"corrugated" poems
And it is braided with silk, but woven of plastic-
-materialistic; corrugated ridges on burnt iron legs.
But to the streets of suburban deforestation,
Her influential deciphering - infatuated - purged
Of seamless equations and reincarnated followers,
Abides by the diamond-bleach, the sultry circuits,
Poised in the foetal position for the last - yet first -
Time.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
pageants of pageants
fractals and hype
of faceless terrors and faceless
inside
when rain on corrugated iron
when rain and the kettle boiling
i know i have taken too much time
i have taken time from time to decide
to realise i was only wiser before trying.
Patterns of paradox haunt
the terms of all desire
tussock grass on paths
that cuts the thin skin
and sticks
and a view to nowhere
some leaf in autumn
the hope of finding
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 4:50 AM UTC
These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.
I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****
I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.
Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.
And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs
until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.
I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
TO AFRIKA, THE POWERFUL GIANT WHO IS BOUND, TEARS AT HER OWN FLESH AND CAN NOT SEE HER OWN BEAUTY
How long shall we grind our teeth?
As old man's bones crack to the beat
Of their picks digging white man gold in black man land
Afrika mama, you soul is sold
Vuka Afrika Mama
Ikati lilele eziko
As vultures tap dance on your corrugated iron roof
Hyenas point and cackle baring sharpened tooth
All the while you slumbered
They shackled you and tore your treasure asunder
Now is the time to break free
Clear those scales from your eyes so you can see
How long shall we cry these crocodile tears?
As the swollen belly babies, eyes filled with fear
Watch the queen who bore them, cowered in the corner, face to the ground
Battered by the head of the household, asserting his authority
No mercy to be found
Zijonge Afrika mama
Ubone ubuhle bakho
They lied and said your ebony skin wasn't beautiful
At all cost remain dutiful
Head bowed, queen uncrowned
All the while you doubt yourself
There are those who eye and pillage your riches
May our united voice bring you to your senses
Lest you find yourself stripped naked, while balancing on fences
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
The shrill wake-up call of a rooster
Even before the crack of dawn.
The faint cawing of crows
to let the world know
it’s time to leave Slumber land.
The flapping of wings in unison
before flying away early to catch a worm.
The desperate call of a baby squirrel
lost somewhere and seeking its mother.
The cooing of pigeons on the roof
reminding you to pause and
listen to the Sounds of Nature.
The rumbling sound of thunder in the distance
heralding a heavy downpour or two
soon to be followed by the fierce rain
giving respite to the parched earth.
The rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops
falling on the corrugated tin roof.
The whistling of the wild wind
on a cold, stormy day.
The first cry of a new-born
announcing its sojourn
from the womb to the world outside.
The gurgling of the waterfall
rushing to mingle with the river.
The rustling of colorful autumn leaves in the park
trampled upon by children running around.
Then the sounds of silence at night
interspersed with the sounds of crickets and frogs
and the sound of barking dogs at a distance
coaxing you to retire and
wake up to yet another beautiful dawn
to listen to the Sounds of Nature.
Gita Ashok
9/10/2010, 11 am
________________________________________
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 9:41 PM UTC
Let’s take a silver train underground
to the back streets of Atlantis
thru the corrugated iron roots &
then to the peak itself, to the
saddle of the last ridge past strewn
boulders,
finally meandering thru cascading snow
wearing miner’s hats on the perpendicular
dark night &
going up to the edge of the Southern Cross
where we reach at last the pure white
glistening glaciers &
begin to chant over bones in rags
of Scorpio
Armless in the sticky substance how could
they ever have had a chance?
Permission will not be required
only poems of blood offered to
the memory of TREE
It is not ice which is eternal
but the fury of the absolute
separating the void from the spirit
of man,
uplifting like life when it is used
against itself,
that is, Radical Love -- & again, we
are reduced to living beings
Caught by the instant
we are taken away
We live in the imprint of the flame
& we are helmeted within the internal
blackness
where the ray begins its passage
across the indignant sky
Vain clouds uncaring in a tangle of
crossbeams
culminate in the hermaphroditic mirror
of the epileptic dancer
asleep
And during sleep
the light is joined
to the light
It is all a matter of getting up
and then to abandon the pain
It is there that the journey beings
in the self generated flame of
Spontaneous Combustion
(Swayambhunath)
The main line running counter
to the triangle comprising the
MAELSTROM, the DOLDROMS & the
SARGASSO SEA where sleeping Atlanteans
dream forever,
this line, this battlefield of the ages,
crosses the divide of my most wandering
backdoor heart.
