There will be
No more poems
Written
With adolescent sperm
And
Heart's blood.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Theorem on Love
In the moist clutch of a taciturn termagant,
The mural man writhes in a cold pond of silence –
Immersed in mar and
Unrepentant of sins committed in dreams.
Serenely chronic endearments graze the floor;
A corpse
And a lacuna of wartime eyes
Panting paranoiac affirmations of truths –
Truths clogged in the dry-rot of a room.
The wind confides their secrets to the traffic;
Glass beads and tears shipped along eye-shores –
Eyes that could not feed a prisoner’s thirst,
Yet,
Love was felt an institute of repugnance;
Execrable excuses treading their bed-post –
Imbecile hearts poisoned by fires of felicities;
And other penalties of love’s unconscious conquest.
The mural man writhes in a cold pond of silence –
Immersed in mar and
Unrepentant of sins committed in dreams.
Serenely chronic endearments graze the floor;
A corpse
And a lacuna of wartime eyes
Panting paranoiac affirmations of truths –
Truths clogged in the dry-rot of a room.
The wind confides their secrets to the traffic;
Glass beads and tears shipped along eye-shores –
Eyes that could not feed a prisoner’s thirst,
Yet,
Love was felt an institute of repugnance;
Execrable excuses treading their bed-post –
Imbecile hearts poisoned by fires of felicities;
And other penalties of love’s unconscious conquest.
A day towards a new reside…
An incendiary peal of church-bells in chorale – Sunday morning in the junk-room of a scotched country-side. We are near a line of tropic – and today, hitchhiker worshippers flock the heat blizzards of winter for sakes of charities. Piety hangs like rags on flags poles of cheap hotels; somewhere a city miser yawns after a night of binges with trailer park hoodlums and highway prostitutes. The fun is worship here; virgins know a rewards of heaven dick bound – reveling in farm foolery with drunken truck-drivers.
We are nearing a praetorian town – a signpost carved in grim letters that destined my past schooling: SETTLERS – an ink-blot on a map to tatters; a former reformatory, agricultural landscape. I pubed incarcerated there for 2 stolid years – boarded with louts and troubled clans from my arrested age. Young and initiated into cotton-picking and animal husbandry. A shiver of recollections. I recall riding those crop strewn plains with my father after gambling bouts in some austere resort slots – listening to Maria Callas – loses quelled by the night’s staccato silences and inaudible sights. Star tails of white stripes crushed by fugitive wheels – those were ritual dare-devil moves swerved around gravel roads and straight, yet narrow.
The normative radio dawns from far-off casinos, belched fed with machine diets from 24 hour parlors – dead foods and coolers from a sea of bleeping souls. I lived a phantom then, memories layered in cinder of conquered ambitions. Metallic anguish of a pot-hole jerked automobile jolts me from the reverie and soon I glut my mind upon tales yet to foretell my sojourn among those I left five years prior. And now that the pervasive hooting of another ghetto idiom, languished prints of concealed nostalgia takes tide beneath the excrescences on my taut skin. Selfishly I realize I love that penitentiary, but age betrays often such many of memoirs. Once near the purple blossoms clogging drains – at those street crossings of a friendlier city, I adorn my archives with the light of inquisitive fingers nibbling my soiled soul.
Inevitably, the black of pennilessness will assail me still – in the glare of new millipede street havoc. Every newcomer does eventually loll along with freaks of this wild rhythm toned by dry-bread hoarse intestines and the languid burn of fresh water on an empty tripe. Yet, I have returned to these fangled left-over visages of this mannequin city – waging my raw war like a draft in that geography of earthbound, stolid faces painting each day’s wake bloody. I am here, bilious with uncertainty and groped into a labyrinth of my uncontrollable tomorrows – at thirty, wishing that I in wretched penury would have died at birth, than to traverse the silted cobble of life’s famished paths.
We are nearing a praetorian town – a signpost carved in grim letters that destined my past schooling: SETTLERS – an ink-blot on a map to tatters; a former reformatory, agricultural landscape. I pubed incarcerated there for 2 stolid years – boarded with louts and troubled clans from my arrested age. Young and initiated into cotton-picking and animal husbandry. A shiver of recollections. I recall riding those crop strewn plains with my father after gambling bouts in some austere resort slots – listening to Maria Callas – loses quelled by the night’s staccato silences and inaudible sights. Star tails of white stripes crushed by fugitive wheels – those were ritual dare-devil moves swerved around gravel roads and straight, yet narrow.
The normative radio dawns from far-off casinos, belched fed with machine diets from 24 hour parlors – dead foods and coolers from a sea of bleeping souls. I lived a phantom then, memories layered in cinder of conquered ambitions. Metallic anguish of a pot-hole jerked automobile jolts me from the reverie and soon I glut my mind upon tales yet to foretell my sojourn among those I left five years prior. And now that the pervasive hooting of another ghetto idiom, languished prints of concealed nostalgia takes tide beneath the excrescences on my taut skin. Selfishly I realize I love that penitentiary, but age betrays often such many of memoirs. Once near the purple blossoms clogging drains – at those street crossings of a friendlier city, I adorn my archives with the light of inquisitive fingers nibbling my soiled soul.
Inevitably, the black of pennilessness will assail me still – in the glare of new millipede street havoc. Every newcomer does eventually loll along with freaks of this wild rhythm toned by dry-bread hoarse intestines and the languid burn of fresh water on an empty tripe. Yet, I have returned to these fangled left-over visages of this mannequin city – waging my raw war like a draft in that geography of earthbound, stolid faces painting each day’s wake bloody. I am here, bilious with uncertainty and groped into a labyrinth of my uncontrollable tomorrows – at thirty, wishing that I in wretched penury would have died at birth, than to traverse the silted cobble of life’s famished paths.
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