One year of collected poetry of all types.



Stephen Huff’s
Tuesday, January 18, 2005

she is atomic in the afterglow, electric blue
how it shines on through
how it wets the tongue with a taste that runs
from the lips to the head, sweet as tart
how it stops my heart
how it stuns the brain with pain again
as she glides the sun’s slow slide, purpled skin
how she goes down again
how her descents decline so well so fine
for she is charged by shadows, the black of night
how it suits her slights
how it promises sweet death on a stinking breath

Stephen Huff’s
Tuesday, January 18, 2005

on a steeled breath
and a desperate clench
the final plunge must come
with gritted teeth
and biting nails
that wells blood within the palm
the end ascends
through shuttered eyes
amid a grimaced face
so the final plunge must come
to choke the drowning
and crush the fawning
to overwhelm the foolish
when they gasp and turn to run
for a wall of water
is one broad way
that the hands of gods
all around the world
may dash disciples wayward
down to pray
and in the ruinous remains
that mark the high tide
of that final fantastic plunge
they find two kinds of initiates
those that linger to question
and those that will never
wonder again
Stephen Huff’s
Tuesday, January 18, 2005

when silver and sleek, the human tongue is easy
quick with smart wit and pinkly, wetly teasing
it is the very sort of thing that brings a man to linger
much more so than a winked eye or a bent, crooked finger
for when darting and dancing, the human tongue is money
its long sliding licks as a printing press inked in honey
stamp out a legal tender to the tunes of moans and screams
that its bankers must believe it to be bad nightmares within dreams
for when plied soft and yielding, the human tongue is love
but it is warfare in earnest, when pointedly dipped in blood
when used as a weapon in anger, the human tongue is murder
that will cut the throat that wags it and happily swim bloody gurgles
Stephen Huff’s
Tuesday, January 18, 2005

I’d like to cut a jagged line through the bullshit
as a bloodletter might cut a throat
I’d like to stand over the corpse of reason
and, a sated killer, pause to gloat
I’d like to carve runes of bawdry rhymes
into the flesh of its rotting carcass
I’d like to kick in its ribs for good measure
before I leave it rotting in the grass
Stephen Huff’s
Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Little Boots, as a small child of war
might have danced ‘round fires at night to sing of bloody gore
Little Boots, bounced on his father’s knee
might have gazed at martial murder with a child’s dumb glee
Little Boots, raised of Rome’s black legions,
must have understood how power transcends reason
Little Boots, when orphaned so young
might have known his uncle as king from the rank of a pawn
Little Boots, who once had a sister
must have relied on her through plots wicked and sinister
Little Boots, so badly abused as a child
must have reigned so briefly in a manner both murderous and wild
Stephen Huff’s
Tuesday, January 18, 2005

I once dipped trembling fingers into a silken sprawl of hair
and dallied my digits in small circles to make tight spirals there
so casual as two lovers having reclined in their steaming bed
I once shared flesh with a woman, then cradled about her head
to ponder the stark forever that is tomorrow and all the days beyond
which must come tumbling down in a torrent even as the sun, too, must fall
yet I felt we two had within the mechanisms of our love stopped time
and I scarcely remember a moment as rare as then, or as fine
Stephen Huff’s
Wednesday, February 01, 2005

as I rapidly roll the note
round about my tongue with some wit
voicing it in repetitions
to bravely get my mind around it
the sounds of the words
come easier with each quick verse
and the more I say of them
the less often they sound worse –
now let me breathe them once more
with a bold suck of wind
before I place them into practice
with a deft slice of skin
Stephen Huff’s
Wednesday, February 01, 2005

I want to write your evening suns
upon endless nights of paper
I want to draw down the broad, blue sky
from realms of inky, black vapor
I want to master stars and black holes
from the safety of my keyboard
I want to send you among demonic hordes
or dash you to bits on a seashore
...(More Reading Here)