Poem By Indigo Hawkins

All I am is in
& all the ins are out.

The annual dispunct:
a Real brass bombast burst
this anima thirst, a monolithic durst
of unceasing war & piecing, cymbals
clattering in an iconoclast montage.


Last year a year ago a postcard
from Paris came to me drowsy,
complicit with a subject insistence
upon communal solitude: a clumsy drum
imploding in a cavity of swollen matter.

The Days of Awe, you

Dadaism, a dove, the moon face above
has nothing to offer: no meditating goddess,
no calculation of god, only sleep.
While the saints wait to gather here, woodwinds
are ululating futile desires into the darkness.

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Other poems of HAWKINS


'Let the love of harlots be sanctified.' ~unknown woman

When you come to me, realize I behest
no edifice. Love me in a gutter


“Oh my God.” A murmur of disbelief
pierces the ruckus in the room
quirky lips draw downward, a grim
ghoul maligning a jubilant face

I Will Be A Story

the day began as a mirage.
dressed in the garb of a wise king,
i dab frankincense on my wrists

I Am Afraid Of Churches

I read the bible for the poetry and for
the love, or at least I did before
I became afraid of churches.
My fear of them stems

Double Helix

crushed diatoms, sea salt, juniper, driftwood,
sunburn, windburn, rap and indie rock, clean snow,
may beetle, cinnamon, cloves, gingerbread, campfire crackles,

Heap Of Random Images

-There is no Why.-
wet walnuts, mellow daffodils
a vat of cider simmering psalms