We will all have to go
if we want to reappear
in the rhythm of the ritual
It’s the wheel of fools spinning
over my bed
If I put my left foot first
they will find a way to call me
by that name
tracking tremors
like glyphs
on drunken walls
in the negative palace
just before taking eave
of my senses
the white powder dissolves
in the sunlight
& making noise like a peacock
he hops on one foot up the mountain.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
*Weathered oak of ancient age
Sandblasted by Sirocco storm
Ribbed and dry and redly sage
Deep corrugated graining, worn.
Grown on hillside far away
Far, in England’s verdant land,
Hewn by artisan of old
Hewn by axe and sinewed hand.
Hauled across a raging sea
By barque of seaman’s sail and hope,
Washed by salted wave and gale
Lashed to deck by weathered rope.
Dragged across hot dunes of sand
To a land called Galilee,
Hauled by He, betrayed by man,
Upon the hill of Calvary.
Hoisted high by Roman hand
Stark against a leaden sky,
Red blood stains on oaken cross
On which His Crown of Thorns shall cry.*
M.
Easter Sunday 2014
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
A flamingo in a bright back garden is grooming it’s feathers. What it sees from the shade cast by the statues of ancient Gods and facing an incarnation of the Buddha is a mystery. Balanced on one foot in a corner pond covered in dark green pads and innocent opulent white lilies it peers down towards the warm tiled floor. The limestone slabs are etched with chalk hearts like fortune cookies next to hopscotch and drawings of monsters and men. I am a scatter-brain, but I cannot feign an understanding of what this bird is looking at, and so fondly. Parched dead leaves not cleared from autumns past dwell below a dusty circular patio table mixed with used cat litter and fallen grapefruit that have dropped from the tree above. Though most of the colour is muted or bland there are infusions of vibrancy from the vermillion bed sheet to the violet bloom of clusters of flowers that pierce through the vines and corrugated iron. My garden at Giverney without a bridge in the centre of the picture, there are instead are two chairs. Comfortable chairs whose metallic legs and arms glisten in the light and whose black pleather fabric absorbs the heat of another wild day.
The flamingo is a strange visitor to this garden that is mostly derelict and sparse,
It’s gangly frame leaps out of the water ***** it’s wings and departs.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
*the lotus floats on waters
silhouettes dance in spastic-joints
a sombre-figure with a spiky do
cavorts behind invisible-mirrors
which reflect the lost motions of unchaperoned-pedestal
in corrugated-shadows*
don’t forget to lift that hem a little higher, lady
and give over to the pulsing rhythm
undo your leather-strap, it’s enough to whip out some frenzy
do what you want: you’re not awake, anyway
what have gone and done, dear girl?
is true-love to be found in the arms of a bearded Japanese?
yes, open that white blouse of yours with the silky-buttons on
while your eyes pearl-glaze over attending-cliffs
hold that slow-unfolding palm over your breast and
let busy aglet-fingers shake loose some nuciferous-reward
stems hold up sweet-flora and its waiting-petals
the gyrations match the ripped-space in your ceilinged-heart
slow-motion coy-boy on stand-by in heated-debate
where stickety-words carry the burden
of
knock-out honeyed-pleasure
high-pitched comes and you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be
than to fit your explosive jigsaw-piece up my nostrils
so that I can finally breathe
lithe and limber
*later, when you nod off
your dreams’ll take care of lost-thread and thorough-floss your mind
yank off the binding-straps
take it down muddy-banks into pools of upside-down sky
and the only light will be the reflected-glint of moon
as it winks its very firm OK*
S T – 21 nov 13
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
I'm disowning my name.
In America, my name is cumbersome
and clumsy
and confusing
so I'm leaving it behind.
See,
my name starts with an S and ends with a Z
and one's a mirror of the other
so they're like bookends
for a collection of letters
that spell a name
that I never really felt belonged to me.
Every morning, when I wake up,
I wriggle into my name
but it doesn't feel quite right.
