I could not bend to the supernatural,
learned little from anatomy,
and the crumbles of philosophy gave my
tongue no good taste.
My land was unoriginal and confessing
every moment
its need for me was less than a dozen
well-weighted bees.
My skin was perfumed, stultified as a socialite
dropped in the sea,
where no other life is much urged to smell
the air.
None of this was new. I or else the
world was an enjambed,
fiendish cripple, a Richard descended
with false strength in mind,
until the marvelous hour I found my
element,
my very own cause to stand:
I had been a magnanimous prick, was the
truth, and enjoying
the breaths of others, sorting my own
amongst this din,
required no faith in a firmament or study
of axons,
no adoption of nothingness or
management of property,
not even a quaint, fresh odor,
but only that I relax and cease fucking
around with my smarts.
All of this was new.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Ray Succre lives on the Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, and in many others across numerous countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in Summer 2009.
