Selections from "spare"
Playlist by Verse
Spare at first seems like a catalog of lucid dreams but soon reveals itself as a map to an ancient dimension still lingering among us. It is a place both mystifying and damning, where the earth itself speaks and the strangest creatures living there are people. One cannot be sure whether the pieces within it are recollections or incantations. “There are traces in the sky of what I mean,” writes Lundeen. Those traces are Spare.
1. coaxing the sky
Georgia Lundeen
2. tower
Georgia Lundeen
3. i feel like…
Georgia Lundeen
4. near
Georgia Lundeen
5. knit
Georgia Lundeen
6. a lullaby for us lonely
Georgia Lundeen
I found God,
sitting on a hill of feathery sand
in a foreign land.
Noticed the sky was following Him;
granite-pink ground and His black hair.
Of course, I asked Him what was wrong,
licking my lips,
yearning for His
flashing of eyes.
Only He sat so idle now,
rubbing ink on His wounds.
Yesterday they were bleeding
over His astral thighs,
Exquisite sharp features pressed,
sweltering against His palms;
the palms swinging erotic at the sky,
oh, that is why it comes,
noble blue.
I watch your hands as you paint me
into your walls and unmentionables.
I seep into them like water,
like apocalyptic dye.
Your hands, smudged so beautifully,
bloodied with acrylics; improbables.
I look at them and I falter,
I'd like to give them a try.
Use all your languages for me
until we are raving Unstoppables,
clinking glasses at an altar;
for we are the best Most High.
I love it when you don't look at me;
instead, keep sketching impossibles.
Don't call me Ishtar's daughter;
go ahead, tear down the sky.
Ex nihilo on an infant stage,
a circus clown groupie
half my age,
a tender apocalypse melting the clouds,
a sorceress quaking
in narcolept shrouds,
a volcanic concubine beating you starless,
a quilted insomniac
greedy and parlous,
hawking some prints of a haunted tattoo,
making love to my murderer
as a thank you,
twitching out poems with seizure-esque ire,
salacious and sullen in
phone-tapped desire,
selling my soul just to buy all of yours,
eating the plastic off
dumpster-lined shores,
a goddess all flailing in rainbow-flanked snares,
your mistress depleting you
of all your wares,
a ribbon, a tilt, a depraved fairy's wand,
a moment, a seamstress, a tiger,
a blonde.
Bury me like the Pharaohs,
a pyramid tombstone,
my heart now at rest,
no more need for bread.
Look up at the stars,
that is where I am flying,
with gods,
a god,
up and over your heads.
I built the Puma Punku,
with basil-scented fingers,
lemon thyme-scented hands,
working blue yarn across needles,
or ancient drills into granite.
I curl up inside a handmade quilt,
triangles, pyramids, grooves;
I chip at andesite with diamond hammers,
and lift boulders with my
megalithic mind.
I slide the pieces together,
like the loops of a blanket;
walls and temples.
I curl fabric and cities into being,
with my eyes closed,
the quiet rush of creation,
the silken hush of a life
and constructed up
There’s a world
and it wants you;
still, I know
how to hide you.
On a ridge, we look down
to the grasses, see the grasses flow and
hear the sound
of my breath on your clothes,
and take hold of my strength,
before we jump,
before we meet our fate.
There are traces in the sky of what I mean.
Anything you’ve lost I’ll find it;
Take your home-grown soul
and plant it in your spine.
There are no more worlds
except for yours and mine.
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