Friday, May 22, 2009
As with other days...
I am still resident in mystery’s wilderness. With the future’s entrance taut as the past’s, a tiny bubble of joy (heaven’s kingdom taken legs) in one of the back-rooms in the yard of my present station waltzes about; a queer tease to memoirs of my seed.
Only managing four audible words: Halo (said with a noose of a whine), Mama, Fine and hey! We sit today watching a bird scale concrete-cracks for bits of dried slaap-chips and like a leaf it floats back to its tree.
With friends under a scotching winter sun piercing viral into sleep-wrung skins – the nauseous belly of noon speaks unto insatiable silences of our make. A slight jest here, a snarl there; with coded languages fingered into portals of a computerized method of talk.
Un-good for the soul’s nerves, the idea of destitution reverses horns unto my love of self – loosing all lovable me. Angels waking my start, transmissions of nightmares by alcoholic arteries knowing I want to go start again from the end. Frothing mugs of beer golden with a child’s piss, should I drink? This is ghetto past-time; salons for women, and shebeens for the lovelorn men.
A comb and bottle caps lie strewn across arid cement flooring… then pleasure’s memory cries for no reach’s brace. The mother seems stricken by unfading abstinence towards these wails, tears soured with other mists of infantile rage. Catching a glance of a plane’s pale tail; only ever seeing such in winter, I recall – and flies inebriated by heat wrestling amid smoke puffs from irate nostrils.
Fluttering wings of a swallow – a twitched communique in feather-weight. A disintegrating tail of the runaway plane, and the engine chorale in the street’s vigil.
I watch the dried gold of a shedding tree swept into drains by intermittent gallant winds. Antennae are watching a sacrilege in moving shadows marked by the day’s slide, sending percussive hooting of a ghetto’s idiom into burning grass clouds. We talk about a pilloried generation spoon-fed dis-education through OBE curricula, the ridicule of thought-bubbles in matriculants’ textbooks - Nana labeling the advent: an inter-generational tyranny. The crying child’s mother is pregnant again (being one in the bag of Adam’s decayed apples bruised by nights spent with a drunkard), but “isn’t the baby only one?” the chef asking with due concern. Blotches of mosquito bites on the child’s limbs; tattoos of poverty on necks of those born unbeknown.
Only managing four audible words: Halo (said with a noose of a whine), Mama, Fine and hey! We sit today watching a bird scale concrete-cracks for bits of dried slaap-chips and like a leaf it floats back to its tree.
With friends under a scotching winter sun piercing viral into sleep-wrung skins – the nauseous belly of noon speaks unto insatiable silences of our make. A slight jest here, a snarl there; with coded languages fingered into portals of a computerized method of talk.
Un-good for the soul’s nerves, the idea of destitution reverses horns unto my love of self – loosing all lovable me. Angels waking my start, transmissions of nightmares by alcoholic arteries knowing I want to go start again from the end. Frothing mugs of beer golden with a child’s piss, should I drink? This is ghetto past-time; salons for women, and shebeens for the lovelorn men.
A comb and bottle caps lie strewn across arid cement flooring… then pleasure’s memory cries for no reach’s brace. The mother seems stricken by unfading abstinence towards these wails, tears soured with other mists of infantile rage. Catching a glance of a plane’s pale tail; only ever seeing such in winter, I recall – and flies inebriated by heat wrestling amid smoke puffs from irate nostrils.
Fluttering wings of a swallow – a twitched communique in feather-weight. A disintegrating tail of the runaway plane, and the engine chorale in the street’s vigil.
I watch the dried gold of a shedding tree swept into drains by intermittent gallant winds. Antennae are watching a sacrilege in moving shadows marked by the day’s slide, sending percussive hooting of a ghetto’s idiom into burning grass clouds. We talk about a pilloried generation spoon-fed dis-education through OBE curricula, the ridicule of thought-bubbles in matriculants’ textbooks - Nana labeling the advent: an inter-generational tyranny. The crying child’s mother is pregnant again (being one in the bag of Adam’s decayed apples bruised by nights spent with a drunkard), but “isn’t the baby only one?” the chef asking with due concern. Blotches of mosquito bites on the child’s limbs; tattoos of poverty on necks of those born unbeknown.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
A Day In Song...
Night’s so lifeless, with too much road-kill
Hidden my head in a pillow to figure its side
Under Orion a green candle
Wobbling into his sea of exploding butterflies
Broken limbs of mine
Pressure of tears
Married us in sleep
Taking us out of our coffin
Eyes that gravely stare
Care to reverse this curse
A pheasant’s eyes stained by misery
Rays that fall on concrete
Like dying dragon flies
For a measure I am selling my soul
Poison the forests in hindsight
An old tattered brain beneath their wings
Ahead a pack of secrets
Ragged and frail
Dark sins against love pull ashen swords
Against Eve without a navel
Hidden my head in a pillow to figure its side
Under Orion a green candle
Wobbling into his sea of exploding butterflies
Broken limbs of mine
Pressure of tears
Married us in sleep
Taking us out of our coffin
Eyes that gravely stare
Care to reverse this curse
A pheasant’s eyes stained by misery
Rays that fall on concrete
Like dying dragon flies
For a measure I am selling my soul
Poison the forests in hindsight
An old tattered brain beneath their wings
Ahead a pack of secrets
Ragged and frail
Dark sins against love pull ashen swords
Against Eve without a navel
After Days...
