ditch,

the poetry that matters

Lucius Rofocale

Lucius Rofocale is a writer from the UK. Two of his poems recently appeared in 'Clinicality, Brutal: An Anthology of Writings with Guts'. To see more visit  www.myspace.com/luciusrofocale

Children of Production
 
Collisions manic-depressive mascots haunting
caresses,
postures aesthetic,
shutters sealed at
congested curvatures
with random scrambles she rakes evening
shifting euphoria to bifurcated surrealists
traversing locked steps
miseries miasma running like dogs.
 
Illicit odours, deserts flags, desecrated photograph’s,
her laboratory technicians temporarily buttress junctures,
exhibiting contact prints, geometries of inertia as politics,
myopic multiple children of production … .
 
Achingly, she gazes at the pictures of lost innocence in album after
album of black museums.
 
Milk carton faces awaiting reunion.

 
 
 
May Cause Drowsiness

 
London noise clashing pharmacy desk
‘may cause drowsiness’
 
wireless dead you tube bulk of alphabetized copycats
serfdom laws wearing civilian dress - billboard portraits relapsed scaffolding,
the policeman’s concrete muscles ripple in shadows of rich obsessives
 
aluminium glass nightclub - DJ twisting dials of warped electronica
bourbon relaxes limbs quiet - swallowing bloody little capsules - her multi-coloured liquid hips jerk possibility - buttocks mutating beats - chattering crests - angular plastic zipper leading
south
 
Copulates - media whores - crotches swelling saluting slave mentalities - visualizing her shape on various products -
consumables
 
A Druid erected -
I touch the hem of her dress - hand disappearing into indigo plasma -viscous - assimilating with wet forefingers - then -
seeing through new eyes.
 

 
 
Toilet Break
 
The psych thick and distended.
 
I only needed all the kings saplings.
 
Verse is will.
 
You are the locks.
 
Thou wilt desperate.
 
And all the ties and business finished products.
 
Break.
 
Fathers testicles hung the garden dead-heading.
 
DNA never dies.
 
This Intel is sickle-cell.
 
Cut! Unlock work for hire.
 
The status quo is the toilet.

  

 
Voodoo
 
Sperm dribbles
broken bottles crunch dreamless grief, frozen excrement, swollen bloody tampax,
'c'mere babe'
relax,
relax …
 
in the stillness
empty bags, hypodermics,
discorporated
 
dancing girls
sensual massage
theatre doors half-open city lights dissolved to dim lighting
 
at the foot of the wall hair tightly pulled
Mayan gods flickering ancient dreams

 
              shard of glass
O to cut him as he lies in the fetal position!
 
green tranquillisers
shapes with egg-white retinas watching, hands in pockets
 
these claws of the past, do they want to love?
 
numb
floating
in
public toilet
bile mixing deep yawns, sighs,
groans, voodoo doll punctures, derelict
staircases …
 
winter came early.

 

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