It's like borrowing your best friend's jeans
even though she's tall and skinny
and you've got a hundred generations of Puertoriqueña swirling around the blood in your hips.
I don't like my name
cause it doesn't diffuse across your lips.
It bursts through your teeth.
It's got a weight on your tongue
that brings down the sound with the weight of
a thousand sinking ships.
I've got a
Hispanic Titanic of a name
but my skin's so white
it seems impolite to claim an ethnicity
that only lends its elasticity
because of my father
and the people that brought him here.
My name is not me.
It never was.
It is an anchor that keeps me on the island of what my family used to be.
I am not a race.
I am not a category next to a box on a sheet of paper.
I am the syncopated heartbeat of a tribal drum.
I am the ****** whisper of water on the sand.
I am the sunburn on the corrugated tin.
I am the hunger in the stomachs of the working poor.
So when I die
let me not be remembered by
fifteen letters I did not choose
seven syllables I did not select
three titles I did not ask for.
Let them tell stories of
what I did
where I went
what I saw
who I loved
the words I spoke
the thoughts I formulated,
ignorant of my race
free of bias and prejudice
and preconceived notions
of what I should have been
because in the end
none of this will matter
I'll have no strength for words
but with a penultimate breath
I'll still be able to smile.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
steel is what controls me,
steel emotions wrapped in spikes,
steel skin holding you back
steel eye hiding my vision
but I'm growing tired of steel
I'm angry at its coldness, the grey flesh and cold heart
the agony of never being warm,
my friends are the same,
we draw our time from the fix,
lets melt ourselves down
I'm braking free
me and my barbed wire birds
I'm done sitting on the fence of angst but not being sure
if I can climb over
I'm done being a nothing following the crowd between rows
of steel and barbed wire
I'm done dancing between laser beams
and nightmare filled dreams
I'm taking my heart in my hands and running ,
Ill treat it like water slipping through my fingers and the only way to survive is by running faster.
so much faster.
Ill not let my heart slip through my fingers as my wings begin to spread me and my pack
of barbed wire birds,
our wings are made of corrugated iron folded to points
and the motion of flying stings my soul
but ill fly
you'll watch me glide
we will dive of the edge our hearts in hands
god
you'll see me fly, broken bleats from broken wings
bound together with the lust for more then to feel steel against my skin
because I'm flying northbound for warmer skies
lets glide past the the equator and through the tropics
I want to feel the heat that would melt a man
we are the hearts
we are the gods
the deity's of my minds
ill build shrines to myself just to scream
WE ARE THE HEARTS
my soul beats free as my barbed wire wings
no longer am i wrapped in steel
Ill take you with me, swap your heart for mine
scream like banshees
a technicolor passion drives me forwards
we will lay down ourselves to show you
as you sit waltzing through your strip wire fences
Ill turn them to wings ill float so high above you..
Ill scream at the 5 am light and bring up the sun
the world is yours
I am no longer a sheep
guided by lack of sleep
we are a pack
guided by our hearts
by our love
powered by our bleeding
battered
damaged
broken
barbed wire wings
L.G
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Foster child of silence
What did you say?
You were always instructed to smile
It was a woman’s way
Your smile is corrugated
You eyes sheathed in despair
You yearn for a rush of happiness
You wear your masks expertly
Until your hidden emotions bleed
You pace and pray to make them go away
But you cannot stay sane in this facade
White padded walls embrace you
Until your soul is cut in two
You finally speak
But no one listens to you
No light on the horizon
Only darkness that ties you down
You don nakedness
You plant your feet in a potted tree
Hoping to go back to a place, safe and serene
Instead on the cusp of losing your mind
You hear voices calling out
Telling you that they love you
You look all around for them
But remain alone in the padded room
Your mental illness you cannot control
It is the monster in your heart that wants to let go
You gather your strength above no other
To put another mask of sanity on your face
You play your facade expertly
And you are released for a time
Until you become a danger to yourself or others again
Where is your gratitude?
