rumpusroom (rumpusroom) wrote in poetic___slap,

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The Scent of Fresh Paper

Name: Ana Spann
Age: 21
Location: Louisiana, United States

Author: William S. Burroughs
Poet: Anne Sexton
Journalist: David Brock
Book: Naked Lunch
Poem: Howl, Allen Ginsberg
Topic of conversation: Politics or Music

Opinions on...;
War: A last resort, to be used only if intelligence has confirmed the authenticity of said attacker, and if the United Nations has supported the counterattack.
Sex: If practiced safely, a wonderful physical enjoyment for any gender.
Drugs: If done in moderation, an interesting way to open minds, doors, and perceptions.
Music: Quite possibly the backbone of any constructive society. A gateway to revolution, inspiration, and evolution.


for c.

once you were band shirts and blue jean;
green crystals, cold screwdrivers
nineteen feet of seismic rage.
your faults lapped chimney soot,
you-- paint without cross section--
zinc lozenge and dimestore

i blame the tupperware; the
snorting gits and flatbed trucks,
your puritan bitch of a mother.
i blame whiteboy, redneck, president,
whatever. you fell neatly into
dots, connectable.

you, tiny moniker for god.
i shrink, repeat my enema for odd.

--Ana Spann

for a.

shearing gives the ghost of clean.
but dirt is magnetized and stubborn,
finds the north to jump my clothes,
claims the poles with sticking-flag.

dumbly paddle, nosing slime,
plain asexual prokaryote. i'm
searching vainly for a head...
eat soap, trim, wax, retreat from the bridge.

and you with your labian arms.
belch open his lungs, rape
every worn vinyl groove. you
shove away his woman's mouth and eat, eat.

i clasp and frown, mute heroine
stupidly saving face. i grind
soiled against the sand on new legs,
old teeth, bad nails.

--Ana Spann


i've always had a certain inadequacy...
where bone breaks, where collars meet.
there's an unfaltering smudge which gives me name,
and reason to scrub.
there's a joint effort where a dull drone
recounts faulty missiles fired.
absolute unlike will stain fingers, toes.
through a glass tube see bald trails, end paths.

like this i drop dead babies at each line.
i calcify... differences stiffen my hair
like cranberries; they burn my ears.
they hurt at each stance, when fishbowls creep,
when i "put 'em up! put 'em up!"
i tried so hard to white light purify,
sweat lodges, broomsticks, bleeding, oils.
i could not purge, slathered shame and kerosene.

i've never met such tickertapes, though
these parts were never meant to fit.
i went back to the Mesozoic wearing
organic cotton and hemp sandals, shrieked
every unfinished thought and inequity to
the redwood ferns, howled shortcomings
in primal voice to the horsetail. i evolved
into mediocrity, was dumbly sane.

gone clean mad with meaning i sucked
change and chlorophyll; igneous and clarified
slept for days and days. i fell behind.
souped amniotic, poured through the slate.

--Ana Spann
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