DUP Poem of the Month - April 2017

How swiftly sounds,
Those saintly bars
That rest so heavy on my heart
Like iron stars
And stripes of steel
A legacy that weighs
An unwieldy weight that i am loathe to shirk.

A history of red like blood,
And white like supremacy,
And the colour of a chord-choked babe
Fire and diplomacy,
This was not what the New England Eddas promised,
In their star-spangled declaration.

(But why does that papyrus wear those spangles?)

Oh! How death leaves the bones much too plain,
So plain that those glowing Eddas are necessity.
An adornment like so many tin jewels.

Lay bare that black stain on that Banner’s heart,
And rip it asunder.

Sew it anew if you must.

 
 
 
 
 
 
beneath the silences of a paling tongue in shudders  
and somewhere beyond their long winding fixations  
is that a tearing in slit-throat in smothering muteness  
this passage client in the wilting, or a rarity gravityless  
intermittently pain pulsating pulldown of that tender  
jugular notch in shivers rolling in dead slow leeches till  
depths unknown, only needing more as it strikes back  
much more  
 
 
 
once,  it was you          seemingly in  
          taken in of a dooming    
Atlantis,   our Pangaea an illusional mass  
held hopeful in the fissuring oceans  
 
 
now, it’s you again           fictionally  in  
   undercover progressive lenses  ease    
your guillotine eyes  doubly razoring in  
stigmatic   sarcastic blows  
 those  atrophying  lashes above vilify  
your evasive tendencies,  in soft talks  
you skillful stranger in sophistication  
as if intensities are either in flaws  
or notional or a theatrical timepass  
 
 
 
 
 
in another parallel now,   nowhere you are  
I infinitely bear the karmic consequences  
of your absence, of your earlier allowances    
in an ever erosive pain frame of no deaths  
I wear your skins in hunt again and again    
                         still in repose a discrete spark inner  
                                                    in infernal intensity  
that which your covert senses typically skip  
that which forever h[a]unts  you    stranger    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Above bats the dark green palm
As blue smoke slithers the damned
An infernal flame fan
Spun in eternity's wheel
Awaiting the day they explode
Into a ray
 
The absence of love is suffering  
And love's absence illusion's reel
 
And in the seraphim was the fire
And here it was that I burned  
And in the cherubim was the light
And here it was I saw
And in the ophanim was the wheel  
Born to spin us all
 
For these are the servants three  
And they work just as we
Holy Holy Holy
Just like the sun of day
And the distant stars of night
 
For the sun has no atom
Not made of fire and light  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
*entered for Brenda's Demonic Origins comp

 
Away! Away! ---

Instrument from flower.

How dare you counter fate
In these late immeasurable hours.

Golden and agape;
The sun-soaked blossom
reaches for nothing ---

Clinging, it seems
To all it believes in.

Such pestilence its trying
Fluttering in the wind.

Buzzing, its counterpart ---

An incision its whim.

What nectar, such penance,
How harried, such sin ---

Falling as dust on petals.

Saving such garrulous moments
For those who give in.



                      ----



Footnote:  Inspired by this quote:

           'The claw
            Of the magnolia
            Drunk on its own scents,
            Asks nothing of life'

                -From 'Paralytic', by Sylvia Plath

Who knows where time flies to when we're having fun?
at what point in the past is time gathered
and stored away into the huge pockets
in the jacket of this dimension?
or how long are its coat tails
dragging along the time spent
standing in ques or waiting
for the phone to ring?

Is there a grand hall that has on display
all the fifteen minutes of fame?

Or is time filtered of it's activities and recycled
among every living thing in the universe?

When time tells all, who does it speak to?
and where are its great healing powers
when the living start slowly dying
from the moment of conception?
is time not just as ruthless
as any other mass murderer?

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
and we danced
for much of the night      
 
had already  
gone      
 
and yet  
still we danced  
on....