Some other Nigel poems

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Heartbreak Perfume

The French chemist Luca Turin
writes exquisite descriptions of
scent, in lyrical prose keen as
his sense of smell.

Each time a relationship ends
I buy a new perfume, because
the old one reminds me of
something I lost.

Every man I’ve loved has his
own half-empty bottle sitting
untouched, gathering dust on
my bathroom shelf.

What made me think it was a
good idea to wear this one for
you, after Turin wrote that it
smells like heartbreak?

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Sisters of nightshade

I blue and quake in this rhythm
of sorrow, and lose loneliness
with you, my verse-vowed one.
The things our voices promised
from hearts of earnest, hearts
of wishful thinking, tremble
apart and from the regretful
remembrances of things we
should not have done and said
come the ends of us.

Our azure promises like rainbow
riches begin to elude us both,
those sentiments of permanence
born on unstable ground, unstable
upbringings; becoming sallow
as goat liver, as acrid as our
vows when we said to each
other we would cleave always.

When you were in love with me
you lied to both of our romances.
When you came to me with old
doubt on your tongue you told
the truth of these experiments.
We both have failed our search
for reassurance, our growings-
up with each other. My kidney
devastated from poisons of
kind misleadings is finally
giving out in the truth of you.

Perhaps I need a painful switch,
a transplant into knowing our
realities of lonesomeness.
Without the passions and bile
held tight within the sphere
of heartfulness in your life,
this parasitic vine of mine
has no garden to grow long in.
I shall let it wither and grow
instead tangy red tomatoes,
sisters of nightshade,
apples of romance,
poisonous fruit.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Charon to Pluto

He is water, he is agate,
he is sorrow, he is bone.
He is the smell of rain
falling on dry earth, he
is the sound of the ocean
when the water is still.
Between his shoulder and
his thigh is everything
the tides respond to, and
the curve of his lower lip
is all the song sirens need
to lure sailors to disaster.
He is the sigh that rises
from the shaded canyon,
he is the sweet heavy light
of dusk in early summer.
It is his melancholy which
cools the air of caverns,
and when he turns in his
sleep the seabottom stirs.
In his eyes is the gravity
of Jupiter; when Io dreams,
it is his body she orbits.
Like Charon to Pluto, he is
impossible, and like the
dangerous wilderness he
is beautiful, beautiful.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Stone-thin

I will not eat. Why should I
obey my body's demands
when love is a far more
compelling command? No,
I am ascetic. I will starve.
I will grow lean, until
the bones are like carved
bas-relief against my skin.
I made the invitation
but you will not venture in
and my hospitality has
decayed, gone to waste. I
set a table like Martha
Stewart but do not taste
the feast I have spread.
It seems months since  
my last breaking of bread,
but while my mouth is
arid, drier than gin and
parched from drought
of you, I will go without
and dwindle stone-thin.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Six chickens and one blind dog.
Goddamn. I go outside and I call
"Chook chook chook chook chook chook"
and six chickens come running 
but one blind dog, he just stands there.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I could smell you a block away,
you whore; your bloom upspread
in the fading rouge of evening
for every passer-by to view
shameless pink ruffled panties.
You'd drop your petals into any hand
that came along, promiscuous rose.