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Lauren Antrosiglio

On Writing, Part II

Poem awakening all in ivory page and dark type of night,
Poem the end-beginning of world, caught in the mighty fishnet of
words, Poem is verb, Poem thru the sky by its own hand, Poem is
verb like the explosion of world, and I Poem—
Give me pen, sex, blood, obscene juices of pear after teeth,
and I Poem,
I Poem the way I imagine Whitman Poem'd, but indolent and really not
in the sphere of universe that he Poem'd, but I Poem in his
shadow as do all gypsies of word,
In the swollen ghost-anus of Ginsberg, in the whore-lap of Rimbaud,
in the last blood of Plath, I Poem
In the shady death marsh of Poe, in Paris bathroom, wheeling with
Neruda's stars, I Poem
In the silhouettes of masters, I must—without fear or burning blister
of pride—
Poem in all its Crazy and denunciation of the American Way, in
poverty and emptiness of tangible, only with assets of the soul,
heart of words, I Poem and Poem and Poem,
off into infinity,
rapt into the cosmos so many miles long,
numbers I cannot even count.

(Copyright 2012 by Lauren Antrosiglio, appeared in the book 'This Glorious Oblivion')

Submitted: Sunday, March 25, 2012
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  • Paul Krachtower (4/2/2012 1:58:00 PM)

    Excellent! I can't believe I haven't heard of you! It is so refreshing to see a poem that is intellectual and intense. A lot of modern poetry these days is a snooze-fest. (Report) Reply

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