10/8/2016 0 Comments Three Poems by Robert F. GrossThe Closing Times I seen Billy the Kid once behind the leather bar A heap of broken hearts and clay peacocks at his feet He was preachin a six-gun greasy salvation With a bullet in his back his fly unzipped His wanted poster puss promised back-alley bliss A rough resurrect for shattered hearts and cocks And the clay peacocks blew away In a flurry of piss and pinfeathers Squawking hymns of praise and paradox Odin on Yggdrasil he hung there for words words at the bottom of the well words he could see out of one eye he hung there for words when words they had in overflow already words in overstock words like home love war boundary blood words for god mortal dwarf giant elf he hung there for words that they never thought of using and never could translate words that were quite useless and for that reason might conceivably be true Landscape with Gratuitous Corpse Let’s place a sunset here then a swan there and surround it a passage of pure painterliness like something you’d see in late Titian an eruption of pigment pus on a crepuscular canvas Then sprawl naked and foreshortened in some impossible mannerist posture languid and totally void over here with briars and a scarab devouring a final erection here And a throat cut like this looking at the evening star just beyond the frame of everything once imagined about scale and perspective and man as the measure of all things painted over bloody thick and angered Bio? Robert F. Gross was born in Chicago, raised in Wisconsin, and is currently stuck In Rochester, New York. He's recently had pieces appear in Madness Muse Magazine, In Between Hangovers, and Bindlestiff. He's a committed queer and a committed melancholic.
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