[I Knew to Know You] a poem

I’ve chased you before
though your face is new to me.
I dream of you so often,
nightmares have no place to be,
& intensely alive,
the news of your is always breaking,
the talk of the town,
unanimously unsaid & known
amongst friends who’ve witnessed
my descent into doldrum
faces forward in crowds
cannot truly ever reveal what’s
against an unconscious oppression-
then,

the ones insisting,
persisting on knowing,
flail in wait for a slave to
free them,
inventing little worth
to the mathematics well remaining
a cipher, where a glance stays
lit awaiting an apocalypse
ever-threatening arrival
the fantasy is not for sale,
so this stillness in soul,
this measured, meticulous hope,
can only be genuine
to the world-end degree,
inhaling what’s exhaled



Dontrell Lovet't 
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Unparticular Interruptions] a poem

Even if this room was
without interruptions,
surfacing myself to
affirm flight is a
reality the Josephine every
woman tends to host in their
hearts have scuttled;


Due to remorse,
a new mind I’d never mind,
complete, minor a universe
stirring every absurd intervention
to any single hollowed matter,
the future lies below,
bitter blackberries danced over
by every upright rattle
loosening their hooks to
winter winds,
tinged discs
dying when night falls
& no longer visible to lie
every hope struggling to
stray upon



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Faith] a poem

Leaping across an intervening distance,
what was revealed was that man
has left to bear his very susceptibility
collateral it may be,
he believes,
he has faith,

he steps out on faith even
when faith has proven time &
again an unreliable ally.
But he believes inasmuch
What is the alternative?
to lie and await his definite end?
his finite days to close in a twilight
shudder?

Only half of the story of this life
is told to the child &
the other half is ignored by
the man and woman chancing
resplendence, seeking a paper
womb to re-emerge in,
in yet another far-fetched hope
the placental sea will remove
the universality of pain
and of that metaphysical hunger
that will outlive us all,
the genesis is believed to have
been solid, without flaw;
we see the paradox everyday



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II]

[The Childless Man] a poem

The childless man ages slower
than one who has given his seed
over to more hostages of this world
his walk is slowed, his breathing
labored, his head high in spite of
the lore when his days are over,
so will be his legacy
the bullet aimed at his heart
has been true, its impact a fatal
honesty,

dawn drank from his soul
all elixir of possibility &
away poured all byproducts
of what could have been before
putrefaction flooded his once viable
limbs

what integrity remains remain
in spite of his hopeless condition
when the physician of subconscious
begins to discuss the weather,
though it had not changed since
he was a hormonal adolescent
his warmth is dependent,
death of green, unsplit trees
pulled tree of the earth it appeals to his eye only
in resemblance to life still
culpable, still complicit on
going on,

crackling screams as fire
consumes it without regard
he cannot say enough what
& why he has been led to
childlessness nor will he bring
himself to face those who thought
he should always entertain fatherhood only plead for aloneness,
until he and the child he never
bore dies within him.


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II]

[Rooms] a poem

This was always someone else’s room,
mine, is that room with no room,
a roam into a structure that
shall never give up its place of
obstacle-
& the superstructure, the one
I’ve imposed on myself,
had long preceded the former,
that vacant circle in that
unnamed Romanian forest
said to abduct the living into
the outer realm
this life is only tragic
inasmuch this life is to end;
the superstructure crumbles
with the dimming light,
the blights of stains in this room
will not be removed
this is not my room


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Paper Womb II]

[Mon Jess] a poem

What an enterprise
that holds me center-eyed,
the thought of you thinking of me,
me of you,
and all those years your
being has been all a myth;

I have been waiting for you

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches]

[And all the Battles] a poem

If I told you that I’ve waged and lost
the battle of war time and again, would you
think of me as an invalid who refuses to admit
his disadvantages?

Would you see me still eye to eye, lead me to
that moment where I finally am convinced that
everything will still be fine even in defeat?

Would you call me cowardice for only waging wars
that I know I can win? Or will you, with all your
knowledge of falling on your own sword, warn me
that even in victory, the soul still rests few hours
and that my eyes will know many flutters when all
the defeated are resting peacefully?

