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Christakos Margaret

Born in 1962 / Canada / English

Christakos Margaret poet from Canada was born in 1962 has 57 years. Poems were written in Post modernism mainly in English language. Dominant movement is other.

Top ten poems Christakos Margaret

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Air Travel

... A soup of atmosphere tugs us backPurple stew at sunsetAll of us levy a coordinated breaststrokeCaptain shouts Heave, ya bastards!You expected comfort? ...

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Birch

... of sun widows me,My head about to gasp, my crown flickers too green,I am waiting, waiting for night ...

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Bringing You Up

... Bringing You UpI take you by the hand and pull youyank like I am ferocious& really meaning it I squeezethe cloth at the back of your shoulderblades into handlesto lift youso you will moveyou willmove ifI have to carry you the whole goddamned way so help meI have a well planned day of definitives:to get to the bank machine streetcar you to daycarethen to work thisI plan thingsto work smoothly& your legs know how to move things up in the worlda small chopper raising fury I catch on my shoulderbawling head first no no nor justicejust one heart muscling in the gutterhow far mine sinks before boarding us bothto meet triumph in the driver's eyewhere I see ourselves merelya bright mess of primary willsbefore that steely & incontrovertiblelook you give the publicbringing your mother up for scrutiny yesup to something measurablygood again What the arms can do for younow that you are thirty-four poundsone third my ideal weightone quarter the real thing I have becomequite impossibleWhat I can lift to my chin to kiss half asleepWhat I can wrestle from sidewalkswhen you pretend to be mineralWhat I hold clear of you when the shit hits my hand& I loathe itthe shit I hold in like a muscle structurewell-toned at the Y I am this whollyabdominal characterevolvingWith every repetition this body impresses me tono endhow I carry you one kilometre in the snow without coffeeor chocolatewithout sex in the morning or the squeaky clean nightbeforewhen what matters is the obviousness of exhaustionexhaustedhow the brain's role in reproduction really must bedebateduntil inevitably on this matter the eyelidsflit updownthe set ending The ShitAfter fourteen hoursthe midwife suggests an enemato make more room for youas if all the shit in my life up to nowis on its way out& in its place you will come Way OutFor example I could live on another planetbut nursing would suffer& the milking blister on your top lipwould deflateharder to begin again with a fresh perspectiveClose up to youI can't find a way out of your gazebrown universe where all colour visitingdecides to stay becomingsome of your spectralvisionThat for now sums me up my usualin-your-face attitude on your way back from sleepbe assured I'm there againmilking you awake& gazingno way out of methough you may wish it someday The pink blaze of your buttocks punishesme too, though you feel it realercries reeling from your mouthsobs that turn to coughingThe special blanket, well operated, wraps you upits hand-sewn stitches hold you togetherthough our friend made it, not medisarmed for months nowby suffusion in the red nakednessyou present to me three hours lateragain I'm so sorryI couldn't sew a thingexcept this burn of lousy motheringto my cheekthe red one on each side yousee me wearing nothing at all throughyet hold me to the moment comingwhen pain stops &suffers our excesses suchlittle children togetherrashbummedrougefacedwrapped in blanketsHair of the womb thatbit us one and the same, what'sthe difference The Moment ComingWhat precipitousness there is between the words moment & momthe eternity I've slipped intosperm into the eggon mutual orgasm my babyfinger into his earwhich made the occasion particularly memorablehim plugged up, ready to popme laying in the memberneither of us having been exactly so obvious beforeabout the universalsymmetriesyou will unhinge Or the other wordspacifiedsoothedby siliconethose two bits of my bodyinfinitely reproducibleinsertablesuckleableif you just say the wordthe loud onethe waaha whole industry will answer Holding ourselves back is de rigueuryour mouth on my breast could bite as easily& I could swell with erotic desireor vanish, insteadYou coax me toward the common interestthe human problem of growing upgraduallydrag me by one nipple to a reckoningwith how sexy we aresoft breast your eye is up against constantlyeunuch skin of your cheek, bellows I adorein a cycle of puffing, suckingchuffing like a pony's nostril as it laboursaround the demands of a premature bridlethis new & more appropriate moralitywhere my tit is a temple nowaround which we gather & gaze & supplicateThe suspense of feelingis killing me sometimes I thinkI will forget where I'm leading you, lapse& feel it& have to pull you off quicklyaway from who I've been in the world up till nowbefore I installed my heart in my mouth& came here like a virginto serve you Your body giggles in the jumping devicein practical bliss as we've planned itcushion catching your anklesspringing you back up to weightlessness& so it goesthe kind of parenting we provide as we scuttlein the sheets, ass-naked & deliberateabout) arousal (we have forgotten everythingoutside the parentheses of platonic loveor do it badly nowonly one eye each on the other's hard onthe second consumed in your all-seeing gazewhose dear focus the sight of us like this mightsplit irremediallydespite the consensual barricade of pillowswe try to protect each other's fuckinghuge genitals from bouncing up overwhile still enthusiastically pursuing whatwe did to make younot knowing whether you will ever let usfind it again As you come through the canalI feel like a football player, huge neck muscleshauling my entire brain far downto where it lived in primordial daysin the pelvisnear the sacrumshaped like an infant's headringed with caput, cartilaginous againstthe forces of history comingThe history that will make it ascend, board itsevolutionary lift up through the torso and ribcagesqueeze past the heart, underfed apatosaurus with its metrerunning out, nudging it off kilter, thendull & overstuffed for a few centuriesidle at the throat, a calcifying lump not quite sureof its trajectory,if there even is oneif it's worthyhow the hell it got hereuntil reverse hydraulics begin squashingbeyond grunts more like modern linguistics itbursts through to the roominessinside the back of the headmy entire head readied like a handabout to cast you out the topgiant whistle into oxygenfor the first time The HellOf seeing your father in youwhen I am angry at himyour eyes flashing from side to sidebetween us Things in the public park we attendare deterioratingThe government cares little aboutthose who are wagelessPigeons and squirrels appear to beliving with AIDSYour fingers wrap right around the elephanthandlebars& your feet hold you verticalI see youat the top of your slidethe high onegleamingI Fucked Maria boasts the wallFuck'n Shit For Brains sings the jungle gymI see you Rather than brawnto make a man of youI choose the story of how I skatedaround a lake at nightsearching for loveIn high school I had so manybrains in my headI couldn't speak& gave these smiles to boysmeaning I can never have youcan Ismall yawn in my lapyour intelligent brain overmy intelligent cuntI want to graft you to meas if you won't becomesoon enoughone of the inpenetrable Songs I make up for you are sung thena dark voice is how you will remember meif I should die before you wakeIf something should happen to youthese are the songs I will remember you laying bya night without light never able to singin the dark againIf you should travel beyond my voiceI shall find you, said the mother rabbitin complete control of the rabbit universewhile I sing to keep youas barely awake as possibleFrom your sideways gaze through the railsmy body shaped like wicker& glowing in the cornerghosts over to the last thingyou shall hearif I have to sing until midnightsaid the mother rabbityou shall hear my pure self If all of the parentslove their childrenthe way we love youthen the world is far moreunbearable thanwe thinkin our newly shuddering skinsraw as adultstrusting in you to change us ...

