These days awash
\nin her comely fragrance,
\namid the torment of city strife,<\/p>\n
My new bride
\nof Mexico’s sweet spirit
\nlies in hiding beneath the Vietnamese bread
\nof a smothered, chalk-sworn man
\nof musical wheezing
\nonto the grief stricken panic,
\na might of foreign blood
\nworking penniless in the – airy cry – lost
\ntoxic mud, my wine
\ndrunk
\nfrees me to the endless breath of another woman’s god
\nblessed in New England’s tribal homes
\ngone mourning to the still, hot night
\nof total dissatisfaction<\/p>\n
as her son climbs the dismembered mountain,
\ntrembling with rocks of tragic failure
\nrolling down to kill my boulder of trash
\nkeeping the flood of human night
\nin a Calgarian restaurant,
\nfanning silent confusion
\nwith the rustic, all-blasted aftermath<\/p>\n
enslaved, reading angry tomes
\nof someone else’s problem
\n– stirring –<\/p>\n
Rendering heaven,
\nblinded, my smile now withers
\nto a gnome, chilling
\nthoughtless under a rug, <\/p>\n
blue god journeying to the eloquent swine,
\na flock of murderous rounds
\nbeing dressed to the nines
\nand masturbating off,
\nall thick and engrossed<\/p>\n
In the call: \u201cI swallow the come of the sick goddess”
\ndrugged by metal
\nand hurt in a future birth,
\nbreeding starless talks of facialized distress
\nin the backroom to no rest,<\/p>\n
Always ruinous,
\nin a fortitude-stricken Icelandic behavior
\nto be the final hum before the earth dies in a forgotten cry
\nof swaying lonely flesh.<\/p>\n
\u201cImpregnate my death with dirt and rain
\nand I shall become your savior enslaved,”<\/p>\n
\u201cmy damned temptress
\nlight with the longing of a perfect and little room,”<\/p>\n
Cave Home<\/strong><\/p>\n \u201cCave! home” In the cloud and what do our ramshackle hearts smell? Kissing astir over a forest moon’s rotten, plugged navel \u201cYes, don’t fear”<\/strong><\/p>\n We say, “a woman is dreaming “that ephemeral beauty Portuguese, and embarrassed by the justice of history on English assimilation, blooming with a developed flower in the love for a smoke-and-mirrors fall ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> Portuguese, and embarrassed by the justice of history on English assimilation, By Rusty Kjarvik.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-51033","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51033","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=51033"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/51033\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=51033"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=51033"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=51033"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nbefore the apologetic spray
\nof early being
\ntouches your true shape<\/p>\n
\nbreast of a Kala
\nswooning numinous in an Asian wilderness
\nof genderless mystery,<\/p>\n
\nclose to a savage waste
\nas overwhelming and without choice
\nas drowning in the rice stew magic
\nof a motherless animal
\neaten raw, over a lover’s fattened tummy
\nnow screwed into all intoxication
\nand psychic bewilderment,
\nuntil the stare blows rhythms of ancient minds<\/p>\n
\nswollen & churning like the monster of the great Mediterranean
\nGreek odyssey of schooling
\nbroken suddenly by the sweet songstress
\nand her astral tide
\nlounging in the rough sand.<\/p>\n
\nto a self gone in hiding,
\nto the farm bug lifting to the edge of belief,
\nwith love for the food of life
\nin between fingers,
\nstretching and flexing,
\nin the middle ground,
\nagainst a backdrop of fanciful world division,
\nor burdened blues:<\/p>\n
\nto hear the pledge
\nto the frozen smiles of wide-eyed crowded fields
\nthat grow and decay
\nto the orbit of a lunar catastrophe
\noccurring every oceanic spawning,” <\/p>\n
\nwe all know to arrive, one day
\nbreathless and raised with red flames of miraculous fatigue
\non the shores of the way,”<\/p>\n
\nand the meat-carved lands of a strong rumour
\nchewing on herbal tests of pyramid stamina in the old world
\ntowards a new, deathless embrace with the burning and ruthless war
\nthat continues still unsure
\nat the tip of a teenage nipple, bursting forth
\nwith the blood of the elderly and infirm
\nmoved to tears in the hospitalized nation of economic mutilation
\ninsinuating the shattered designs of the artists
\nwho cry for money on the streets of our psycho-logical disease
\namid the buttressed wailing funerals of elaborate priestesses,
\nnude with slack locks, dripping of spiced vomit<\/p>\n
\non the ethnocidal blushing of whiteskin, drooping
\nwith the unanswered silence of genetic ownership
\nfor the sun’s own kingdom<\/p>\n
\ncoarse and poor as the ghost’s desert body
\nand dehydrated Arab morgue of Zionist Palestine
\nthat carried bombs into the home of Europe’s scared, childish heart
\nand now the ugly American race chimes steadily to the revolutionary drum
\nwith armed blurs of hellish repetition<\/p>\n
\nfrom the human god, that domesticated plants and animals
\nin the sanctuary of energy transformed, to a lingering betrayal through lust
\nfor the last kiss of a skeletal hush
\nfertilizing the absent womb,
\nnever trembling with seed or even possibility
\nof the staggering release
\nthat floods our empty power
\nwith futile control
\nand laughs at a havoc
\nin complete dismay<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/authorheadshot.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nRusty Kjarvik<\/strong> 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<\/em> in their February 2012 issue and an upcoming exhibition of three original pieces of \u201cmanuscript art” at The New Post Literate: A Gallery of Asemic Writing<\/em>. Rusty Kjarvik lives in Calgary, Alberta with his wife, where he writes a blog at www.rkjarvik.blogspot.com<\/a> and makes a living as a world music percussionist.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/09\/weddingbride-420x179.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nand the meat-carved lands of a strong rumour
\nchewing on herbal tests of pyramid stamina in the old world
\ntowards a new, deathless embrace with the burning and ruthless war
\nthat continues still unsure
\nat the tip of a teenage nipple, bursting forth
\nwith the blood of the elderly and infirm
\nmoved to tears in the hospitalized nation of economic mutilation
\ninsinuating the shattered designs of the artists
\nwho cry for money on the streets of our psycho-logical disease
\namid the buttressed wailing funerals of elaborate priestesses,
\nnude with slack locks, dripping of spiced vomit<\/p>\n
\non the ethnocidal blushing of whiteskin, drooping
\nwith the unanswered silence of genetic ownership
\nfor the sun’s own kingdom<\/p>\n