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
shutters sealed at
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
Copulates - media whores - crotches swelling saluting slave mentalities - visualizing her shape on various products -
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.
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.
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.
broken bottles crunch dreamless grief, frozen excrement, swollen bloody tampax,
in the stillness
empty bags, hypodermics,
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!
shapes with egg-white retinas watching, hands in pockets
these claws of the past, do they want to love?
bile mixing deep yawns, sighs,
groans, voodoo doll punctures, derelict
winter came early.