[Origins of Smiles] a poem

How gorgeous would your smile be if we
can trace it back in time to the first to ever
see it; how innocent it would be to follow the Nile
to its non-existent source; water has no source
as this world has no reason to be.
It appears on a plain burning with
accidental atoms, widening itself with
the sun’s christening, blessing in
reciprocation all who are to look upon it
It is a source where no one can
create in its place an impersonation
nor reduce it to the degree of
debris

It has its own markers,
as DNA, as dactylogical identity believable
enough is the beauty that is
not interchangeable

What it is is what it was then,
a world of no reason to have become
but became to be as blessedness ensures
when it displays




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [They Took It All Away]

[Imperfecta] a poem

Commence with the feature, the portrait,
the dripping pointillism from the canvas, mirror image
of a fallen patriarch
wilted seeds from the enzyme of entirety,
the febrifuge found in a feather-edge feathered with
photophobia

-the act depends on the scene,
the scene illustrates the act, diatribes
of fact in which the playwright then
reacts, reacts with the last words,
the last doctrine before his legacy starts

-before it stands, as an edifice meant to
fall, against the bend of the wind, the
reign of the rain, the mind of time
the feature commences, the carousel turns,
the blood burns in fury and fail falls in flurry
until the plummet is met, until the
fall itself begets



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [They Took It All Away]

[Transfusion] a poem

….I take courage to grow up to what I will become,
a jackal in the rain, in the storm, sapling merely pulled from a root unknown;

-a deep secret, carrying my own heart, the growth more potential than the soul
can wish or the mind can go,

In the beginning, when light would have never been thrown,
hiding has become easier, the recessive gene, the teaching of method, when
intellect takes and all hearts around me would break, watering my Orchids until
they drown is the only way I know to love, taking light from those with light until
my world once again will be light

-lightning is again here, on the horizon, coursing through the earth as a plague
through the blood, the Cholera still sepsis in the viscera of Tchaikovsky

-the only tune still apparent is the dreaded transfusion I’ll need..



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [They Took It All Away]

[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]

[In a Hypothetical World] a poem

            In the hypothetical world,

everything’s possible,

even possible is this colossal

misadventure to fold back on

itself,

gift us respite,

as we’ve never should have been to

this extent-

-shower-shunned still still nights,

flourished-envy, deeply dark,

mysterious in the intense clarity

knowing we’ve had our share of love,

affairs, love affairs running course long

after receiving a poor prognosis, locomotive

till tomorrow rolls forward,

directly over our beaten path,

and questions arise between us,

as numerous as stars rearranging their

next elliptical,

then the you inside,

the you everyone supposes

acclimates to those suppositions,

planets peering from behind cloud cover,

taking on titles unsuited if only to suit a

more viable presence-

we cannot take into each other each other

when those fragments aren’t indivisible,

individuals defiant, crying in a sad life as everyone

visible sadness has contaminated everyone visible-

-so shall we become invisible?

and will we fall into terminal despondency,

make still our motion as to attract no eyes

in motion?

Always, reckonings punching themselves

out, tiresome the wait will become darling, as

a fighter’s punch is always the last to go.

-Dontrell Lovet't

from [UnderStudies]

[Delta Deep-Sleep] a poem

Fire is the universal,
modern text;
It burns,
scolds,
saturates itself,
molten liquid into the worn hole,
the hole of the mind,
bottomless &riotous,
round-a-bout roaming,
jacking all trades,
mastering none
If we are with a
nobody who wants to be a somebody,
we dream steady;
a somebody with a desire to be
someone else,
we dream as vague
as the passing of a single instance






Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[The Comings & Goings] a poem

A delight,
how the most temporary,
the shortest-lived
bear longevity,
running a road father than
say consistency
hunger compels the
consistent preference to have a taste,
then a marvel of timing
hatches the incubating past,
stirs panic in the midst of sleep,
a chastising chill on awakening,
alone



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Love & Grapple] a poem

The night is deepening
& mechanical life begins to lack attraction

A come-to-soon
to an unattractive place,
voices through all artificial larynx,
more tortured than a catapulting
fear of words,
irritation teeming with every shot
of dialogue;
& we just begun to argue,
love combating love



