"cyclop" poems
A privet hedge..a broken gate the House with a roof tiled with Welsh slate,
a broken half open window from which the light throws shadows on the lawn..G'awn be off with you a Cockney voice shouts out.
The Camera pans.
A street,quite neat and real rare around these parts..two lovers on the corner sharing hearts..as if they could beat as one..
Move on there movie man the cop shouts from the black and tan.
The camera pans.
Traffic light that's stuck on green..a crowd gathers." I've never seen the like "..An old girls cry.."Someone will get hurt or even die,call the police "..as if they would bother their fat *** cans..
The camera pans.
It spins and spins upon its pins and captures you and me..and writes in Avatars of cars and flouting clouds of blues and whites,which balance out the unfilmed nights when cameras close their cyclop eyes and digitals tell no more lies.
I rise early like a bird..I heard a camera crew is coming down to film some scenes in my home town.
An expectant hush
An excited rush and then
The camera pans.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 1:34 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Appears a ghostly vision, fog in from the sea.
As if sentient in movement, shrouds all in it's mystique.
With a cyclop eye, lighthouse lends a mournful wail.
While specters breath dampens all, your marrow the chill impales.
Out of sight, crashing waves, sound loud as if they crawl,
following the living mist as it breaches the seawall.
Seeping round panes and doors, into every crevice.
The very air liquefied, a grey oppressive presence.
Wood smoke blends it's flavor to the tang of the air.
In hopes the flames beat it back, keep tendrils from drawing near.
Slowly it tastes it's fill of wooden planks and blood.
It leaves a sodden salt strewn smell seeming to just dissolve.
Folding back on itself, returning to the brine.
Fog waits yet another morn to return to shore and dine.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
It's not easy speak
or a Speak Easy
when conversing with him,
dark'ling gremlin toothless grin
but he's your friend so I carry on
with Yoda in the corner of my mind
"judgmental you must be not"
and Comicon's collective excitement fading
as the light will do in the west...
We speak easy with the circling
of the communal pipe
crystal peace in mists of glass orbs
oil burner fog horns
piercingly in & between my ears
but its not so easy to ignore
the scent of death in his halitosis
We spoke of Superheroes
their idiosyncratic identities
His secret celebrity crushes
envying Green Lantern’s ring finger
he speculates on Cyclop's orientation,
"Y don’t you make me an X man, professor?"
Informatively encyclopedic volubility,
Mike speaks queerly and toofless
yet well versed on oral
said he rims pacific beach boys
(And I can smell the white lies
wafting from his mouth)
as I color at his studly fairy tales
and his idolatry of prepubescent innocence
the hyper kind of **********
as he verbally recalls the taste of how sweet
the sweet untouched were...
*"The most gorgeous boys I’ve ever seen
in **** or anyplace on the face of the planet
comes from and are probably ******* now
in Europe... Mmm, European boys...
I want to use my life’s savings to go there
enter the war zone and come back wounded..."*
I can't even imagine
Shrapnel jacked backside, points and protrusions
grandiloquent mouths and holes full of
enunciations...
"Fourteen is the age of consent there..." he is smiling
a caricature of a wolf *** fang less
Such a pseudo wanna-be
possibly already
********* friend from the broken rainbow factory,
how I chuckle uncomfortably
shake my head disbelievingly
oh the humorous horror of it...
(I'm grinding my teeth, until I notice myself
doing so and get an image of him
with a gummy grin,
I preoccupy my thinking
nodding as I half-heartedly half listen)
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Transgression of the poppy field,
An unseen divide.
A step into his forest, was taken,
The Baron's precious garden, his pride.
Hounds, carrion birds,
Three days since released.
Tamed to pursue his game,
Escape to the prey would not be a relief.
Gradient of the path,
Can only lead to the mire.
Mammoth or Moth regardless,
Eaten by the murky pyre.
Hand in hand,
They, the Baron's past time;
Ran three days from the manor
Blind, in stillborn moonlight.
Scraping, stumbling, falling.
Roots drink their blood.
Prey and prisoners of the night,
In the forest of the evergreen flood.
Groping through the dark,
Evidence of fear in torn faces.
Vines their shackles,
Their stench leaving traces.
The baying of the Shamans,
Ullulating in alien tongues,
Became songs singing
Of lives in the forest undone.
The Forest, never once
Did it disappoint its master.
Earthly bane, poison sap,
Nurtured by her, the mother gardener.
She emerged from the swamp,
Naked, a lipless face.
Devoid of two limbs
Bearing the Cyclop's curse with grace.
Hopping faster than sense permitted,
One legged she bustled.
Towards the six hundred sixty seventh and sixty eighth.
She, a mass of bone and muscle.
As her Master would have it,
All life must be extinguished.
The Child, with rope she suspended.
High at the treetops the form diminished.
Before the Man could look,
The Child's head was no more.
An inverted fountain of blood erupted,
And drizzled upon his nose.
Frenzied he ran, tears stillborn,
Drove himself straight into an iron stake.
Dead eyes looked even as the Baron's champion said;
"A Hunter always knows his Master's estate."
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
...and the guy with one eye said...
This street like the street before and a thousand streets like this street have had the feel of my feet on them, every cobbled stone and cut throat crack have touched these soles and they came back again to touch on the pain where each street is the same and who do I blame for that?
In the corner, Cyclops mutters as I through muddy gutters crawl and bawling my tears into ten thousand years don't make it a lake.
Take me back to my beginnings where I still had thoughts of winning before the **** crowed thrice.
ps the **** was nice,
we ate it with some french fries and a small glass of Sauvignon blanc,
I wanted red wine, the **** was dead, fine, and you get what you are given if it's living that you want.
I want for nothing now,
the prodigal returns but save the cow he gives us milk and the hands of human kindness slow caress as smooth as silk,
It had to be
the man with one eye only sees in mono
I am stereopticon
gone the blinkers,
open wide,
let Oppenheimer take his slide, but again I take the Cyclop's side, I like him, one eye guy, 'Mr Mono' my oh my he doesn't like it when I call him this.
My feet kiss street that's all I know.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
I know this b/c I was told by a palace eunich
who bore silent witness for centuries; he & his odalisque
wife who tends the sacred flame & bears prophecies
from the gods when they are not too urgent;
otherwise Prometheus passes them off to Hermes
who then informs Dionysus;
but when Medusa goes below his belt & discovers
she has been secretly married in Vegas or Hades;
her shade honeymooning in ***** which resembled old Beirut in those days; as if twere her own mirror’s image
she shopped for big colorful hats & wore them
to ceremonial parades but not wanting to be caught out
changed her name to Kali going by the moniker
mother of destruction; sounds cool right? Shiva didn’t know
what she got up to when she was out of his sight
but he was too busy wreaking havoc of his own;
her jewelry damningly strange; skulls & bones of men
she'd turned to stone; Medusa cleaned up nice &
calling herself Parvati stepped out w/ Hermes &
went slumming in the Neoplatonic bars along the coast
in her bikini; shocking Shakti tan the envy of every
Mediterranean maiden; every matronly Roman **** talking
about that gorgeous black girl on the beach
whose skin sparkled like night; Medusa laughing
up the sleeve of her striped cover up; is she a Jew,
they asked, or the reincarnation of Cleopatra;
surely the latter, let’s ask the witch of Endor
but Samuel isn’t saying; let’s ask ************ Apollo
but he isn’t saying, spitting in Cyclop’s eye;
Hermes isn’t saying & even Hera is yesterday’s news
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC