deepundergroundpoetry.com
hearts thrum softer in winter
Nostalgia is a broken window
With pain of distance as glass,
Perhaps?
Who was that boy who wrapped butterflies in cherry skins
Stealing delicate memories which were not his own?
The eye is not satisfied with seeing.
The mind in its cottage
Bath water tides shingle the skin
Frames the white beds lovers will share.
What ghosts will rise once the moon wanes?
>>><<<
Shooting stars collapse
After birth of the unborn,
Into fertile seas.
Seeds fire from shot guns
Slaughter wounds don’t always run red……
Highly strung ghosts touch
The neurosis of an edgy city,
A piano plays in empty abattoir
Rigor mortis fingers sew the slit
Of the river’s silt brown throat.
Closing time at the wet house
A drunk corpse paints
Water lillies with nicotine breath
Along ricochet of rats.
Silvered alley shadows
Sleek beneath paper sky:
Origami Gods summon
The A4 death bed.
Bed time stories do not speak of resuscitation.
Repatriate the feelings
Mourn the feathers which fell in flight,
Colour me gently in minimal hue
Place my heart on the edge of pier 13.
Push the torn pillow closer to the moon
Wait.
Still the snow falls
Wait.
Me and you
Forever
Like diamonds
Forever.
*Pic. ‘Self Portrait’ Lucian Freud
“He painted a detailed image of his eyes and nose and dishevelled cobra-like hair, and the tips of his fingers touching his cheek, leaving the rest white. That white space seems to be eating away at his flesh, about to devour the rest of it. Even his painted fingertips seem to be clawing at his face — an image of extreme torment.”
With pain of distance as glass,
Perhaps?
Who was that boy who wrapped butterflies in cherry skins
Stealing delicate memories which were not his own?
The eye is not satisfied with seeing.
The mind in its cottage
Bath water tides shingle the skin
Frames the white beds lovers will share.
What ghosts will rise once the moon wanes?
>>><<<
Shooting stars collapse
After birth of the unborn,
Into fertile seas.
Seeds fire from shot guns
Slaughter wounds don’t always run red……
Highly strung ghosts touch
The neurosis of an edgy city,
A piano plays in empty abattoir
Rigor mortis fingers sew the slit
Of the river’s silt brown throat.
Closing time at the wet house
A drunk corpse paints
Water lillies with nicotine breath
Along ricochet of rats.
Silvered alley shadows
Sleek beneath paper sky:
Origami Gods summon
The A4 death bed.
Bed time stories do not speak of resuscitation.
Repatriate the feelings
Mourn the feathers which fell in flight,
Colour me gently in minimal hue
Place my heart on the edge of pier 13.
Push the torn pillow closer to the moon
Wait.
Still the snow falls
Wait.
Me and you
Forever
Like diamonds
Forever.
*Pic. ‘Self Portrait’ Lucian Freud
“He painted a detailed image of his eyes and nose and dishevelled cobra-like hair, and the tips of his fingers touching his cheek, leaving the rest white. That white space seems to be eating away at his flesh, about to devour the rest of it. Even his painted fingertips seem to be clawing at his face — an image of extreme torment.”
Published 12th Dec 2020
Author's Note
ERULGCT 80. Umanoid xxx Birth. Creation. Read somewhere that 137 fragments count as one whole. 2020 has been a year of fragments. I'd probably feel more fulfilled making Christmas Cards with the mentally ill. Only love keeps the planet sane. ALL STAY SAFE
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The author encourages honest critique.
15th Dec 2020 5:13am
Darkness abound..this blackly depths all over..even the bleeds n pains.. in the dungeoned suffocations of a hopelessness. .not jus that a.. a pulling apocalypse... even moons n skies n gods take their painted dark roles ..you do what you do in such metaphorical boom of a darkness felt. & yet the hope ..as a steady lantern eternal of fusing adamantine love diamonds as one.. lights up as sun.whatmore. poetry at its epical best as ev from you doo.. Shine on. Love Ev xxxx
15th Dec 2020 7:09pm
Alright, you grabbed me from the title, before I clicked. It struck me in the same way as when I happened across a title on the library shelves that lead to a read that broke my heart. That title was Snow Falling On Cedars. Not the most brilliant writing or storyline, but the feelings within it, hope, loss, resentment, acceptance, release, are utterly human.
This is perhaps one of my favorite of your writes. The Zen magnification of details is breathtaking, the sense of the deeply intimate and passage of time is haunting. It has your signature skill with economy, impacting words under such a tight spotlight that it captivates. You and Uma are pillars that sustain my presence here.
This is perhaps one of my favorite of your writes. The Zen magnification of details is breathtaking, the sense of the deeply intimate and passage of time is haunting. It has your signature skill with economy, impacting words under such a tight spotlight that it captivates. You and Uma are pillars that sustain my presence here.
