Friday, February 6, 2009

Sorrowful Beings----Discussions

Neon people remove bindings
resemble shadows
bent in angles. They ask,
is gray black?

The dog brings tidings;
the vulture is left with the leavings

Babel is choked with rising smoke
a ritual of angels
music to collide between rests;
geared time fades on the parchment:
morning midday and evening,

night. Gold silver gray and black
tinted by the angel’s roving finger

Mygod is left inside insidious.
hammer falling on iron
the sculptures are deaf
prophets no longer breathe
what spins spins ever faster-

Old Scratch dazed in the field fire
gargoyle in Neon, the poet’s pen-

next or next in ash wood mixed with oil
imprint on shadows
absent of color

The first discussion--Portraits.

What if they killed everyone
than just the ones
they told you
came to steal the children
in the night,

and then he said,

each thief must earn his place at the table.
He said it twice
so it must have been important,

...even more of the drab meater
between worlds
as he was held
by another illicit lover

or how faces coalesce
when under siege;

he knew they had some left
she just hadn’t told him

how much.

The city kept exploding like a flashbulb.

First Discussion--Angels

It was not to hurt too much
to set such gravity aside,

days that pass sweetly
the old man climbing the stone step-

as yet they must be so-

the keys used for the old door
on his hips
like coins too heavy to bear.
the bells are muffled by distance;

in the parchments are words
shuffled they may become
legions, an essence of nether worlds,--

in the rafters the pigeons stare uncertainly
certain of the bond

that the old man scratches at,
the keys tossed on the old table
on which the parchments lie.

1st Discussion-Demons

It’s true,
that even in Winter, she would,
walk down the path to the garden

seeking blooms
her hands often trailing in the frost,
bits of the morning lost
I suppose,
bruised at the touch of petals.

who would fear
death by water
in this day & age
when the barks creak together
so harmoniously,


between Autumn & Spring
when fire cracks in the evening?

The spider’s web
is long abandoned
a tiny twig spins
in a cold wind.

2nd Discussion--Earth

Why does she wait?
For what?--

In Odessa by the sea
the tenements stink of urine,
The churn of the water
kisses the rock strewn shore with spray.

Churn. Why does she wait?

In Odessa by the sea
Apollo tunes his lyre,
rain & occasional sunlight,

lovers settle in the wasteland
fingers wet
with singing flesh,

the grotto moans with their weight,
from both worlds free,
enslaved to love;

Stephen says,
“this supreme quality is felt
by the artist when the esthetic quality
is first conceived in his imagination;”
picking his teeth with a wounded match

still, she will wait
bent under went sky
bruised by callous light
churned lovers
chopped off
white disarrayed
august between infinities--

too much to bear,
they say being god by turns
in Odessa as the sea churns
one less wave subtracted.

2nd Discussion--tat tvam asi
“Life, like a dome of many colored glass
stains the white radiance of Eternity”

Small twigs
like fearsome beasts
peek above the water rocking--

Beyond, the fog is a white wall,
hiding the island of Avalon,

the mountain where Dioce nestles
the long valley of Byzantium,

and more besides,

I bathe in cold water
listening for the rustle of your silks,
your hot breath

the coracle rides on gentle waves,
my pole is a twisted vine
the white wall
towers into the sky;

we may follow the shore,
knowing that it lies,
or pierce the wall
and leave such concerns behind--

all that was
fading in the wake.

2nd discussion--Theory

Herein lies the fact:
within the mime
beneath the rumble of his mind

Chaos tends her garden
just as she always has;
each bean divides half way to the end of time.

“Oh, Mother please just let me be
dangling at the end with a rope
my throat sore
the juncture of my motive
worn & cold
the wind of all this noise
passed within my years,”

“skip this blue for rose”
she says fading
sowing the beans
on the stage
where the mind finds himself

Discussion three--Texture

The matrix sags where I stand
over time I shall become lighter
sleep with Faust on the cathedral steps,
carry Isolt's veil,
climb upon the angel’s lap
steal feathers from his wings
and read him childrens tales;

Delayed us all,
this wicked gravity hung about the hall
with gaunt men watching the smoke fall;

I lean crossways writing obituaries
with a pen
my clothes are loose
like a shroud
my hands are long and pale,
the air is stale and hangs about too long,

the devils in my dreams carry nets
and scream,

I deem myself too heavy
turn sideways and slip through the cracks.
In the dust
there are papers scattered about
husks of dry thought
mutters or whispers
you decide which.

Discussion 3--Laughter.

bedlam, white foot
in yellow sandal, the sea
tangled in nets, snow
in deep valleys waits for spring.
trapped in corners
in the angles as words explode,
implode those eyes, corrode
the walls of sanctum
given over to the holy war

“I is I, mastuh” divine,
somewhere along the way
someone surely--
the crash of metal chairs
sliding across the parquet floor
an echo of loud smiles;

The Centurion wipes his grizzled beard
of stale wine in the sea of murderous glances,
“how brave this sanity” says the decorator
changing drapes yet again, glowing in starlight
as algae shrinks
on the bottom of the window sill;

what matter the shape of the mirror, Horatio,
if Alice were blind-
each copy bled to a startling paleness
blurred edges in those same angles.
Still it pushed its way through,
pitiful in its plea.

Discussion 3--Dog

In the dark, Finn
fiddles with his hard-on,
depicting shadows on membrane;
he counts cunt hairs
in preparation for eternity.

here he is sleeping, here he is,
beside me she says,
next to fresh meat and clear water,

thus that piercing cruelty
will taste sweet when he wakes
when he wakes with a dry tongue
and a bright sword
reflecting the dog star
and the emptiness between.

here is my daughter says the star
wide awake beneath the night sky
wide she is against the earth
and Finn sleeps on
his ardor creased on the edge of the sword--

The splash was ever more bold
than a nick from a boar--

the hound in the distance on a false trail
while Finn dreams the world.

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