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
its need for me was less than a dozen
My skin was perfumed, stultified as a socialite
dropped in the sea,
where no other life is much urged to smell
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
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
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.
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.