Fear Moves in My Mouth
Fear moves in my mouth
My gut, my trembling need.
Like a plant, fear rooted
Moving along in dark ways, spreading its dark wants.
The way obsidian moves in dreams.
Fear has its mouth agape, gasps and waits.
Like a scar, in time only leaving of its own accord.
Fear breaks the mother board.
Leaves me broken, brother bound.
I try to escape this nightmare, grasping for air.
At the edge of glass. I am death's quarry pursued
in a houndless night.
Old Songs on the Radio
You have trouble
managing the static
of an old love song
in a far away radio.
Its frequency unreachable
by human hands.
You can still feel
some mellowed out riffs there
with tears drenched
in the background.
The muted notes of poetry
still stuck in ancient wires.
89 megahurts of nostalgia
vibrating the rusty wires
inside your chest.
is all about shadows
Then you lift up
the sonic veil to reveal
of a Hallelujah maze
dripping through your boneheaded
like syrupy voices
caught in ether
floating forlorn above this place-
like tiny knives cutting
up background noise
while old scars
welt to the heterodyne surface.
Your fingers itch
of an old memory.
is deadlock and busted key
rain spiraling down
from the trees.
You want to capture
the singing beneath the beams
of your bloodline
one more time.
It's how we patch up holes.
How we navigate the loss.
How we dare move on.
It's how we get our feet
back on the ground.
The old music coloring
the outlines of a lost life
while we bleed ourselves
back into our limbs
the faint signals
always calling us home.
God Death and Triangles
I told her I couldn't sleep anymore.
There was something in my undormant
I'm receiving messages through the wall.
But she was skeptical. Come on honey
I can hear them faintly in the wallpaper
like a chorus of baby mouths mumbling
over their saliva.
What else can you see there? she said.
--cups of semen, bird blood and bees
--a two headed calf in a field of lighter fluid.
With such raw confessions
my desire is all but dead.
Desire stifled into obeisance.
The malignant tree suffers the rot.
Summer ends with an abused sky.
Tonight I cling to my own morbidity.
I see the shadow of a macerated man.
The candle inside my head is going hot.
The moon, a stray bullet buzzing at me.
A terrific tension rents the air.
The room crashes into
a discordant whirl of colors.
I can feel a bird's strobic flutter over me.
Your hands over me like palpitating wings.
There is an unlocked door but I can't move.
Snakes and birds
and bees crawl out of the woodwork.
I keep thinking of God and death and triangles.
The Painter's Studio
Let's put on a few operatic pieces first.
Then you can disrobe quietly
behind the screen.
Why don't you tease out
that luxurious golden hair just a bit.
I'll prop my sketch book up.
It is quiet here in the front room.
Not even a cat to stir these pages.
There is a horn book here too
with your initials on it.
I will start with something soft
to amuse you. Would you like
portrait style or full frontal?
What angle of repose best suits
your delicate hands? Hold it.
We must hurry before the ink dries.
Only one chance to get it right.
Keep this as a dream rest.
A book mark for your eyes.
An endless reverie caught
by the smoke of the muse.
A Galatea held in perpetuity
You are Arvida Dollars
caught in my priceless palindrome.
Denis Robillard hails from Windsor, Ontario. His poems have appeared in small presses and magazines across Canada, USA and England. Publications include: Rattle, Rampike, Word Riot, Nashwaak Review, Cliff Soundings (Michigan), Orange Room Review and Dusty Owl. Since 2011 Robillard has been published in The Windsor Review, Jellyfish Whispers, The Mind[less] Muse, and Dead Snakes. In 2013 his poems were featured in a Black Moss Press war of 1812 Anthology called An Unfinished War. To date Robillard has had over 190 poems published nationwide.