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Robert Sheppard
Mute Piano, Riga
This box could house
A stethoscope or
Paintbrushes its
Leather strap sags
A conspiring smile
Unclip the lid in
A double-thumbed
Ritual of rhyming
Clasps and prop
It open a jack-
In-a-box grin of black
And nicotine octaves
Three there potential
But one key escaped
Gives the game away
A peep-hole to the void
Imagined
Mechanics
beneath
Coal-grained
Half-frozen fingers that
Soothe the smooth keys
And then in a furious
Double-fisted cluster
Rattle them with the
Padding stealth of
Rats upon boards
Stealing moist bread
From mute mouths
Cinna the Poet
He drives into
The roadblock
To the treachery
Of his tongue’s shibboleth
Rain leaves sheen
Beaten gunmetal
Gauze of low cloud
No light to freshen
His image peels
From the shades
They strive to abolish
His name
20 July 2008
Song
for Patricia
Que tal se van d’amor gaban
Nos avem la pes’el coutel
Everything you offer creaks
at my fingers, grips the distance I’m
too hard. The body must be tended
tenderly, a quiet coming
covering your mouth. You
plump me up. You flirt
let the bob and the zip plunge safely
on my face. I lift my
self to my knees to be wrapped
over, fringing, liminal mound.
The veins in your neck tighten
around your teeth, tasting your self.
We wriggle our tongues in each other’s
spilling-over rather than reaching out:
a gentle invasion, the hollow still,
nosing back the sheets to find ourselves
through the mesh. Brushing over
I narrate myself, contract around
your heels making me tip on my toes
ready for spaces within, a face to
fall into, a body wrap. I cannot
see the smile on your face. I
could cry out at this moment large
tight buds for you. A little shudder.
Now you sink, I look at a blind eye.
It looks back, tight with song.
16th July 2005
Women She Tells
Women she tells him
are gaming with this
name that soft palms
proffer
to stimulate their own
under the table
guest. A scene spare-
pricks her consciousness
too long to be perverse. One
undecided finger
doesn’t make her
a man a woman
’s unsure reward or
delirious punishment
to host the celestial bed-
springs! Breasting the hot
gushes she throws herself out
of herself. Gusted.
Displacing
himself, dis-
pleasured, her potent-
ial kick-start-kisses
become his gutsy part. He wants
to want a share involving her
involving her kind
of revolution.
He takes the parts
apart to long
where the longings now belong.
She spoons him into her mouth
with her long finger like like like un-
like the hints and gists
she wants him
to pick up, as he does. Along
the well-licked approaches to
her enshrined sphinx-smile,
her fondest
abuses tempt him
to bug her
automaton drag-kings.
August- September 2004
Copyright © Robert Sheppard, 2009
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