Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. His latest book, “Trish: A Romance,” was released by Funtime Press in 2019.
The loft-like flat with the cavernous
roof was in South Philly, well-heated
but polluted, dusted, with detritus,
she was what Los Angeles was in spite
of these things, sunken wastelands, sheeted
lightning making the stage all but emptiness.
As he fell into her, he fell into resistance,
petulance, snobbishness, yet also wetness—
she could do it, out of sublime forgetfulness,
big-titted, posing for spies, cameras her witness.
Los Angeles then lay in his arms like luggage.
What was in her were carnival masks, face-paint—
greasy, lumpy, churned from blood gone sluggish.
She was his palm-tree baggage, dumb, doggish.
He felt himself bitter, ransacked, naked, wasted.
Their child sails brackish seas somewhere, twisted.
Los Angeles just died, still convulsive, of disease
not acknowledged, or processed, number unlisted.
L.A. & her were queen for a day, then got fisted.
He moves on in Philly, no sprain in his knees.
Days of Old
In days of old, my friends, they took
the music, made it a girl, sang
her songs, caressed her, thanked
her for her own caresses, & the books—
Then the music retreated for a while,
no caresses, no books, turds,
brown, thick gibberish words
in lieu of nature’s own heavenly smile—
Well, the music is a girl again, coy,
silk-gowned, ready for us,
ready to be a vessel, trust
our impulses both to pain & joy—
& only coy at the outset, hot-blooded,
skilled, plugged in like a TV,
electron passages there, ready,
to cast light into the world, over-flooded—
& this “days of old” music you’re hearing,
deliberate, measured, necessitated
by eternities of white-noised, jaded
jumps off bridges, is nothing to be fearing—
so let the music be a girl forever, or a boy,
it doesn’t matter; someone young,
spry about ecstasy, drugs, love & fun,
& poets need not be scummy, or dummies, or coy—
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