"transmogrifies" poems
They say the neon lights
Don’t often burn that bright
Splintered from my urethra
Swollen in this hex
Devoured by the Eve
Brought to justice by the guilt
And when they said
That all I had to give
Wasn’t worth a fitful look
I’ve been duped by sedative
The artificial power
Has swollen in my head
Wrapped around an ice pick
Can be found my fleeting shell
As our defunct cohesion
Masticates my head
Disintegration will lay me to my bed.
That sweet nectar
Lingers on my tongue
An inebriated hour of reverie genuine
A claustrophobic detainment
Incarceration with power windows
As your effigy is left behind
These shiv grasped hands
Awaiting exertion, transpierce my eyes
Upon introspective re-inspections
Ichor transmogrifies
Necessitate me
Remain vacant here
As our defunct cohesion
Masticates my head
Disintegration will lay me to my bed.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC
Musk. Wind
whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to
hush. Wind,
being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it
transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled
those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
deeper
and
deeper
and
deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.
This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.
I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now, I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And
real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know
I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool
going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.
When I pass you,
You....
You...
You.
Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.
It does.
I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
The fan whirling next to my bed
Sounds like Nascar racing in my head
Images in Negative
Not Alive Or Dead
In another room the T.V. transmogrifies
And ceases to be what is seen &
into a medium for
DogoDs GodoG eaters to commune with me
Instead
They whisper other's secrets - They instigate Ill will
They tale of truths and curses _ so convincing so bold
Be still and carefully listen
They are feasting on my soul
Dec 31, 2009
Dec 31, 2009 at 9:22 PM UTC
There is a girl,
her skin so fair,
her heart so pristine,
her gaze so elegant,
her touch so tender,
her lips so luscious,
her aura just scintillating.
Her eyes are stars around which a galaxy transmogrifies into existence.
I am nothing but a speck of dirt floating in front of the vast expanse of her benevolence.
Her hands are ethereal, which deems the wings of a celestial powerless before their sublime grace.
She is the princess of an empyrean world, the ruler of my heart and the keeper of my soul.
There is a girl,
and she is my bear.
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 8:44 PM UTC
for C.S.R.
One morning I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead;
That evening I pace in gullible love;
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.
With intravenous need their hearts drop dead
(The inward death boyhood knew nothing of).
At daybreak I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead.
The mind, encased in a dark, narrow shed,
Blindly estranges the sunlight above.
The unlit night resembles my dread.
From the pulse of my trusting veins they’re bled.
Fitting like a vinegary glove,
The needle transmogrifies their eyes to lead.
Unforeseen fallout from the needle's head—
Drug-sickness, self-contempt, flesh grown mauve—
Imprisons them. (The stars are dead.)
Maybe if I’d not trailed their pitch-black tread
My Pyrrhic sobriety would be enough...
One morning I found my f(r)iends' eyes were lead
And all the stars I'd wished on fled.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
When it comes to break the shackles fastening my feelings , then my sangfroid soul transmogrifies into a rambunctious wild creature.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC
A million stars twinkle
Above me as I lay
Upon this field of dewy grass
So cold and yet I stay.
A million eyes are winking
A billion opals gleam
And I just lay here thinking
About this waking dream
This choice before me lingers
It transmogrifies the air
And resonates inside me
With what's already there.
The wind around me whispers
The stars begin to dance
The grass beneath me shivers;
I found myself, at last
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
The pain rots and sheds,
as it smoulders her bones
and burns her skin third degree.
Loss and jealousy enwrap
her scorched heart into ashes,
while lava flows off her tongue
as it promises vengeance.
She becomes a vortex of emotions
engulfing her own life,
dwelling in the
merry go round thoughts.
Until she picks up the pen
and tucks the rage and ache
within the 26 alphabets
stringing words,
to sentences to paragraphs.
Ashes and embers stain the paper
as they ebb, blot and flow,
crafting the cathartic relief
until the paper stains darker
than the shades of her mind.
The blues that would pour,
become the budding flowers
in her chest.
She remodifies
cobblestones into steppingstones,
amplifying her narrative.
She tosses the losses
into words
and crosses beyond the horizon.
A candle flame burns deep
inside her solar plexus
as she transmogrifies the shards into a mosaic;
the strings of the web she was entangled in
weaved into embroidery to embellish her soul.
The cries and lies,
made her wise
as she built from the same sorrows
she was drowning in.
She put her ache on cadence
and turned up a brain wavelength.
She finally found her salvation
from abandonment
a dive deep and wide into
the depth of introspection
pulling from the cronies and nooks
the parts built and undiscovered.
She armed herself with
empathy fueled passion
as she has burnt, learnt
and learn to yearn the better
while she steers forward
with a transfigured mindset.
For the people who came,
now leave as poems.
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
~for the mothers, and for her~
§§§
this utterance emits itself, without poetic supervision,
like so many of its predecessors, a passing remark
transmogrifies to an exercise of praise, of humility, love
this is for her, of the nameless arms of forces that fasten
safety pins to our clothes, reminder to us that we are
loved and to come home safely so she, the little ship may rest easy
she, a homing boat, in a small slip resting, preferring
no changeover to a mighty and powerful dreadnought sent to do
a search & rescue mission for young ones, babes who lose their way
but we know the truth, the heart of the matter, this one, writ,
for her and her and her and her and you, the countless ones,
mighty armada of the mothers, God’s flesh and blood, a steeled navy
they suffer whatever it takes, but never defeat, for they know,
the heart engine fires never cease, never forget, indeed the word
never not in their lexicon, only forever and forevermore
§§§§§
Mon May 4
9:42
in anno autem coronavirus plaga/ in the first year of the plague
from the heart of the epicenter / ex corde in epicenter
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 10:00 AM UTC
Morphologically metamorphic integument, aura roan's rainbow mare.
Within your magical integument metamorphosis.
A transpositional interlude that transmogrifies our earthly shell into an immortal puissance, enshrouded in its mystical nimbus, objectified manifest's radix repartee.
Slowly we wind our mythical shroud round about us like a cocoon,
made of the mesmeric magic we exude.
An intoxicating ambrosia of enrapturing inebriation helping us prepare for the mystic prowess which will be ours.
We will be incarnated into a higher state of being.
Transcendental accession's ascension, elan vital's ne plus ultra apotheosis, orthogenesis overtures. Exogamy's homogeny.
We await within a veil of rainbows and light, whose opaque opulence becomes psychic clarity's evolutional fiduciary.
We were meant for this, corporeally preternatural becoming ethereally sublime.
Umbra ultraism and penumbral piquant.
We will become apex axis' crux, corporeal beings ultimate expression.
Mentality's trajectory theosophy's theophany.
Ethology's entelechy's zoomorphic zoolatry.
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 7:06 PM UTC