:: Article

My New Bride & other poems

By Rusty Kjarvik.

My New Bride

These days awash
in her comely fragrance,
amid the torment of city strife,

My new bride
of Mexico’s sweet spirit
lies in hiding beneath the Vietnamese bread
of a smothered, chalk-sworn man
of musical wheezing
onto the grief stricken panic,
a might of foreign blood
working penniless in the – airy cry – lost
toxic mud, my wine
frees me to the endless breath of another woman’s god
blessed in New England’s tribal homes
gone mourning to the still, hot night
of total dissatisfaction

as her son climbs the dismembered mountain,
trembling with rocks of tragic failure
rolling down to kill my boulder of trash
keeping the flood of human night
in a Calgarian restaurant,
fanning silent confusion
with the rustic, all-blasted aftermath

enslaved, reading angry tomes
of someone else’s problem
– stirring –

Rendering heaven,
blinded, my smile now withers
to a gnome, chilling
thoughtless under a rug,

blue god journeying to the eloquent swine,
a flock of murderous rounds
being dressed to the nines
and masturbating off,
all thick and engrossed

In the call: “I swallow the come of the sick goddess”
drugged by metal
and hurt in a future birth,
breeding starless talks of facialized distress
in the backroom to no rest,

Always ruinous,
in a fortitude-stricken Icelandic behavior
to be the final hum before the earth dies in a forgotten cry
of swaying lonely flesh.

“Impregnate my death with dirt and rain
and I shall become your savior enslaved,”

“my damned temptress
light with the longing of a perfect and little room,”

Cave Home

“Cave! home”
before the apologetic spray
of early being
touches your true shape

In the cloud
breast of a Kala
swooning numinous in an Asian wilderness
of genderless mystery,

and what do our ramshackle hearts smell?
close to a savage waste
as overwhelming and without choice
as drowning in the rice stew magic
of a motherless animal
eaten raw, over a lover’s fattened tummy
now screwed into all intoxication
and psychic bewilderment,
until the stare blows rhythms of ancient minds

Kissing astir over a forest moon’s rotten, plugged navel
swollen & churning like the monster of the great Mediterranean
Greek odyssey of schooling
broken suddenly by the sweet songstress
and her astral tide
lounging in the rough sand.

“Yes, don’t fear”

We say,
to a self gone in hiding,
to the farm bug lifting to the edge of belief,
with love for the food of life
in between fingers,
stretching and flexing,
in the middle ground,
against a backdrop of fanciful world division,
or burdened blues:

“a woman is dreaming
to hear the pledge
to the frozen smiles of wide-eyed crowded fields
that grow and decay
to the orbit of a lunar catastrophe
occurring every oceanic spawning,”

“that ephemeral beauty
we all know to arrive, one day
breathless and raised with red flames of miraculous fatigue
on the shores of the way,”

Portuguese, and embarrassed by the justice of history
and the meat-carved lands of a strong rumour
chewing on herbal tests of pyramid stamina in the old world
towards a new, deathless embrace with the burning and ruthless war
that continues still unsure
at the tip of a teenage nipple, bursting forth
with the blood of the elderly and infirm
moved to tears in the hospitalized nation of economic mutilation
insinuating the shattered designs of the artists
who cry for money on the streets of our psycho-logical disease
amid the buttressed wailing funerals of elaborate priestesses,
nude with slack locks, dripping of spiced vomit

on English assimilation,
on the ethnocidal blushing of whiteskin, drooping
with the unanswered silence of genetic ownership
for the sun’s own kingdom

blooming with a developed flower
coarse and poor as the ghost’s desert body
and dehydrated Arab morgue of Zionist Palestine
that carried bombs into the home of Europe’s scared, childish heart
and now the ugly American race chimes steadily to the revolutionary drum
with armed blurs of hellish repetition

in the love for a smoke-and-mirrors fall
from the human god, that domesticated plants and animals
in the sanctuary of energy transformed, to a lingering betrayal through lust
for the last kiss of a skeletal hush
fertilizing the absent womb,
never trembling with seed or even possibility
of the staggering release
that floods our empty power
with futile control
and laughs at a havoc
in complete dismay

Rusty Kjarvik is an emerging writer who has begun to embark on a career path as a creative writer only within the past year. He currently has one print publication of poetry in The Poetic Pinup Revue in their February 2012 issue and an upcoming exhibition of three original pieces of “manuscript art” at The New Post Literate: A Gallery of Asemic Writing. Rusty Kjarvik lives in Calgary, Alberta with his wife, where he writes a blog at www.rkjarvik.blogspot.com and makes a living as a world music percussionist.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Monday, September 17th, 2012.