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Siddharth Ray Jun 2014
if I could rise up
as a Homer's character
and call for ruler
to ebb the inevitable
if I could call you
before its too late
and move my pawns upon you
casting alchemy
if I were to ever know
to define needs and desires
to be hysterically deviant
before it mattered
if I could have seen
what it would been
walking pavements with you
and having an alfresco meal
if I could have keyed
my grandfather’s watch
to exist again in the moment
and dwell on the thought
if I were to ever understand
the sound of clock and
fading pulse of our hearts
to be nigh analogues
if I could have
seen the world’s ends
and ranged my life
between the extremes
if I could have
borrowed your wings
for a span dolled over time
till the lapse of angst
could this be gnarling fate?
or just our folly?
leaving bated breaths and sighs
for there is no time
for there is no tomorrow
to accord with or may be confute
all the static beliefs and floating IFs
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
A bird in an aurulent billed mud-face,Living as a four foot two inch dragon in a San Franciscan cave,
Lifts off from a hot breathed murmur of Gideon.
Even in night the whole grandeur of movement
Soaking in red beeping heart-pangs
Fasten to the thrusts of his arms.
This post of vainglory was the opening of the year.
In July's open pores,
On a spatial plateau of Dodonian oak.
The Penguin
Unveils his weakened voice.
Flattening into a wide arrow
Draped from Carina he
Sails Westward. Barefooted through the Anavros
Molting under deep helplessness and melancholia.
With his inlaid eyes faced askance
The penguin broods
Among the day's songs
Cast into the poetry of the lyre,
Stretched upwards from Paradise Bay to Colchis,
Where his ebony wings
Soak into the palms of Peleus
Suffering only where the arrows have flung.
Downside up, with children in a pocket of blood,
Among supergigantic siren songs and muse poems
Sewing teeth into a spot of Earth
Races towards a column of toppling strakes.
An Interpretation of the Search For the Golden Fleece

— The End —