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Sara Larsen

Three Poems

Phillip Whalen in My Living Room Last Night

you who do
collapse in a dream, with no bucks
                                no benjamins

the face plucked out
you make me frolic in my blood

                    i don’t know what
to call this thing i’m about to declaim

     it hath the gift of healing
ready to cook my goat-head    with the shoulder bone
        she stuck it where she liked —

  are you swifter shoot? your tits
                                   i   Loved
                                     so much

i would not leave my vow, streaked
           red with adonis

now i conclude my whatdoyoucallit
   let him sing in the cave
my Lady of four months
        once he has it memorized

piles up my sweetbitters
     on a surface of cunt-muscles,

unzipping
                    kai moirai’ adonin
                                            (middle of the day)

sara larsen
may 6, 2008

**w/ some language from raimbaut d’orange, ezra pound, charles olson

Translation of Raimbaut D’Orange

ecstacy…   more-so notate kisses
send a Whore   soak my vulva   in Comet scrub
i see a bear   a robot   her bent teeth
no nest   no name   no lull sighs — trouble;
meat of gitmo bay   o couer:  meat faces
crystal poles of Acabar
came Io home in May sewn with Fag Italics  at home en femme
spread eagle in haute couture   what pizzaz

call me ludicrous fowl if you want
pretend the name Paura lays far
that in my talon no one is Dis
no men own cajones   castrated in ER
total cunt   not pressed into police car
vas deferens of Socrates bayonets scar

   dear sabor tooth tiger, i see my gut, it is no use
   a trapeze of maps  ten rats  sailors prefer a car race
   Maria says dinners in my mouth punched with 2 million souls
   in cells.

Juno, my theme ran far from my pen
my Amex asshole  vulva left ajar
salts orbs   no Baudelaire monies
but you who sells what is conquered
now put my mouth to the gallow
the Kaiser’s dick dominian: how to pay?  queer with ringing bells

     piranhas eat logos, give Respect – i don’t know why.
     pot me bon’ esser, senhors?

what’s past quarters me
so maybe a thousand ants is sub-par
through my heart Paura shot this promise
threw my heart (beaten) in police car
Lady, 2 million inmates:  quasar, pulsar
therefore i cannot douse them with love
thy dead news, help me, normally pap-smeared in philadel’ conspiricy: Sanka tea
      Lady, how will it all turn out?

coo boys perverse goys dearest pleasure
rats jaws in my fates’ song-troubled bar
and so men part seas w/ talons in threes
here moon, nana’s grave, lured in park
i am not foiled by the short song
and come to yr igloo
don’tcha forget about this guida, con-face of niaads
     expired in the sinking armpit of plaque
in defense: no say-whatever this is
i have had this baptised in  a bait jar
puss mayonaisse to lick off the Jester’s Uzi
belay of ennui in ape lair
whoever likes it, let him sing
here with his vulva his tar
and if he demands that i am a fag – cock desire to un-sell that
   sap – far, total, final – he can see well.

sara larsen
may june 2008

No Punctuation

there is no
punctuation in the mind one pays

      protean
              word,    holiday   feckless pyramids

after fall   forget yr the tie:

             ecclesiastically  small,  plied

cloistered & vivid creature
                    handsome eggcup


sara larsen
oct 1 2008


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