I think with my atlatl,
My love; for I see thee
Within my psychic attic,
My love; for my heart
Has become an abstraction—
A Shakespearean metaphor—
I am infatuated, my love:
I feel so delicate, my love.
My wanton for thee is more
Flamboyant than Baroque—
As sacred as scripture. Become
Gothic, my love—displace of
Us within the twelfth century, when
Maidens knew romance—when
Ever a maiden secretly yearned
For Adonis; for the times
Were masculine, thus,
Femininity was suppressed;
Wherefore, women were forced
To disguise womanhood; but
Evermore yearned the sensuous
Embrace. Take of me, Penelope:
Weave no more; for only so
Long can weaving distract
Pulsations of the womb: O’
How I yearn to thrust within
Thy womb. This feeling is
Familiar to me. I am
Deathly drawn to surrealistic
Women. Penelope! Thou
Art surreal for me. Hence, I
Want thee more—more than
The want of Job for Death.
I must have thee, Penelope.
I must drum within thy womb.
I must—lest I perish.
Glenn Jr. Marchand
Crying in solitude
Dying helpless timber
Glinting blades, iron teeth
Devoured green covers
Barren land - sandy sheet
Crying in solitude
Homeless feathery lives
Angry gunshots follow
Tired wings finds no lair
Uncertain tomorrow
Crying in solitude
Bleeding victimized calf
Atlatl aim another food
Diminishing species
Screams snatched motherhood
Crying in solitude
Crushed delicate blossoms
Concrete monsters strangle
Anguished mother nature
Fading every angle.
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