Buried under beaten earth, you tread the world in moose-fleshed false transgressions. I cherish every moment within those walls of smoke and bound memories. Somehow you’ve managed to decode the genes of Freya and sew them into the fibres of your household. Bundles of classic women pour from your attentive ear. Yet you miss my own acknowledgments; I do share your enthusiasm, but my words spill forth to show you my deep core. You stand before me as a monument to my past, confronting me with that which I had once so abhorred. In you, I have found much needed relief from my years of self-loathing. I thank you, my Cheshire contradiction.
Dedicated to Mint Hinged Garden
Pressed between tooth, cloth and questionable liquids, there was an apprehension. Understandably so. It wasn’t what was wanted, but it was so deeply and intrinsically needed on such a primal level. There it was, scorched beneath the skin, forcing its way to the surface. Admit once again and this time with clarity. Checkered thread yields and falls for being too short. Let it crumple with taffeta, denim and wool until left behind is all but the most delicate of pre-fabricated leather. Tempered over ages of stagnancy, it was perfect. Tightly, so tightly and so painfully needed. Layers piled of black and gold thrown loosely across the threaded colours: these are the things we wish to see and that which will provide warmth during these times of everlasting cold. There is a love, unsaid and unacknowledged which begs to be released and splayed across walls of streaked sunlight. The mornings have not heard maladjusted deviance in so long. Where to begin? Age passed and garishly trimmed, unfaltering dedication. There has been so much effort placed upon an outcome which calls from the reptilian underground. Stems and vines: rooted. Yield, accept and discard preconceptions. This is just the gate, plunging into deeper ataraxia. Yet, as time so sickeningly crawls, first grant this.
Response to the Sea Beyond the Night
We dreamed for home port, but remained lost in the currents. You see, we set our longitude on minute calculations of the past: every constellation a burning reminder of infinite joy. Though long dead, those points burned on and shined through our sails. Lapping against the keel was every whispered word, converging into noise drowned out by your shattering silence. I tried to speak, but every word was captured and thrashing against the hard net of our entangled lips. With no one but us, transfixed at the bow, our vessel drifted. There we were, lost in a glacial sea of which the saints wish only they could drain. And oh, how it did. For loss of years and want of shore, it emptied. We waited. Moonlight whipped us white as the fishes escaped the drought caused by our own whistling sails. Absence abounded and after punctuating the hushed noise, the shore came to us.
The Apocalypse of Cap
I am accosted on dual fronts by twin loves. I hate my hands, and my scars embarrass me. I believe that I am judged for my tar-y throat. For that, the love of my right hand will fail. I can’t help that I repeat myself; I’d dedicate my anthology to one I never knew. That semi-porous stone: if I knew its history, I would know all there is to know. I still hate my hands, and I cherish the tearing of my plastic fingertips. My mouth waters through the blood. I forget the pain. It was only ever in my left hand.
A Non-Ideal Savior
Another downfallen day. Though beautiful, it bites with lead injections and cold and loss of miracle. Fervently remembered in never-ending dearth. Is that all we are? I wish on clocks and light bulbs, hairs and lyrics. Anything that will make this wish come true. Do you pursue the emerald pooka in order to forget? I know he numbs the pain. I’ve been here hundreds times before because I had so much I needed to forget. Unlike you, I employed his friends. I know now how much I need you. Maybe we should build a ladder, something that will let us rise above flared leggings and broken hinges. I’ll be the one to haunt the kitchen with heavy boots and itchy sweaters. Yet, it will remain unspoken. Nothing to be done.
Dedicated to Baccalaureate
Oh, old iron: fluid beneath my fingertips, I’ve heard of how you held the saviour’s feet and how you housed a hundred years. But now, she ties you back as though you’re barely there. You, iron, are the frame and clockwork of humanity and provide the ticking of veined muscle. I say, “rust.” You tap my own steel and pop under the pressure of relativity. What were we then? Bound in words and rhyme of years and leaves and languishing. And you did spin. You twisted wildly upon that stage and provided structure to the stone. Oh, beautiful iron, how marvelously have you trumped bismuth.
Drinky-drink
I told her, I need her but she wouldn’t stay for my song
She told me to wait, but i don’t think that I can be strong
She ran through the cloister and hid beneath silver-drop moons
I chased her through thickets and rubble of fall away tunes
Dionysus. Help me.
Flow through me.
We ran through expanses of soviet muckings about
And never once though that anything would ever be found
Shotguns and wives’ tales and sweatshirts bearing mickey mouse
Were all that were there in the ground that’s surrounding my house
Dionysus. Help me.
Flow through her.
It never occurred to me that she would be Capulet
Grasping my hands at something that I never could get
All that I could catch were handfuls of fluttering bays
I’m blinded from truth by the light of my own brilliant rays
Dionysus. Help me.
Flow through us.
Nietzsche’s Twilight
Let me show you love on the other side of night. It will hold us like the grip of a needy fire. We shall wear the garment of darkness, punctuated by stones beneath our eager feet. Starlight will pierce from every angle, holding us in place before the elegance of the spheres. The propaganda of those graves will force its weight upon us as they echo and stumble from the grass. Finally, we will fall and slip into a passionate sleep, gently guided by the kiss of dew-fall.
1st Sonnet in Forever
There are many things I’d like to say,
More like confess, is what I should have said.
Everyday, I’m acting out the play
Of scenes and acts taking place in my head.
I’d like to stop. I want it to be real.
But I’m afraid my words come at a price:
That if I were to tell you how I feel,
The gentle cord that binds us now would splice.
Everything I’ve worked so hard to build
I know would topple down without remorse.
But if you’d like to know the thoughts I’m filled
With, please don’t shy away from my discourse.
And if you took the time to read this poem,
Why don’t you take the time to use your phone?
Uncle Sunder
Hours, minutes and days slowly crawl towards an inevitability. They yield underfoot as walnuts: hard to swallow and they stain the sole. Persistence. Patience and…what? There’s some quality lacking. Oh, gentle Herrick. You prayed to him and now I beseech you. Guide me toward your complex simplicity. Let me sing of beauty. Have I even seen a bower? Your frustrations, Saint Bob are echoed in melancholy, make-up and love songs. We were there. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s still not where I left it. What was it? Lists and carnivals and absolution. What happened? High rises, kings and little messages I kept in my pocket. I paused. The scenery didn’t seem to have the cathartic response I was hoping for. Instead, there was anxiety and longing, compassion and… It’s gone again. Was it something to do with “origin”? You’ll have to help me recollect. Together, we can remember. Isn’t that right, Bob?
