Sometimes words of honey
And at others, those of pitch.
A cold trickle of water,
Or perhaps a rotten abrasion.
Words themselves remain impartial.
Only the candy-coating conveys
So that meaning can still be found
In the baying of my rasping throat.
Even when the flow comes jagged
As it does in this faltering poem.
Umm, excuse me?
I am way too waspy for this.
Boiled potatoes, stewed beef.
That is more me.
I find your headdress tacky and
Outmoded. It reminds me
Too much of smallpox blankets.
And anyway, shouldn't I be seeing
Wings and clouds and Jesus?
This is the third impertinent perversion
Of God's number, you know.
(The first being Lucky Number Sleven,
The second being the name Steven.)
You should just let me sleep.
It demurely shakes off the paleo-dust,
A little callipygian, verbal beast.
A coquette of syllable recognition,
And some long interred desire.
A fire I'd grown inured against.
Some arcane tongue sprung up
Between the cracks in our modern language.
It matches a need I have, quite point-device,
Rolling ball, blank ink, point: extra fine.
Come here, little darling.
I won't lose you again.
But the world sees only your awkward corners.
Come home with me,
And let me run your hyphen across my lips.
Never be alone again, until I die.
Confusion begets amusement
Turmoil is tumult, bemusement
So this discarded word,
This jumble of garbage and earth-blood,
Suits this situation better.
The waves pass from the brain,
They become garbled.
The resultant friction from scraping
Static signals evokes distress in me.
I've grown a spoiled, hard-boiled garboil.
I will burn you out of me.
I will find every interstitial pocket of you
and fill it with gasoline and napalm.
If I can get the flames hot enough,
The flesh will cauterize.
I will lose skin, but not my blood.
And if this new scar tissue
Hardens the soft meat of my ventricles,
You can breathe softer.
I will watch as the
Rough, pink claws
Make their mesh across me,
And add texture and complexity
To a once simple joy.
I will let others wonder
At the geometric patterns
Now rising out of my chest.
But my dreams
Betray me in this.
Slinking, silk-wrapped thighs
Softly snaking around my lingering sighs.
Precisely what knowledge
Does this apple offer?
Wrap me in your wings.
Downy or leathered, it doesn't matter.
I'll lend you my heat.
Spinning webs fill your eyes.
My sockets are filled with hazel flies,
So you have my attention,
Oh subtle daughter.
Perform the coup-de-grace.
Today, I am composed
Of corded muscles, love, and scars.
I feel like an oaken core.
Life starts with an effervescence,
But these oscillations slip wider
Each year and shake loose the taught wires.
The quivering energy
Becomes more of a jiggle, really.
However, here is the most danger.
Minds and emotions remain keen and
Added to the bitterness-honed blades.
The loose jangle will send cuts flying
If momentum seeks to topple the system.
In time, though, the bearings will grow
Over-worn, and the swaying ocean
Will find its tides tied into eddies.
Today is where I am,
But I remain transfixed
As deep-pink tissue roughs my skin.
(AKA The Popular Themes of Life and Love Annotated in Copper Ink)
Dawn spreading gentle fingers,
Tickling trees slathered with the colors
Of Autumnal flesh.
The tone of the hair
On a Rust-Curl girl.
The same hue of steel
Being hammered into formed function.
The color of those fireworks
With the second-stage showering sparks.
What has come to me now as
Carnival-glass spheres, reflecting
Distorted images of memories and
Descending slowly into deepening darkness
Like bubbles blown at dusk.
However, I'm trying not to embellish,
So it's simply the titian glory
In a sunset that signals
The loss of another day.
When I arrived in Boston, it dawned on me that I may have taken a wrong turn. The sky seemed gray and overdrawn, not quite covering the sky. My hair seemed overdrawn, too. I stepped out of the lime green and rusted Pinto. A beautiful car, especially if you like a nice warm backseat for your friends. If you have any. I started out on this trip fresh-faced and eager... A photo plate for the world to impress itself upon. Well, that's what I ended up with, a nice negative of the world. Blacks where whites should be, whites where blacks should be, grays all out of order.
I don't even know anyone in Boston, why did I even come
We walk in fine lines,
Melodies that exist in our strengths,
Harmonies in our weaknesses.
The chords we create together exist on many planes.
They draw us together in a unified sound,
But at times that sound is discordant,
And it throws us from one another.
But rhapsodies and symphonies alike
Have heavenly strains and stressful vistas
That seep from their audio plays.
A minor strain is as beautiful as a serial arrangement.
Discordancy tells as important a message as harmony,
And every bit as valid, every bit as necessary.
Wagner knew this, so did Mozart, Strauss,
And even the singularly known Pachelbel.
A play of only soun
Platinum images in my mind form eloquent phrases in my heart. They seem lost in translation to my hand. My hand misinterprets these thoughts, or simply lacks the finesse of a porper interpreter and instead of accurately realating the ideas, it replaces complex combination of letters with droll and unimaginative lines. Such a waste, such lethargy. Though syntax and grammer hold to their sacred vows in each passing line, the magic that once had the flair of all colors in my words has drained away into a colorless miasma of dimwitted prose and verse. The vox of fantasy is wired shut, and all joints have frozen stiff. The iron of inspiratio
Voice in the darkness
Calling out a name
And a pint's worth of shame
False smiles, turning inward
And the dried, crushed, clay
New form, voice, hide
Hide in the lies of yore
A voice without a face
A lost cause without a case
Run away, afraid
Afraid of redemption
To kill the pain
Lost in darkness
Voice in shade
Hiding what true
Alone, sweet world
Saving her pain
Never come through
A voice in shade
Shut out the world
Steadwise, shun the darkness
Like the winter wind, it flows effortlessly.
In the darkness it cries out its desire to be free.
And the hewn white stone calls recklessly,
What pretension of everlasting peace,
That everything must cease.
I hear its persistent cry of vanity.
Calculated, quickly, carefully
It forces me off my feet
An exhalation of triumph found;
A more living truth expounds.
Summer stars fall from the sky.
Jaded memories fade away
Beneath the ponderous weight of time.
And as light falls from above,
There's nothing else for me to think of
But the time I left you alone
With aught but the time and light of day.
But I miss it every time that I'm away.
I have been gone a while. I have written some things in the interim, but am a bit too lazy to put them on here. If you are curious, some of it is pretty good for me, I think. You can find it at: http://mostlyuntitled.blogspot.com/
I will be updating here as I write more in the future. I might even get unlazy and copy over those poems to here.
I have been withholding new poems from DevArt because of licensing issues dictating that I cannot simultaneously have them here and submit them for publishing in a particular literary magazine. I don't know whether you care or will even notice, but once the ones that I have set aside for publication are either published, rejected, or I have decided against submitting them, they will go up on DevArt.