UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
FRANK HOPKINS

mADNESS IN e-MINOR

I cannot hear you now
no amount of shouting nor shouted insult
nor designing hookers out for tea
can make me hear you.
All my heroes are transparent,
their weaknessís translucent, their voices
wet with fear.
All my heroes are schizophrenic now-
cursing wildly at things unspoken and unseen,
Threatening disembodied enemies...demanding
an apology from a God long retired,
begging. . .begging for one more victory.
Sad, how terribly sad; tragically sad; comically sad-
I cannot hear you now,
cannot make out the slurred words, dramatic pause
and pose," Grind! Grind!" says the stone master,
"Your bodies I will break and your blood be
mixed with gemstone. Grind damn you."
We are suicides too soon undone,
debris among the rocks with no memory
to call us home...I cannot hear you now.


Litany On The Ninth Day

While you were sleeping
I decided your life for you
decided your future and past
decided how you will smile and
when.
While you were sleeping
I paid off old debts
removed dead skin with a
morticianís care
blessed ungainly children and
forgave their ugly parents.
While you were sleeping
I imagined how you would taste
if I sliced you open
filleting the soft meat from
rough muscle
adding salt and just a pinch
of flour.
While you were sleeping
disturbing voices came to me
offering all manner of unholy union
offering baubles and trinkets from
another time.
While you were sleeping
I took great care not to disturb you
I took many oaths and made promises
wrote in blood my answer to the
many numbered questions that
lined the folds of salted skin.


Crawl

I went to see The Electric Mistress
with roses born from gun metal shavings
with thorns sharpened lovingly waiting
to lacerate skin and drink deep from
small sufferings made with care.
I no longer live in the same house now
I no longer have a point of view nor
a point of no return.
I went to see The Electric Mistress
to receive my communion in front of
passionless parishioners and
professional mourners all gathered
for my delectation.
I am no longer hungry now and
if I were I could not tell you what
I would be hungry for.
I went to see The Electric Mistress
so that I could think in whispers and
speak in tongues.
I lay me down on blankets made from thistles
the run-off from my wounds to keep me
warm...The only caress that truly belongs
to me..the only kiss left me.


Frank Hopkins has been published in Shouted whisper,
Farmhouse magazine and Serenity's garden. 20 years
ago he published an anthology and won poet of the
year twice. Currently lives in NYC and finds the
world a truly disturbing place.







© 2007 Underground Voices