Poetry of Jonny Alexander Nay

I heat the spoon to cut through the ice-cream more smoothly   Melt a milky path. I raise it over the stove-top which burns in deep crimson slowly warms the silver spade Then I plow, through layers of cream like some archaeologist with an unappeasable sweet-tooth I scoop and level my findings onto, apple-pie, or dark fudge, or fruits. There’s the stuff that makes the young or old, ladies and gents tongues twist, and mouths drip with anticipation. and it never last long.

Why should my hair fall out so early? Was it my skin, like a yellow milk. Made my hair slide from their roots. Was it my hands, Unnerved and yanking on them Made it go. Was it my age? Nineteen, and old as I can be.

Orchids, should burst with color! You sit, swaddled in cloth of darkness Behind closed doors, funeral reception. all alike, alabaster china, un-broken, un-chipped, un-smugged. An example of purity, resonance in the universe. A perfect sphere, hand of sunshine, tracing out reflections on a mirror of water. In black overgrowth you sit, aged, pettles wilted, delicate I wish to clasp them. These moments is not your the years, and everything is as it should be. Here, there, now there is nothing of sadness and nothing of joy. But all of the universe, with great weight! Why not, burst with color. Change the facade, the facial hue. In this wooden coffin, dusted, falsity and preservation. Orchids, why not. Become anew!

What is half-done? If there is death, which makes things run but not all is marked in destiny. In the runs on the skin there is Infinities look! nuzzled against your tender side   I chase down words, forms behind a pale gaze. Your eyes hide inside Principles, that will not wilt upon a kiss But are heavy, and solid, and will sink.

Birds whom are dead on the banks of the great salt lake Salted in brine, blackened by sand, Dried into husks, feathers turned to wax paper Brittle bones break under tired tides As you Sink in shallow water and dissolve Tiny pink life dances near your curled spine and your beak stuck agape, to taste The salty drink of this silver lake

I got half legged stopped to drink and sleep awhile at the mountains feet I slept and wept to wake and walk stand alone where the water’s deep Deep in the sheen I saw the brink Should we fall is too far to see