If I’ve suffered from secondary infection,
it has been a case of sepsis that I’ve somehow
brought into my own bloodstream,
bright fires, flames dancing wildly to
an atmosphere that has gone without a breeze
since the last century; if we breathe, we breathe the
breath of one another, we sustain on our own
self-sufficiency-

battles will wage, will initiate,
by whose aggravation, we know not,
so we fight,
we fight for the same,
so a victory is always inevitable-

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [Labial Laughs]

[Dread] a poem

Her leaving was her redemption,
a plague was left in her vacancy,
formlessness once spawn from whole cloth
now in full-fledged maelstrom
revulsion and revolution
& before I again greeted
being lost and black roses
springing in spring,
certain ecstasy mapped alone
a voyager falling back on arrogance,
when ages passed with glances
coiling into strands and pitfalls,
terror and blackness
in a cyclic asylum
-the ghost of a beautiful stare,
staring unbroken,
uninterrupted,
and I reciprocate,
knowing all flames allowed
between us will consume me
in immolation


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[All You Are] a poem

All that you are,
is all that you are;
I’ve never asked for you to be more,
never hoped you’d be anything other than
all you are now
The more fire-finch kisses to
your cheek, the more blush my
lips may be privileged to meet,
the you continuously thrilling me to
dazzle a thousand pages, hypergraphia
knows no end,
as no end to you can be anticipated


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[The Shape of Reinvention] a poem

This autonomous man has never undergone reinvention;

there’s never been a need so great to cause such an effect-

-manufacture is for the inane without self-invention,

the cripple of a soul needing some hindrance to project

the how and whys of declaring what should have been-

-nothing that has not been was suppose to be,

what has been was never suppose to be,

we make what has become and what will become,

we will make it as well-

nothing can occur naturally in the soil beneath our

feet; this is a man-made marvel,

standing as tall as the lowest structure

enduring time only by slight chance,

an orgasm by a precise measured fall from

the gallows,

an orifice of either-or differentiation-

Dontrell Lovet't
-from [UnderStudies]

[Gwendolyn's Front-yard Song] a poem

I wander if your mother
is still upset about my ruining
you under her roof

she should have recovered by now;

a lady whose been around
should anticipate what comes
around


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Twos] a poem

If it takes
your breath away as it does mine,
then we are the same
the two of us
exiled,
endangered,
three-times over damn-near
twice defeated



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You] 

[Converge Worlds] a poem

Don’t black out,
don’t pass out;
It’ll end our night,
pass hours into black ends,
when our sobriety returns us to
the estranged;
A mocha latte grande Starbucks mistress
drunkenly paired with a post-modern man,
who takes your panties & leaves your Prada


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Just Being You] a poem

You’re a public figure,
figures you’re in public,
so mind those discernible,
homing phrases,
alighted glowers
Of course,
the sensation of the average is returning,
ablaze as the maddening of a thousand madonnas


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Las Vegas Origami]

If only we can be strangers again,
We can wallow in all those strange & unfamiliar things we know now weren't so unfamiliar

The porcelain past pressing it's need for reciprocation, the misrepresentation never rearing, Las Vegas Origami & regretful marriages happening over shots over night, then our sobriety came callin like two entitled chirping birds 

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches]

[Lies; with a side of Pastry] a poem

Can you smell the
second-hand smoke every
time I’m given second-hand lies?
Aware of the wary,
why worry if I’m unaware?
Why submit to the truth, when
submitting is untrue to you?
If you are to lie,
be an extraordinary liar,
invent tales so extravagant,
even the lies detected within
are a soothing salt to a weeping
wound


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

Liquid Latex

Theater you don't enjoy,
Being the theatre is your thing,
touches of the savage & abberant
flirts with titillating scenes

An entire act can be played out
on top of you, in you, all over you,
stains from drained urethras
tears from pleasure invoke
in nights otherwise joyless

Tell me what you want,
then I'll give you all wants
& let you borrow some of my
very own,
lay test to your flesh in
the chronic quest all muses
must suffer.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [Blotted Etches]

[Liberal Arts] a poem

The courses you take
never seem to determine the
courses you take

A prepared syllabus
contingent on pre-requisites predicts
more-so a revolt,

due to occur at
any sporadic take


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You] 

[On Our Way to the Old Horrors] a poem

The cinemas down the
way always play the
old horrors
we can be nothing earthly there,
two indivisible,
our cadence gripping
& telling our pace on the sidewalks,
the city stilling with every step,
the sound of your breathing
dancing with the pulse in
our interlocked fingers


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Just Look At You]



The Elder Statesman in me,
beloves the unspun texture in your smile,
the way your fingers brush-browse
the decrepit pages of Petit Dictionnaire Classique,
how your skin glistens like Aphrodite out of myth,
enamored rogues,
false in their corruptible way
bone dullness,
companionable conceptus,
swallowed in blankets,
Mezz Mezzrow on vinyl



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]