The valley of his youth is going slowly bald El valle de su juventud va lentamente calvo A sad fate in any language for, the sky opens up and loosens river slicks whereas the breasts of his love could belong to the moon and god knows she was one frigid chick! the names. and the prohibitions. Those unspoken words that talk volumes through a suggestive glance. So, what if an empty gesture was now his only friend The trough of youth sending up smoke signals like the mist rising off the river while the mountain hides in the air of hot-geysered hubris, dam this landscape of testosterone and stubbled grass, where cattle break turned table legs in bunny sockets while elephants rest in empty back pockets, and in their shoes a lather of lust and essential sweat, black floods as you see a host of compensations signed upon the wall reservations old men made warhooped-angry cries the battle lines drawn, young men cry “fuck it” girls and women rid their hair themselves in screwed anticipation devoid, as he himself, of the living image, pictured now in memory. And so all are hairless the little fields of the valley floor have climbed its sides as broadacre paddocks that burn under a hard sun. Cattle hooves cut deep ridges into ground where wallabies once played invisible games and possums swung in branches while owls swept by on powerful wings and tiny bats danced against the moon. so you see, the landscape is a toupee – to cover thus the valley of his youth And it doesn't matter if it's going bald
31.1: POST-EPIC
Released 1 December 2009 - 1 August 2010Index of Poems
Editor/ Producer: David Prater
Each of the poems in this issue starts with a line from a poem in EPIC. All lines are in fact comments that were added by readers. Scroll down each page to find out who wrote what! Or read the post-epic post-mortem.
El valle de su juventud va lentamente calvo
A sad fate in any language
for, the sky opens up and loosens river slicks
whereas the breasts of his love could belong to the moon
and god knows she was one frigid chick!
the names. and the prohibitions.
Those unspoken words that talk volumes through a suggestive glance.
So, what if an empty gesture was now his only friend
The trough of youth sending up smoke signals
like the mist rising off the river while the mountain hides in the air
of hot-geysered hubris, dam this landscape of testosterone and
stubbled grass, where cattle break turned table legs in bunny sockets
while elephants rest in empty back pockets, and in their shoes
a lather of lust and essential sweat, black floods
as you see a host of compensations
signed upon the wall
reservations old men made
warhooped-angry cries
the battle lines drawn, young men cry “fuck it”
girls and women rid their hair themselves in screwed anticipation
devoid, as he himself, of of the living image, pictured now in memory.
And so all are hairless
the little fields of the valley floor have climbed its sides
as broadacre paddocks that burn under a hard sun.
Cattle hooves cut deep ridges into ground
where wallabies once played invisible games and
possums swung in branches while owls swept by
on powerful wings and tiny bats danced against the moon.
so you see, the landscape is a toupee -
to cover thus the valley of his youth
And it doesn't matter if it's going bald