( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more

I sit down in class,
Not to work,
But to write.

I sit down to write,
Not about the world,
Not about why.

I sit down in class,
Pen and paper in hand.
I sit down in class and
I never want it to end.

Yes, you heard me right,
I never want it to end
As I sit down to write,
Pen in my hand.

Class could go on, on and one
And on forever more
As I hang in those moments,
In a glance, and in a glance one more.

But, at the same time,
Could I
Live in those moments forever?

As glance by glance
You're in my eye,
Burnt into my mind
For when you're gone in time.

As I see,
That as we sit here in class,
You'll never notice me.
No more than you notice
How you tap your toe,
How I glance your way.

Stuck in these moments,
I slave away.
Breaking my heart
Each and everyday.

I need class to end
As soon as can be,
For in these waning moments,
I cannot come to say
Any of the words
To make you look my way.

With a semester already wasted,
Frozen in that moment,
This time becomes more precious.
I'm left with one question,
And that one is,

Can I pick the moment
To gain your attention from
The distractions of class?
Show my class,
And prove to you that
I'm the one.

Bazooka that veruka
Wage war on your warts
Charge the canons against corns 
And ills of other sorts

Conscript regiments of Rennies
Antacid to supress indigestion 
Establish naval fleets  
Of fisherman friends sweets 
To banish nasal congestion

smear your chest with Vick
To ensure victory is quick
And if headaches ensue
Aspirin will win and subdue

If your enemy is constipation
Let  senna be your friend 
And if your throat is sore
Let strepsils make swift amends 

Show viruses they're not  welcome
Fight back with all your might
Give germs no easy terms
And soon you'll feel alright!

I swat futilely at the moth
whose larvae happily eat
my bedroom carpet
here for my nightly ritual
antacid
teeth clean
bed
suddenly I wonder
at my own mortality
where is this all going
then I smell it again
odour of rancid sweat
only in one small area
but no mistake
it feels as though the moths
and someone have unfinished
business here
a carpet to eat
a life not long enough
to achieve everything
still hanging on
not quite ready to leave
so maybe we never have enough time
to be satisfied
still, no heartburn tonight
and my breath is minty fresh
(I can almost hear those buggers chewing
as I go to sleep)

that must be
the final
indignity
the thought
that comes
and goes
explodes
vanishes
like some
mythical
gossamer thing
that drifts in
your mind the
vision that
completely
disappears
as if some
invisible
sprite had
swiped it
from some
troublesome
cobweb
in your brain
and hustled it
away
that image
that feeling
that number
that person's
eyes  nose  mouth
that remembrance
that funny thing
you said at
some raucous
party a few
years ago
or was it
many years ago?
you can almost
hear the
laughter from
the crowd
as if you were
there again
but what was
it you said
exactly?

and what about
that old neighbor
you liked so much
the one who died
shoveling snow?
a man you knew
for twenty years
and now you can
only vaguely recall
his body sprawled
out at the end
of his driveway
now you can't
even summon
his name
what was
his name?
what was
it?

you would be
grateful now
to dredge up
the very first
time you met
your future
in-laws your
daughter's
first dance
recital your
grandson's first
soccer match
or even that
poem you
revisited
last night
before you
fell asleep
that poem
your wife shared
with you
what was
that poem
about? what was
the title?
the audacious
first line?
all the words
and clever
alliteration
all reduced to
a hazy blur
dissipating
like those
antacid
tablets that
fizzed into
a seltzery
four ounces
swirling
midway down
a plain white
dixie cup you
left
abandoned
forgotten
on the
bathroom
counter hours
ago...could
even discomfort
even pain
be erased
so quickly
so easily
so thoroughly?

Mistakes made, but what good are promises kept if your bed is the only other one on which I've slept? Bearing the scars on our hearts which we wear like the gold time pieces which we are. All the while making up excuses, although they are much more of delusions; explanations of poor behavior. And I'm waking up with bead head, thoughts of you in these tangles. But there's the lingering one that I can't seem to remove. My name flows through the arteries of your chest. Your name ingrained onto my spine, that way I carry you wherever I go. Longing for the way your lips sound out my name, it's burning that spot right behind my rib cage. Maybe I'll take an antacid, but it doesn't seem to pass and, I think I've begun to accept that I will hear your name in every word heard. I've begun to accept that Ill breathe in your scent with every cigarette I smoke. Your taste on my tongue with every word spoken. I'm sorry I'm such a lush, but your name's got me just as drunk and I can't seem to remember what it's like to be touched by another's hand but yours.

Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
                                      First when there’s nothing…
                                      But a slow glowing dream…

Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
                                      All alone I have cried…
                                      Silent tears full of pride…

Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
                                      What a feeling...
                                      Bein’s believing…

Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
                                      Take your passion…
                                      And make it happen…

The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
                                      Pictures come alive…
                                      You can dance right through your life…



As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
                                       Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
                                       I am unrecognizable to myself…

Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
                                      At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
                                      It was black and whispering as the rain…

With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
                                      I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
                                      I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…

Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
                                      Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
                                      I can feel myself fading away…

Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
                                     There was a time when men were kind…
                                     There was a time when love was blind…

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)

Acknowledgements:

1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)

A boy goes home, takes two antacid tablets and sits on his tattered couch mumbling the words ‘she said yes’ to the empty air. I realize our hearts burn for both the right and wrong reasons and oh how did my heart burn for you.