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Benjamin Stainton
Featured in Poetry More Section in July Issue 2008
Her House is a Womb
...from birthing pool
to empty
tomb
the staircase flows,
forgetfully in
love
with time...
(the laughing master
called me moth)
...her room
left only a flake
of light
before closing
like a shy
flower...
(my
casing peeled
off in the
sea)
...bees inflamed birds
& so forth,
the way of things...
...dark notes burnt
like summers, in men...
(I kept a
flame
beating for
years)
*
...in her soft garden,
the assassin of youth
treads lightly...
(once I was
the infant
moon
& time
was just a
man)
...his long wane
drawls across her
window pane...
(down drops
my wing in
tears
for nothing
ever had
or lost)
...after fear erodes,
she comes to love
the dust on the stair...
(I am the
widow
in her
chair,
forever opening
my mouth)
...in this womb of a
house...
Go Up 21st August
2004
Este amor prístino tiene raven-pelo…
A proud bull with puffed chest,
stands surveying his lusty women
from the coastal hotel roof.
I scuff bronze dust with a hoof,
wilting on my beachhead floor.
This sun polishes glass like water,
forming beads on the bare tans.
The clouds remain aloof,
so I drink the sea.
She emerges in red,
carrying a familiar scent of pears.
Ringlets drip dark holes in the sand.
Her face is framed by salt &
fresh as a lemon grove.
I opened her mauve dress once,
in a tremble before awakening.
Freckles rise to the brim & wink,
like pale roses speckled with ink.
The Spanish tide swallows me in pieces.
She fishes my scarlet heart back to shore.
Este amor prístino tiene raven-pelo…
Go Up
Words
The room is a red chrysalis,
& I, its fat pupae. Spindly evil
smells my helpless worm.
Its drone becomes berserk.
Ungainly plastic hands
roil over themselves
for a dip inside my hollow.
I am eternal.
Eternally scraping
light from the lids of others -
she, glitter in thick blackness,
he, digesting plump forever.
The rest are pencil jottings
in the margin. Erasable.
Years of sludge pass; beyond.
*
The tired vulva unclamps.
I vomit perfume. My sack splits
& a searing white
pours from the formless mass.
Words;
like raving colossi,
rip the remaining tissue.
I yank free my tender lip,
puffed with fire
& the flower of ecstasy,
large enough to fill a world,
yet nothing solid leaks
when I try speaking.
The mouth is a blitzed city.
Failure: my grandest birth.
Copyrights @
Benjamin Stainton
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