Poems by Colin James
Not so small as to be implicit
page 16 of Tarot #3
The nearest available tenured professor
is many, many miles away.
Our directions therefore are clear,
printed on laminated paper no less.
Proceed through the Plethoric Forest,
crossing very fat spring streams.
Oh joy, the forever singing
poverty is my duty, supply-carrying
sherpa bearer is willing to die for me.
Guilt is my grandeur,
not the Purple Desert Mountains
that point skyward like young tits.
A flat-roofed house is just now discernible
although smaller than planned.
The morning is cool.
Smoke rises from a chimney—
must be burning dilettante hearts.
Thongs for the Ages
page 25 of Tarot #3
I am phoning to physically thank you
as in mutual masturbation. Not so
completely sure how this works since
I am getting a competitive image.
The winner just finishing off his high fives,
proceeds to the stairwell
past the ponderous fire door.
Ignoring a large group of opportunists
that mispronounce every vowel as if
we were fucking a Norwegian.
If this is music, it is independent
of our intended rhythmic lust.
Greed is some nutter’s interpretation of modernism
page 40 of Tarot #3
Cash is the drug of choice.
I’d hidden mine
under a large rock like in
the film Treasure Of The Sierre Madre
guarded by a growing monster.
What’s in your symbolism?
Thought about such things afterwards.
Oh yeah, I see what you mean,
kept hanging around like coincidence.
No water but plenty of booze.
Cigarettes I enthusiastically smoke them
despite my spotty lungs.
Everyone knows the heart pumps blood in
you get out what you get out.
Surviving is not the point.
I’ve left a little do ray me for you
if you happen to find this note.
The likelihood is you won’t.