Song Three by Clive Matson
Touch your skin and see how magic
has skewed your nerves
and elixired
........................even your flesh.
Sniff your arm and sweetness tinges
the grime and sweat. Lick your lips
and crunch a little seed you want to spit out
........................but it’s me.
I’m raspberry jam, I’m all over you.
All over your arms and hands,
shoulders, thighs, eyes
........................and that annoying seed,
work it loose and discover it’s between
the next tooth. And the next, too.
Run your fingers through gritty hair
and the fine sand at its roots
is micro-me and so is
....................................dilute jam
that’s oozed between your legs
and around your secret places.
With great effort you open your eyes
for my ice-nine has
........................jelled your tears
and the wall, sky, and patio chairs
bend wavy and viscid like melting glass.
You think this aggravating?
You think this isn’t the way of the world?
Smoke from St. Joan and the fires of Chernobyl
chars your nasals, perfume from Madame Bovary
livens them.
Atoms
from Mother Mary stiffen your bones.
So do Attila’s, so do Krishna’s
so do the sorceress of Budapest’s
and the smiling prostitute of Fourth Street’s.
Corn pollen dusts the ground.
Roses’ pigments cover bees’ legs.
Motes and germs and molecules
intertwine since near zero and now.
when you brush sleep from your eyes
and seed multitudes on your back
sizzle and fire
........................you know it’s me
I’m in your hair. I’m itching your groin.
I’m waving a blouse and gently fanning
those fine butt hairs.
....................................I write words
between your thoughts
with the tips of my breasts.
I’ve captivated your sense.
You can’t avoid me.
Watch while I take off my shirt
in front of trucks and small animals
jogging along my street.
Throw off excess underclothes
....................................and they sail
into the overcast with undersides
the texture of fish bellies.
....................................At sunset
lit clouds spread around the itchy sky
like so many raspberries.
Clive Matson (MFA Columbia University) has published poetry since 1964. He has taught more than 3,000 workshops nationwide, and his how-to book, “Let the Crazy Child Write” (New World Library, 1998) honoring the creative unconscious, is being used by a number of groups around the world.
has skewed your nerves
and elixired
........................even your flesh.
Sniff your arm and sweetness tinges
the grime and sweat. Lick your lips
and crunch a little seed you want to spit out
........................but it’s me.
I’m raspberry jam, I’m all over you.
All over your arms and hands,
shoulders, thighs, eyes
........................and that annoying seed,
work it loose and discover it’s between
the next tooth. And the next, too.
Run your fingers through gritty hair
and the fine sand at its roots
is micro-me and so is
....................................dilute jam
that’s oozed between your legs
and around your secret places.
With great effort you open your eyes
for my ice-nine has
........................jelled your tears
and the wall, sky, and patio chairs
bend wavy and viscid like melting glass.
You think this aggravating?
You think this isn’t the way of the world?
Smoke from St. Joan and the fires of Chernobyl
chars your nasals, perfume from Madame Bovary
livens them.
Atoms
from Mother Mary stiffen your bones.
So do Attila’s, so do Krishna’s
so do the sorceress of Budapest’s
and the smiling prostitute of Fourth Street’s.
Corn pollen dusts the ground.
Roses’ pigments cover bees’ legs.
Motes and germs and molecules
intertwine since near zero and now.
when you brush sleep from your eyes
and seed multitudes on your back
sizzle and fire
........................you know it’s me
I’m in your hair. I’m itching your groin.
I’m waving a blouse and gently fanning
those fine butt hairs.
....................................I write words
between your thoughts
with the tips of my breasts.
I’ve captivated your sense.
You can’t avoid me.
Watch while I take off my shirt
in front of trucks and small animals
jogging along my street.
Throw off excess underclothes
....................................and they sail
into the overcast with undersides
the texture of fish bellies.
....................................At sunset
lit clouds spread around the itchy sky
like so many raspberries.
Clive Matson (MFA Columbia University) has published poetry since 1964. He has taught more than 3,000 workshops nationwide, and his how-to book, “Let the Crazy Child Write” (New World Library, 1998) honoring the creative unconscious, is being used by a number of groups around the world.
