John Latta — Two poems
Uncertain of the rules, lash’d
By disarming inexactitude, no husband’d
Play, meager, nude, now resurrects
What’s nigh on quash’d. Th’ongoing
Animal delight in marshalling a
Trove of love-manoeuvres secure
Admits gusto as mere human
Toxic imbalance, or blight. So
The usual spring abounds, trawling
A too delicate sun across
Lawns where rude boys run
And choose up sides with
Aimless sounds. And words ‘withoute
Oony withholdyng’ make public rut
With a fayre ‘what if’
And all evidence kaput forthwith.
Of course. Stupid of me.
Hunkering down near the kohlrabi,
Scrounging around for anything new,
Partial humidity with clearing rains,
Lightning ascent in acting ‘clubby.’
Yesteryear’s fucks come back: arcane
Torsos mount’d with spiritual spit.
The absence of everyday life
Is obvious. You muff’d it.
Insane. Typically a big leap
To avoid unpleasant scenes — compendia
Of teen wit in talk,
Mannerist and undeter’d, of creeps.
And me likewise acquires that
Tittery Proustian mystery, uncertain escapades
In ruins I sincerely doubt.