deepundergroundpoetry.com
For The Birds
When I looked upon the edge of the
Scrying mirror nestled in the valley,
So perfectly still as not to hide
The faces of infants all foaming at
the mouths for something sweet,
I saw a face between the letters
Not transcribed for me. A finger to
The surface settles quiet
In a billow of smoke that was his
Undoing; in the guestrooms of the proletariate;
Depressed in the village brothel,
“Every one of you a vampire.”
And I stood there a quarter decade.
Through them, I felt the timber
Clattering against this velvet field,
And the score’s crescendo,
And when I fragmented from the pressure,
And I heard the weight of every uttered word,
I fell beside you and I smiled
At the vision of your preeminence,
A holy light on an empty highway.
And, when forever closed, you
Found me smashed beneath the floorboards
In a masking tape beret
Squealing, “ I didn’t understand.”
Through them, I viewed a signpost
Celebrating a destination vacancy.
And the blackcoat trailed behind
Praying, “One day soon they’ll find
you like they often do lovers in the winter;”
In the frigid silent air.
Wanton heart, the hundred-thousand bodies,
huddled fireplaces, husbands, wives;
Thinking of the children and of
Cellar secret wine. Two glasses
in and you’re a virgin,
Shouting, “people are so boring!”
Through them, I breathed my ending on
A four-legged pedestal; pounding rain
Beat the glass behind me
And saw the black-eyed thing lumbering
slowly through his maelstrom.
Educated joy in it.
Catching wind of the ones who walked out just
to feel the autumn breeze one last time
And laughing at the prospect
Of a future, we’re not present for;
In an endless pool of darkness
I will grasp Jesus’ love for me.
Through them, I learned the summer
Flowers may not whither come the frost.
And a pockmarked lingerie
Model might unclasp her scars if
she so chooses to;
With words beyond our reason
Constructed for our discerning ears
to wonder without the thought,
That, she is eternal
And eternal is her image a sculpture
to remember and regret.
“...That fame and the fruit tree…”
Through them, I smelled honey; for
the first time I thought it might be free
To roam where it desires;
In the front seat of a barracuda; windswept
lifestyle; daisy dukes on farm lanes.
Or huddled in the city
Under quill pen and oil lamp light in
an ancient dusted studio office
A Halloween candy parlor
Built to blow this place wide open and lay
upon deaf ears who never linger.
But that is my freedom.
Through them, I outgrew purpose and fate
and home and tranquility,
On the backs of giants
Who extol my freedom from them but
cherish the desire of spelunking,
Through an oft-forgotten network
Of hollow jack-o-lanterns, half-rotted
By November’s heavy drawl
And the pollen covered saplings
And the lonely haunted snowflakes
And a faint remembrance,
When it was all clear.
And through me, I stand up with the familiarity
of knowledge that it speaks only to bolster me.
A box fan in the swelter,
And through me, forever grateful,
I will weep at the infinite star's mortality
And I’ll leave this lake forever,
And my speckled rind will not be
a shadow of its expressions.
They’re for the birds.
Scrying mirror nestled in the valley,
So perfectly still as not to hide
The faces of infants all foaming at
the mouths for something sweet,
I saw a face between the letters
Not transcribed for me. A finger to
The surface settles quiet
In a billow of smoke that was his
Undoing; in the guestrooms of the proletariate;
Depressed in the village brothel,
“Every one of you a vampire.”
And I stood there a quarter decade.
Through them, I felt the timber
Clattering against this velvet field,
And the score’s crescendo,
And when I fragmented from the pressure,
And I heard the weight of every uttered word,
I fell beside you and I smiled
At the vision of your preeminence,
A holy light on an empty highway.
And, when forever closed, you
Found me smashed beneath the floorboards
In a masking tape beret
Squealing, “ I didn’t understand.”
Through them, I viewed a signpost
Celebrating a destination vacancy.
And the blackcoat trailed behind
Praying, “One day soon they’ll find
you like they often do lovers in the winter;”
In the frigid silent air.
Wanton heart, the hundred-thousand bodies,
huddled fireplaces, husbands, wives;
Thinking of the children and of
Cellar secret wine. Two glasses
in and you’re a virgin,
Shouting, “people are so boring!”
Through them, I breathed my ending on
A four-legged pedestal; pounding rain
Beat the glass behind me
And saw the black-eyed thing lumbering
slowly through his maelstrom.
Educated joy in it.
Catching wind of the ones who walked out just
to feel the autumn breeze one last time
And laughing at the prospect
Of a future, we’re not present for;
In an endless pool of darkness
I will grasp Jesus’ love for me.
Through them, I learned the summer
Flowers may not whither come the frost.