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Ephemeridian] a poem

How does it work?
The one who wants only the
physical you reigns over the one
who desires the whole of you?
Apparently,
an apparent juxtaposition exist,
between the simple
& the intricate;

A simple man is brutally primitive,
knowing only his primitivism,
unfamiliar with any dreams beyond
The intricate,
intense, almost hindered by his analysis
paralysis, demands, possesses hands willing
to be bloodied if murder indeed
reveals itself the method to equate
what dreams haunt him
& what dream-likeness is absent
when he’s awake


The wish to live day to day appeals,
prevails,
more than a dreamer willing to pull you
into the hereafter,
a limitless man,
devout, dangerous, dosed to
delirium for a love he knows all too
well doesn’t belong to him


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] 

[Be Mindful] a poem

-because I am perpetually honest,
truth-tipped spearhead,
never believe if I am blunt,
I am without care of your emotional
response. You can go through all our days
intertwined ,drastically ignoring
every other sentence spat from
the exact orifice which seduced
you when first we met;
the seldom statements, the only
few, I implore to be regarded;

"However anyone plays it, I play it straight,"
along equally "I don't respond well to that."
As I twirl round, cocooned
in blessedness, where next to me, you
inhabit the larger coddling womb,

I cannot even fathom a day where
trust entrusted to you will be shattered,
shattering us,spilling the fragments to
a mess, an impossible puzzle,
a Penrose Triangle;
and if we are to part from
that posthumous trust,
know that I reserve the pretentious
principle overruling all others,
of never having fucked you over
Everyday I fear the return of that
possession of genius, strolling
arrogantly as the blues into the
heart of the hamlet;
that melancholic blues itself,
in its inmost self,
is bearable in small doses,
as I don't respond well when
it takes to its own direction,
lingering rather swiftly passing over,
overwhelming the light,
failing in fade,
unable to puncture much more,
with a blade dulled and broken
at its tip.


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Just a Body]

[Night-Terror Proof Touch] a poem

Sex is an art of a thousand details;

see her smile, 

watch what makes her react,

construct a night-terror proof 

touch, 

hold all friction & fiction,

now put your mouth on her

body,

leave nothing, nowhere 

untouched, unappreciated

Dontrell Lovet't 

from, [Blotted Etches]

[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]

[Hopeless] a poem

When you have given up on hope,
become the walking dead,
the break of the flesh fails to alert
that evolution where humanity avoids
pain-

-the day and the night loses polarity,
water, that most precious essential compound,
fails to bring relief,
nothing causes shock appeal,
the worst is expect,
and when it doesn’t presents,
the hopeless only sees not a happy
ending but an ending to come

There is a balance to this life,
one that demands if some are uplifted,
others will fall,
for all the laws that life must obey,
we see everyday that chance is
terrifying.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [Labial Laughs]

[A Million More Strokes] a poem

  It worries me that satisfaction may never find me,
that contention is as good as what will become

-after 31 years, a million words are behind me;
I feel no accomplishment, only a vague hope for a million more, that perhaps, somewhere along my path to that additional million, something inside me will suffice to keep on existing
and all that will be left is this subterranean man
and the shell he inhabits

-it is all human to be labeled something unkind all your life
and to one day begin believing it applies to your identity-

but the alternative; 

to live outside of that label
is the great challenge of a man sunken
during sea fare to self perpetually
someday again, I will learn to swim again,

and those levees that have been placed will not give into the tides so easily given life again, I will struggle till the last ounce of inertia, so even in death, I can carry integrity with me

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [Labial Laughs]

[Atlas Undressed] a poem

Someday, this world will be naked in front of my eyes
and I in front of it,

Beneath my skin crawls adventure
and within my mind,
all the nationalities I’ve cum on flutters with
organic flesh where I’ve left an organic mess

and there is more,
more of my carbon footprint and organic suspense,
concaves of blotted mesh from failing through all the rest
through all the pale, pink and bleak evenings, when I’d stare off into the endless distance and wonder when I will again wander.

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [Labial Laughs]

[We've Loved Too Long] a poem

We’ve been lingering
too long,
in this loose-tongued,
loom-state,
loose-leaved love
The gambit has been played out;
those casual strolls throughout
utter irrationality now are
alert to a curtain-close
The remains of unhappiness
were never far off,
drug their feet once exiled,
confident of an event of return


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[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]