Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

This poem appears in We Were Hateful People.

discipline is desire

i ask myself if the inverse is true
as the she devil girds her loins

and rains down upon me
a lordly progression to madneſs

graven in the mind's ruts  poesis
no more outré than an angiogram


tries to convince me of my mistranslated horns
just past duncan's jugular the handle

'til birnam wood does come to dunsinane
she labours and she wishes for her labours

not kisses for the missus and not favours
but tiny monetary dishes


while here all is slight hell
und über allen Gipfeln ist nicht ruhig

the eye counts numbered paralipomena
and flagrant  sour factitiousness

the gloaming of her whim at eventide
twisted lineaments of her thousand year frown


whithersoever she looks  then must we hide
for payment is the highest form of truth

I whisper this in the chinese manner
to a hetæra with a head of flame

whose touching gentilésse roseate
ses mots déshabillés transfigure me


the mountain in the window watches us
the trees hold court to our debauchery

a history of doors slammed shut
resounding like the wings of geese

i take the daddy out the equation
and then live as i please