And a pockmarked lingerie
Model might unclasp her scars if
she so chooses to;
With words beyond our reason
Constructed for our discerning ears
to wonder without the thought,
That, she is eternal
And eternal is her image a sculpture
to remember and regret.
“...That fame and the fruit tree…”
Through them, I smelled honey; for
the first time I thought it might be free
To roam where it desires;
In the front seat of a barracuda; windswept
lifestyle; daisy dukes on farm lanes.
Or huddled in the city
Under quill pen and oil lamp light in
an ancient dusted studio office
A Halloween candy parlor
Built to blow this place wide open and lay
upon deaf ears who never linger.
But that is my freedom.
Through them, I outgrew purpose and fate
and home and tranquility,
On the backs of giants
Who extol my freedom from them but
cherish the desire of spelunking,
Through an oft-forgotten network
Of hollow jack-o-lanterns, half-rotted
By November’s heavy drawl
And the pollen covered saplings
And the lonely haunted snowflakes
And a faint remembrance,
When it was all clear.
And through me, I stand up with the familiarity
of knowledge that it speaks only to bolster me.
A box fan in the swelter,
And through me, forever grateful,
I will weep at the infinite star's mortality
And I’ll leave this lake forever,
And my speckled rind will not be
a shadow of its expressions.
They’re for the birds.
Published 5th Dec 2020
| Edited 6th Dec 2020
Author's Note
know this is kind of a long one for me. It's a rough draft of the centerpiece of a chapbook I am working on. I would be infinitely appreciative of serious criticism because It's important to me that this piece specifically lands. My feelings will not be hurt.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
You're already a very seasoned excellent writer so I won't be winded and formal about this, not preacher-teacher...
These segments (in my opinion) need a lot of care:
"wanton; four-legged pedestal; Educated joy in it; pool of darkness; (remove)to; to roam where it desires; (remove)oil; A Halloween candy parlor Built to blow this place wide open and lay upon deaf ears who never linger; When it was all clear;"
Great segments (in my opinion):
"In the front seat of a barracuda; windswept
lifestyle; daisy dukes on farm lanes; Through them, I outgrew purpose and fate and home and tranquility; On the backs of giants Who extol my freedom from them but cherish the desire of spelunking, Through an oft-forgotten network Of hollow jack-o-lanterns, half-rotted By November’s heavy drawl And the pollen covered saplings And the lonely haunted snowflakes And a faint remembrance,; And through me, I stand up with the familiarity of knowledge that it speaks only to bolster me. A box fan in the swelter, And through me, forever grateful, I will weep at the infinite star's mortality And I’ll leave this lake forever, And my speckled rind will not be a shadow of its expressions. They’re for the birds."
I'm glad you are receptive the this. It can be a very healthy community process which brings us writers closer together. :)
- Ray (MTP)
EDIT: You're welcome! Thanks for being awesome! <3 < ;p 3
These segments (in my opinion) need a lot of care:
"wanton; four-legged pedestal; Educated joy in it; pool of darkness; (remove)to; to roam where it desires; (remove)oil; A Halloween candy parlor Built to blow this place wide open and lay upon deaf ears who never linger; When it was all clear;"
Great segments (in my opinion):
"In the front seat of a barracuda; windswept
lifestyle; daisy dukes on farm lanes; Through them, I outgrew purpose and fate and home and tranquility; On the backs of giants Who extol my freedom from them but cherish the desire of spelunking, Through an oft-forgotten network Of hollow jack-o-lanterns, half-rotted By November’s heavy drawl And the pollen covered saplings And the lonely haunted snowflakes And a faint remembrance,; And through me, I stand up with the familiarity of knowledge that it speaks only to bolster me. A box fan in the swelter, And through me, forever grateful, I will weep at the infinite star's mortality And I’ll leave this lake forever, And my speckled rind will not be a shadow of its expressions. They’re for the birds."
I'm glad you are receptive the this. It can be a very healthy community process which brings us writers closer together. :)
- Ray (MTP)
EDIT: You're welcome! Thanks for being awesome! <3 < ;p 3
6th Dec 2020 4:08am
Thanks so much for taking the time. I am ALWAYS responsive and welcoming to criticism. I believe if you can't receive it without taking offense then you will never grow as an artist. I think it largely comes from a misunderstanding of what our art is (but that is a conversation for another day.)
This was very much a stream of consciousness sketch as most of my first drafts are. I like to write a piece very instinctively before I go back and polish it, so when I'm revising/editing I will absolutely keep your words in mind.
This was very much a stream of consciousness sketch as most of my first drafts are. I like to write a piece very instinctively before I go back and polish it, so when I'm revising/editing I will absolutely keep your words in mind.