To day towards winter
A delectable orgy of wrath is copulating on a rosy garden floor – my pain’s bedrock, at winter’s nigh whiskers. Falling from a busted cradle of mended dust, I am close to crying. Finely shady sighs now and again, decaying lids flailed by the wind’s bruising romps -signs on the sky’s billboards… the chill is here. I need be hashed in wool, fur-sting on a moist neck; a foaming mane of madness.
But, my sickle and hammer rag is all I carry under this crude sunlight.
A slunk pace (walk of the dispossessed) towards the browning park again; a fired brain and sewer breath – haven’t had a toothbrush for weeks. Township cage-work spluttering my pivoting might - draining patient pores of sweat as I wait in this molten glitter of a noon’s sun. Wind bridling my jaw-bone; winter is early this year. Riches from faded pockets won’t barter a beer for my tarred saliva; and damned bees are lunging at my sweetening face. Dirt on the palate - dead skin, of an un-despairing outcast prowling in nakedness of brute nerves. The shakes, jaw-bone ferric with cramps… word-noise receding, soul’s tempting storm thundering ineluctably – the poet’s circumlocution becoming acrid smoke that lights my eyes.
Fly-blown fog of passion sweeps past – scattered with other authentic blossoms, snares and invidious comments that made swords of all my loved ones. Words’ tide abated yes; but I feel tears burning. Heaps of gore-stained apologies sucked with the sea of mucus flooding my nostrils. What eternal sunset will forgive me now? Are these the gains by my loses?
A pack of dogs amble by, sniffing cold soft grass, following shadows of past defecators and lapping other stranded odors - leaving me slightly amused. What past trail had they lost? Had I lost?
When evening drops its grey steel cover, misted panes drip tired breaths as monster-rats toss steel-wools left with un-scraped pots leaning against lavatory walls. Hung rags cleansed for tomorrow’s sloth dry under an odd moon’s breeze. Murmurs of flushed deposits linger in the air’s whisper; children singing gothic limericks at a night hiding today’s secrets from those who are yet to awake. I am loosing something here; a human offering from sanded palms; vicarious ruse of phantom repentance.
Then, a wasp crawls into a rusted pole, and a tingle like crystals in my arteries gnaws by arms, legs and face.
A delectable orgy of wrath is copulating on a rosy garden floor – my pain’s bedrock, at winter’s nigh whiskers. Falling from a busted cradle of mended dust, I am close to crying. Finely shady sighs now and again, decaying lids flailed by the wind’s bruising romps -signs on the sky’s billboards… the chill is here. I need be hashed in wool, fur-sting on a moist neck; a foaming mane of madness.
But, my sickle and hammer rag is all I carry under this crude sunlight.
A slunk pace (walk of the dispossessed) towards the browning park again; a fired brain and sewer breath – haven’t had a toothbrush for weeks. Township cage-work spluttering my pivoting might - draining patient pores of sweat as I wait in this molten glitter of a noon’s sun. Wind bridling my jaw-bone; winter is early this year. Riches from faded pockets won’t barter a beer for my tarred saliva; and damned bees are lunging at my sweetening face. Dirt on the palate - dead skin, of an un-despairing outcast prowling in nakedness of brute nerves. The shakes, jaw-bone ferric with cramps… word-noise receding, soul’s tempting storm thundering ineluctably – the poet’s circumlocution becoming acrid smoke that lights my eyes.
Fly-blown fog of passion sweeps past – scattered with other authentic blossoms, snares and invidious comments that made swords of all my loved ones. Words’ tide abated yes; but I feel tears burning. Heaps of gore-stained apologies sucked with the sea of mucus flooding my nostrils. What eternal sunset will forgive me now? Are these the gains by my loses?
A pack of dogs amble by, sniffing cold soft grass, following shadows of past defecators and lapping other stranded odors - leaving me slightly amused. What past trail had they lost? Had I lost?
When evening drops its grey steel cover, misted panes drip tired breaths as monster-rats toss steel-wools left with un-scraped pots leaning against lavatory walls. Hung rags cleansed for tomorrow’s sloth dry under an odd moon’s breeze. Murmurs of flushed deposits linger in the air’s whisper; children singing gothic limericks at a night hiding today’s secrets from those who are yet to awake. I am loosing something here; a human offering from sanded palms; vicarious ruse of phantom repentance.
Then, a wasp crawls into a rusted pole, and a tingle like crystals in my arteries gnaws by arms, legs and face.
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