Just for today
You have been given multiple chances
Of a second chance at life
Remove the lock and key from your soul
Seek help and slowly let the pain come
Don’t let it drown you
Some memories have been taken away by God
Other’s have endured with his assistance
But what is wisdom and life without trial
Begin to forgive and begin to heal
Let the dragons come head on
With your family by your side
You are not alone
Speak your voice or ink your pen
But do not be a victim
To the demons inside
Take off your running shoes
Go barefoot in earth’s paradise
Walk to the ends of the Earth
And God will kiss your blisters away
You will no longer be despondent
No longer suffocating in your silence
You will remain on the path to freedom
Break from the constant
Begin to live again
Free yourself
Find the courage and the voice
To say goodbye to the old demons
The harmony in your heart is your life giving force
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
And these men that made the land,
That wove their dreams with dust and dirt,
That needed death to know the flower,
Men of the corrugated country.
Men of bones,
Propped in the rusted windy ruins,
Who watched the movement of the birds
And bartered life with sky and earth.
Men of the drought's bare-cupboard cradle,
Biblical through plague and famine,
Who struck the water in the stone
And fought with flesh to swell the soil.
Time's weathered toys,
Who sought a garden in the sand,
Where the withered streams of the dry season
Flowed with flooding summer rains.
Men of the dark deserted spaces,
That masked their ruined stars with drink,
That fed the shadows with strange desires
And drowned the broken plough with tears.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Dear Angela,
When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed?
Dear Angela,
Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy?
Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more.
Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then?
Dear Angela,
I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
Alone
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
Feet
Interaction
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
He
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
Hidden
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Oblivious
Of walking
Logan Robertson
11/24/2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
We found a new world,
yesterday.
Ordained with holy numbers
and d-a-s-h-e-s-
by modern priests in
blanket
white
cloth.
Pious, singularly
unromantic men.
Reaching for this sphere
it is into an unnamed sea
amid unmounted peaks
I shall fall,
a willfully disobedient
boy who drowned
with a hunger
that surpassed
all worldly sustenance.
Though perhaps it’s for the best
I’ll never walk its corrugated
G a s e o u s
surface,
for an epoch of chastity
would be corrupt
by my abrasive soles, my cutting
words, my fallible conscience
and mortal skin.
600 light-years?
I’ll save us both the effort.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:43 PM UTC
The displays
Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;
Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;
Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;
Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;
Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;
Foreground
Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
The afternoon was excessively humid
The earth seemed a seething hot furnace
Dark clouds were gathering overhead
Lightning drew florescent patterns in the sky
Thunder boomed and rumbled
A few sparse drops of water hit the window pane
The air grew dark, leaves shivered
Soon the rain pelted down in torrents
Drumming on the corrugated tin roofs
Spreading a dark curtain between the eye and the sky
It poured down in full fury for about an hour
In no time it flooded the ditches and hollows
But its might slackened and it vanished as quickly
As it had come, like a messenger on an urgent errand
The day was dying and I witnessed another rain
The rain of insects into the sequestered freedom of the night
Termites and white ants, sleeping in the hollows
Suddenly emerged from their lairs in thousands
Out of every crack and cranny, every fissure and hole
From under every boulder and brick
Winged termites emerged, fluttering about dreamily
Never knowing they were on their first and last flight
They all flew towards the bright light in the porch
But striking against the concrete ceiling
They fell down one by one, some losing their wings
And creeping on the floor, like wounded warriors
A quivering swarm of insects, a clumsily moving mass
This was the harvesting time for the geckos
In one and two, the lizards emerged from their hide
Flicking their tail, they stood ready for the catch
With their darting sticky tongue, they began
Devouring the insects, hastily cramming their stomachs
Until they could hold no more
When the insects began invading the inner space
I switched off all the lights and went to bed
The cool air and the sonorous but rhythmic chants of the frogs
Put my sleepy eyes into sound slumber
Early morning as I woke up
I saw the porch strewn with filmy wings of the termites
They lay like scattered chaff after the corn has been stored
Also some weak survivors, staggering to their end
I thought, to what bleak fate, the exodus of insects
Had taken off on their wings for their maiden flight!
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
The Munster Blackwater
had a steely, corrugated,
cloud reflected look about
it today, sooty, in fact.
Paisley said he would
never give up the blue
skies of Ulster for the
grey skies of the Republic.
But The Ulster Blackwater
has the same hue as ours,
so tell me then, what is
the cause of that Mr. Paisley?
