Poetry Performers (hosted by Loud-Speaker Poetry Group)

          
         
         
         
It's quarter past          
I've been waiting since six            
hollow halls, echo absence          
like empty picture frames            
hung delicately            
in wide-gallery-spaces          
           
Filled walls are as blunt            
in delivery, as two teenages            
blurting "yo mamma" jokes          
behind dressing rooms          
at a school-sports-stadium          
           
All that corrugated steel            
reverberating in the wind of it          
while war-cries, cheerleaders          
and drum-majorettes hide            
cries of silenced hearts          
invocated under breaths          
of pure loss;          
regressing whiskey to water          
           
There is a solace in the search of it          
[a deathly silence, humanitarian science]    
I'd imagine the world felt            
that suffering shuddering of earth            
in the past;          
probably when Shakespeare died          
or da Vinci left            
our art-world            
though I know          
you haven't            
departed          
           
yet          
           
A lonely tear          
tries to drop            
sniffs itself back, remembering          
a statement          
it should have owned          
before thirteen          
when the jokes were stupid          
and young folk drove          
the engineers out          
           
The hands-of-time            
having rolled through            
the grandfather's face            
twice            
in the period these words            
came to rest in reticence;          
your voice            
narrates my dreams          
in the mid-moon          
I resent it, intensely;          
while searching your          
hands, lips, flowing hair          
in the darkness of the          
slumbering-stars          
           
Isolated understanding          
in this primary juncture          
that I am child          
no, I shouldn't cavort there          
           
but          
           
it's a negative my child          
relinquish the electricity-port          
while opening your tool-box          
teleporting your tools      
-it will shock you          
never rebooting          
your worn          
un-ticking-heart          
           
I've waited since            
Wednesday at six          
the bread is stale, beer is warm          
-cobwebs fill the library          
The winter icicles are          
pummeling my ears and nose          
in their burn          
[while the north sprouts summer          
like a global seasoning]          
           
           
           
           
[x]