Eric Doce is a philosophy graduate school drop out, compiling his forthcoming book “Son, Shower” (a collection of drawn collages and poems, 2011-2014). He lives in Brooklyn, with his gun.
I spied the laughing din of perennials
Scatter hummingbirds skyward, anchoring
My gabbling catmint, sea-holly cloaks.
Medusa’s intestines crown my face.
I spied anorthosite worlds wherein skin
Pumices; her cellar of petrologists.
I spark a millstone in the brush with flint,
Though the flowers, incanting, have sigils
Too soaked, to stoke, in mouthless laughter.
Dart and bob the water’s rim.
Well-oiled machines furrow the oil well.
I think, gargles the brim,
Plumed air we take in and spend.
A memory of box-comb bees rolling
As we siphon their smoke, again.
The inks of Lascaux light our sober ceiling
Unframed, omens drop
After a pregnant month.
As earth rolls a steady boil.
Living under moss
Turns the outside
Earth unworthy of
Your days’, and nights’,
And hours’ ears,
Until your dankness
Suckles scavenger flies,
And merry families
Of heady fungi
Revisit your toxins
To our dulled,