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
During his afternoon break
and her half day from work
they met at the back
of his house by the woods
where the corrugated
iron garage stood
she in her grey skirt
and white blouse
and summer jacket
and he in blue top
and jeans and hair
combed in the Elvis style
slightly greased
she talked of the store
she worked
the customers
the manager's moans
the poor pay
and he listening
as they walked
through the woods
hand in hand
she animated
her voice clear
as dawn's light
he liking to hear
sensing her mood
thinking of the school days
the year before
how easier it was
back then to meet
that time in the gym
at school in lunch hour
and later
that hay barn adventure
and that time
they got caught out
in the rain
and were drenched
and how his mother
let her dry and wear
other clothes she'd saved
they reached the edge
of the pond
and stared out
and over the watery skin
the ducks
the swan who'd
settled there
and they lay
on the grass
dry as hay
flowers weary
from the afternoon heat
birds singing
from branches over head
and she lay back
taking in the sky
hands behind her head
and he lay beside her
commenting
on passing clouds
the shapes
and what they were
he sensing her there
her hand
her body close
to his
her raised leg
the way her thigh was
the eyes of her
gazing upwards
the blue gazing
at blueness
and he thinking
of that time
by this pond
they last came
and she kissed him
until his lips
were sore
but now she lay
and talked of clouds
and what the shapes
may be
or of work
and how it tired her
no kissing of lips
or caressing hands
on flesh
just the lying
the idle talk
the sky above
the slow
seeping away
of a former love.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
In God’s mind,
there was infinity.
a slowly whirling,
glittering,
eternity
of terrifying bright night,
full of
flames that sprinted in ellipses,
and marbled floating globes with
golden belts of grit and sand
all this,
tethering His earth with their
gravities.
In God’s mind, there was
a glassy-toothed plesiosaurus,
smooth-skinned,
dark-eyed,
soaring through the
airy
green
deeps.
In God’s mind, there was
a rumply, wrinkly boulder of an elephant,
curling his corrugated trunk
shaking his curving tusks.
And in God’s mind there was His Child.
In God’s mind there were His children:
heads, feet, hearts,
muscles, nerves,
veins, eyes, and hands and mouths.
all these.
And once upon a time,
in God’s mind,
there was a
small,
feathered thing.
light-boned and fragile,
with a pert, sassy **** to its head--
a daring rascal of a bird!
It had a thin, flat tail like a paintbrush,
that flicked and bobbed as though
held loose in
an artist’s indecisive fingers--
As for the feet, their scales were like a lizard’s
gray, scalloped ones,
fringing eight skinny claws--
such a small bird!
And the wings --He smiled--
the wings were the best part,
those bronzy-edged feathers,
as neatly lapping over each other
as shingles on a roof.
Ah, yes,
in God’s mind there was
a sparrow.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Becoming something of a legend
cast out from far away
alone in a castle upon the darkened hill
lives the person of today.
Trapped.
Long ago you vowed
to become something grand
one day you shall release
slip out without a sound.
Cursed forever loner
you live within these walls
invisibly Confined
and break away you shall.
The corrugated gates
of your own sharp sexuality
awaiting the clerical moment
when the barren gates break open
by kiss you shall be free.
And spill forth forbidden riches
whatever they may be.
But you are a vastly legend
alone
kingdom come is your only home.
Blackened night is your frame of mind
color buried iced sublime.
A ghostly haunting
in tight black leather clasps
in cold clipped metal chains
you snip your way
you slice your path
though through the peril
grace is slain.
Past the autumn winds
winter seeks its call.
You are a complex monster
who loves it most of all.
Confined inside your castle
you might hear the call.
Collecting cobwebs
Collecting dust
Collecting heartache
Collecting rust
So the edges start to fray
and in each corner that you find
lives a hope that soon one day
you’ll have some piece of mind.
To be loved beyond what mortal words can say.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
Corrugated tesseracts
Are enlivened under blood gorged membranes
The barrier to a cool coral maze
Of still shoals, the palest pink
Permanent waves folded
Into a frozen tidal sea
And here is the world of worlds
That makes of us, ourselves
A dimension that can't be trespassed against
Where we are always home
Inside spider woven neurons
That talk only to each other
Or to god
They relay their subsonic messages
In penumbral patterns
Translated into dismembered tongues
And ancient relays of concordance
Telegraphing farthest emotion
Into clairvoyant flesh.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC