Subject Matter
 
Whoever comes, the spending, 
truer end, fit-lake offered for nothing,
come settled on a surface,
come and the gathered senses,
any sort of striated lift, are as stars
that rip apart a face for the soul’s pit.
 
Come is chronology, provoked
sparklines from battered, burning coal.
The red life of blood is an activator
of meetings, all of which are parented
in a batch.
 
Come is a crossed moat of  acquisition,
our come, apparent as an error,
a postality made dirty yet quickly hidden
like a sudden blessing.
 
Easily turned into filth, the silent root
of all civility began its route coming,
our come, every savage code of living,
every animal heart that beats.


 
The Cohorts
 
 are the poke, the blame, the trample
and pursed at for being the ?
and the ?
and tossed at.
 
To circulate a definitive culture,
at open times based in aging castes,
creeds by years by tearful climbs
of tierful timing, rated and bloated,
berated in the young, timberwolf
mobs while proposing those wilds
are a reek on the rest, is sewing
one's own disparage and affliction,
firing the backward pistol,
urinating and singing against
the wind of one's tale, stock,
living breath.



Conduct and Servitude
 
Through daughters as though havocs,
his parsley kissed aside their meal,
and though feminine arson lit his tent,
familial paradise was named and struck.
 
The hark, the hail, the wintery starts,
his taciturnity was proud aged and standing,
and there in the lea were
the slow forgotten worlds,
and lost in their transgressions were
his rages flinched on knowing.
 
The heart was given caesura,
the mouth was given breath.
Eating and drinking and deep in their sea,
the age of  banter for the man and his daughters
was passing.
 
 
 
All the Lively Grudges
 
 
Come and compile the errors in my nature,
and yours–this night will recompel a
nimble day’s vanishing, surf into depth again,
as my character dissipates, as yours follows suit,
and the faults of this moment are
lost to a timely sea.
 
Come, if you can, and bulletin every cruel saying,
each crude gesture;  they are important
to people among people, though the pages
only fade as they’re turned.

 
 
© Ray Succre
 
Bio:  Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Rock Salt Plum, as well as in numerous others across as many countries.  He tries hard. Visit him at http://raysuccre.blogspot.com