Camille Roy
2 Poems
Tower Hotel

Two girls in a bed with fog lather.
He hauls them from one room piss-in-the-sink to another,
threading beards etched in crypto-celtic patterns,
the duds of the syndicate.
The boy is an abandoned paint factory.
He tells me they’ll leave the city because the girls were threatened.
I know what he means:
Love is a mask applied over discontinuity of moments spent with the same person.
Yet if running away is your state of mind...
doesn’t everything appear to flow away, to a discontinuous mind?

Or edges have a way of making each lose her head...
and the girls are just using him for his grasp.
I know Beanpole never says a word.  She’s mute.
The other one is called Little.  They’re so cold
in the hallway.  Lonnie screams from his mattress
not at them – at us, at everyone.

Fog so heavy the cars in the street
appear to be moving through snow.
Winking pad surfaces
through a raised fabric of blue lights.
That astronaut spent so much money on us –
how could it have been a false indicator?
My beloved says it must have been obvious to me.
To keep her from running away with the truth
I put my finger on her clit, while she’s watching the game.
“May I have your attention, Miss?”
She says I’m tiresome and not funny.

White throats sweetly jagged from a ragged butch knife dull.
I shall be butching thee from nape to rump.

A scribe of “sensual collisions that express the authority of terms”
– money, butch, whore –
while pulling at a long nipple.  Tattoo Blue
digs her fingers into the dancer’s fleshy waist – red kiss as wide as Kansas
as patches of green
drift from their wallets.
I prefer a part that spits & rolls:
sweet Ramona pumps and sugars the mouth of the logger dyke.
I think if you play softball on a Rec League team
everything else is just a dream.


Saddamn on CNN, a lump of rags sprouting
hairs, in a hole, waiting for ---
America speaks:
             “I did it again, I lived, now I have a headache.”
America walks on the balls of his feet.
Once he walked around for 48 hours and ended up on a garbage can,
barking at hallucinated dogs.  He could only make ‘positive lifestyle changes’
after he decided on suicide.
Now he’s fooling the deck chair--
independent investment banker
dipping his hairs in
a capital slick,
America citizen poopster
U twisted meat-face broke pup,
U suck up your own stab.

Capitalist whispers his confidences
...his wife Stella, her sisters
Sturgeon & Snail... their wooden spoon mouths,
eggbeater hearts... surly domestic goddesses
who refuse to give it away.
My Capitalist is like Poultry
with its Pecker, trying
to get behind the military supply route.
He whimpers... huge fan of your work...
’cause poet is mineral is
Lyric with its Pecker
crossing the road.

Behind the military supply route, I’m the Man.
I run in flatter circles jogging suite...pursuant to irritated dark...
My clittoral outfit suits the goddess of fiber.
Still caught by the ever-thinning
economy, bristle--
I breath take
at the news w/out views...
             Government is disregard which must shine from ashes!
             End of Empire is wiggling savior you make me miserable with fear.
             Or the sleaze collapse & sterling worker unites!!


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