Two poems at Bat Bean Beam

Late pregnancy and early motherhood have eroded my poetic commitments these last three months.  I am remedying that, slowly, by taking up my duties again at both ends of the archive.

In response to this post:

Papa Freud
or mama writer
dance atop
that leaky cap.

All kinds of fluids
seep and spatter
all kinds of fears
are here, on tap.

To stop them now’s
an urgent folly
the barons’ mess
an oily trap.

And in response to this most recent post:

Plangent or strident, the laughter of Foucault,

heard late at night from the after-hours exit.

Such a perfect storm, the “gay cancer” story

it was too good a tale to belie the truth.

Book Foucault’s ghost a direct flight to Asia;

put him down for a tummy tuck and lipo, no extra.

The world brought down by petty bourgeoisie:

too bad to be lying, too good to pass up.