nameless reversal complete



The present is a prologue of excessive and morbid discharges.
The snow melted the moment it hit the road.
I spent the night turning over the moments.
Each wave is a blot on the human heart.
Crinkles increase round the eyes.
Generations tread the differences.
Providence scatters in the key-tap.
Enraptured cobwebs on my pillow.
Snared in the emptiness.
IT will not be sublimated away.
All pain is subsumed IN the moment.
A mutli-tracked railroad baptized by fire.
A broken heater hisses my shame.
My name is belly to hot belly.
An appetite for calamity.
Bats of the past.
Box of wedding pictures.
The mighty bull whom we love is full of black blood.



     rusting future
     wooden shack
     silent pines &
     in the doghairs

past simple home