Cataract At The Lip

Cataract At The Lip

Of the glass, vision sipped
from the gush of amygdala—open
your brim to the lush
of Monet. Pour from the frame:

Chardonnay in a quiver,
disperse and flow—livid
strobes of Van Gogh.
Then, harden and flay

Off clots to metallic
coruscations—figments of Klimt.
Now: stiffen to spirits
dispirited, and disparate—pause

In thoughtful paralysis: Hopper.
No stopper for an Imagist
cascading the palate: paint
an intoxicant; the body, a blotter.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

As A Novelist

As A Novelist

I control words coerced into being
more than myself. A concatenation
of pages, books, brains: manipulation
is my expertise. I shape your seeing.

I appease inspiration with my clutch;
whether tomes, music, lives—I have a touch
of kleptomania. Reined in my fist:
the fluidity of a pugilist

Dancing in a pen. Personality
disorders, so my borderlines are kept
writing, as I create reality

Conforming to my vision: great. Except—
buried in my lather of character
is a girl, and I cannot extract her.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

Interview with an Immortal

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Interview with an Immortal

I don’t live the finite life, but life revived
within each mind. I’m not a mind, like the kind
I entertain; but when we meet, we share
a brain, where I’m alive, but not contained.

My planet is an active mind, aroused
through time; an ageless host, I know, but note:
parasites don’t enrich a life; I give
back what time invests. Though I have no flesh,

I have a form, and a depth; I just need
a being to give me being. When it leaves,

My end is not a death; just a break between
the lives that give me mine. From a line
my life extends, pulled by needle through each head,
and hurts: Sublime—suturing immortal life.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

This poem appeared previously on the Very Nice, Very Nice blog under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.