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G1. Video Technician

... or the sex part, or perhaps theenamourment part, or the languishing in torment after the breakuppart ...

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G3. Social Scientist

... ficant touches, the established vocabularyvolume a / respectable level, and discussion aboutmy skull ...

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Grounds 18A

... tuous we exhausted is yourin included calf beer dawningenuities as sandwich, yet white linenfor will ...

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Grounds 5B

... my breasts out of their bra cups swing low, sweet chariots of milk the babies rode into the sunset, horses rehooved several times, the coach reupholstered for aesthetic comfort the reins gone slack, leather doesn't last forever despite the advertisements coming for to carry me home THEREFORE: my breasts out of their bra cups coming for to carry me home ...

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/harsher sentences

... ynot noticing who the we isnot bothering to make officiala fuss ofher absencethese terrible ellipses ...

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The Lovely Figure

... d review and the cuckoo-sound of childrenEating in the kitchen, my empire clamouringwith good clocks ...

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Lovely One

... Clouds are lovely in the valleyI've known the moist movementreach for its thin shelf of provisionsConsolation over chaos knows plentyabout poured cloudsAnd you've certainly heard about pleasureLess is surely the futureOpals for the momentare sleepful * * * Valley, I've knownmovement reach forshelves of provisionsChaos knows plentyachords and you've--about pleasure--lessSome future opalmoments are sleepful * * * Do you know how lovely are cloudsor about the sound of opalsyou know about this cold portalyou've known this moist movementtoward tone, melody over chaotictopography of love, howvalley hope forlorns the Mondaysthrough Friday's consolation, a river'smontage sleep on sadness, you knowlovely oneArt inside your namecannot be uncoiledno itinerary or marketthere's a thin shelf of provisionsand sustenance to be provenso little's worth saying * * * Know how lovelyclouds valleysound opals about onecolder portalA moist movementtones melody overchaotic love rivers any forlornconsolationMontage sadness art inside nameUncoiled no itineraryor market there'sthis thin shelf ofprovisions sustenance tobe proven opal solittle worthsaying * * * Still--Saying littlebe provisions thin or uncoiledriver valley montage someconsolation chaotic overmovementColder and oval sound clouds lovelyyou, one portalworth the milky shades, thetony huesof love's opals ...

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