Cleaving Tsukamoto Kunio

Some Poems for Tsukamoto Kunio

“You have restored an
important part of Japanese
aesthetic sensibility that
had been forgotten in
Modern Japan.”
—Mishima Yukio

"Zenei-tanka"—the avant-garde school of short poetry

"Cleave-tanka"—new avant-garde school of short poetry

early spring day—today
a country—on the brink
of economic—collapse
while my—boyfriend
nails me—on the sofa

hands holding—a rose
hands holding—a pen
hands holding—my lover
his legs—around my neck
blowing my—brains out

hidden inside—a velvet glove
a steel—wedding ring
manhandling it—won’t quit
liquid—explosive words
a dark gadget—pink head

all the way—from rooftop
garden—down to the basement
a leaky—water pipe pierces
all the bedrooms—and lovers
of our apartment—building

even while—I watch
heath ledger—dark knight
the window—leaks cold
beams of light—into the room
from the—steel fire-escape

from a tokyo—pigsty
to a kyoto—penthouse
power lines—extend thru me
when he—plugs me into
the withered—sagging futon

because—they’re retired
saved from death—by money
and good health care—this
condo of rich—famous retirees
doesn’t—stink like a graveyard

only when—his Taser©
runs out of—go-juice
his dildo batteries—dead
only then—the voiceless
hum of his—electric guitar

a vase—on display
at the—fancy mortuary
so cool—so cloisonné
saying—rest in peace
with class—expensively

as night falls—slowly
over Japantown—tonight
his shiny stomach—the young
life insurance salesman—comes
selling me—instant death

pulling back—the clean
white sheets—of a motel bed
a straining—double-barrel
shotgun marriage—waits
hiding under—a pillow

stalwart—Olympic gymnasts
strut around—with gold metals
hanging down—from ribbons
around their—muscular necks
veiny like—testicular cordage

before deluge—after deluge
the gurgling—aquarium always
clean—with fresh water and
new fish—swimming inside a
Sodom & Gomorrah—douche

Mardi Gras—morning-after
on the wet—pavement
in the French Quarter—where
a dead drunk—pretends to
be deader—than I am

on a blue—dystopian day
beyond the—land of Atlantis
where once—suffered
too many—reincarnations
as a fat woman’s—poodle

on the lake—floats a rubber
slick and—skanky as ever
like a dead rat—closed eyes
still enjoying—the shame
of having—passed-out again

standing still—by the cabana
Bayliner bobbing—by the dock
under the seagull—scudding sky
I wonder—if death is really
twilight gold—or just tinfoil?

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