deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dancing with Heraklion Lions
“Though my soul may set in darkness,
it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.” Sarah Williams
The night decants
Red wine skies from morning breath,
Opera black stillness
Raises from bass depth,
Slowly as a somnolent wreck.
Harbour’s tongue stretch the cracks,
Tides mark the years that have passed
Since the womb became entombed.
There was a tear in his blue eye,
Something religious in the silence.
Alone as the woollen garment in my suitcase,
Lovers’ bracelets jangle as sacks of keys
Decades heavy in my pockets.
Techno-beat from drunken discotheque
Stirs the ancient ocean to a murmur:
Sunken vessel collects eternal rhythm,
Until Lyra strings are fatally broken.
It hurts to breathe in the asthmatic air,
Church of trees > against the nursed night,
Act as lungs for bedded habitat.
Shuffling sheets with a hand, which
Only knows how to paint skin bruises.
Insomnia carries its own dream landscape.
I can feel the tension in electricity pylon wires
As stalking buzzards wait for their daily prey:
Touch the networks, and
Touch the nerves of the planet.
Under bleached sky and cirrus
The day rises like timber in a swell.
Streaks of fishing boats,
Returning as Minoan fleet,
Expose silvered catch to chemical light.
Trail of socks-and-sandals
Plough necropolis ground,
Furrowed are brows of the beloved.
In Requiescat, wasted lives are buried everywhere.
Wildfires beyond horizon, briefly
Turn my summer heart to cinders.
Waiting for the tranquillity & treachery of ice,
Free Santa hats for the bereaved.
Waitress wipes my spoon on silk blouse
Closest to erotic the days bring.
Jimmy Dean plays suitor to Hepburn
Braille film of tenderness, silent seduction.
Cigarette smoke rings
Drift over her head as a halo.
Smiling wryly,
‘Is this how Dad dated Mum?’
// ~ //
Barrels of last words spoken,
Recoil, ricochet, frail fingers on trigger,
Blast, hiraeth, my mouth still bleeds.
Wherever you are,
I hope you’re singing.
// ~ //
Sluiced fish guts on harbour wall,
Haruspication Gods (en)trail,
Fate flies on aluminium wings.
Portrait of afternoon numbness
Framed by the poetics of space.
Attached to the life-support Walkman,
Morrissey takes Cohen by the hand:
Home is a question mark,
Forever, it seems,
Sometimes you get mistaken for yourself.
We are merely scrawled post cards
Waiting to be delivered.
Ink blood bone
Remember me this way…..
it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.” Sarah Williams
The night decants
Red wine skies from morning breath,
Opera black stillness
Raises from bass depth,
Slowly as a somnolent wreck.
Harbour’s tongue stretch the cracks,
Tides mark the years that have passed
Since the womb became entombed.
There was a tear in his blue eye,
Something religious in the silence.
Alone as the woollen garment in my suitcase,
Lovers’ bracelets jangle as sacks of keys
Decades heavy in my pockets.
Techno-beat from drunken discotheque
Stirs the ancient ocean to a murmur:
Sunken vessel collects eternal rhythm,
Until Lyra strings are fatally broken.
It hurts to breathe in the asthmatic air,
Church of trees > against the nursed night,
Act as lungs for bedded habitat.
Shuffling sheets with a hand, which
Only knows how to paint skin bruises.
Insomnia carries its own dream landscape.
I can feel the tension in electricity pylon wires
As stalking buzzards wait for their daily prey:
Touch the networks, and
Touch the nerves of the planet.
Under bleached sky and cirrus
The day rises like timber in a swell.
Streaks of fishing boats,
Returning as Minoan fleet,
Expose silvered catch to chemical light.
Trail of socks-and-sandals
Plough necropolis ground,
Furrowed are brows of the beloved.
In Requiescat, wasted lives are buried everywhere.
Wildfires beyond horizon, briefly
Turn my summer heart to cinders.
Waiting for the tranquillity & treachery of ice,
Free Santa hats for the bereaved.
Waitress wipes my spoon on silk blouse
Closest to erotic the days bring.
Jimmy Dean plays suitor to Hepburn
Braille film of tenderness, silent seduction.
Cigarette smoke rings
Drift over her head as a halo.
Smiling wryly,
‘Is this how Dad dated Mum?’
// ~ //
Barrels of last words spoken,
Recoil, ricochet, frail fingers on trigger,
Blast, hiraeth, my mouth still bleeds.
Wherever you are,
I hope you’re singing.
// ~ //
Sluiced fish guts on harbour wall,
Haruspication Gods (en)trail,
Fate flies on aluminium wings.
Portrait of afternoon numbness
Framed by the poetics of space.
Attached to the life-support Walkman,
Morrissey takes Cohen by the hand:
Home is a question mark,
Forever, it seems,
Sometimes you get mistaken for yourself.
We are merely scrawled post cards
Waiting to be delivered.
Ink blood bone
Remember me this way…..
Published 21st Jul 2022
Author's Note
ERULGCT 156. Uma. Death has undone me in the last 2 years, needed short, short break to process & reflect. Funny though. Wherever I travel in this mad & bad world, always meet a fellow Morrissey fan and/or North Walian. In the next life, hope to return as an astronaut – and they will be on the moon too, no doubt.
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comments 5
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
23rd Jul 2022 5:43pm
That I’m the first to comment on, RL, or even “like” this poem is possibly telling as per this website. It’s a beautiful mess of a poem.
For clarity and ease of reading it might be better to divide the poem into chapters, like a narrative, which it basically is. A dream narrative, almost. The sections separated by sequences of slashes and hyphens could be their own poems, and honestly, you could separate them into their own posts outside of this one.
You have, I think, a slight Emily Dickinson tendency to leave the builder’s marks (as it were) in the poem. Like the “greater than” symbol that appears midway through a line. I’m not even sure that you should remove them, though, since I personally like seeing the little marks that illustrate the writer’s process of creating and crafting effects like rhythm, symbol, etc. It’s like seeing the sketchbook of a painter. I certainly prefer reading Dickinson’s poems as she left them.
The poem as a whole is a gorgeous collage of human memory and sensuality. Sights, sounds, impressions, remembrances, and more. The line of dialogue about parents meeting is pure literature. It leaves us to wonder whether it’s internal or external dialogue, what it means, what it says, etcetera.
For clarity and ease of reading it might be better to divide the poem into chapters, like a narrative, which it basically is. A dream narrative, almost. The sections separated by sequences of slashes and hyphens could be their own poems, and honestly, you could separate them into their own posts outside of this one.
You have, I think, a slight Emily Dickinson tendency to leave the builder’s marks (as it were) in the poem. Like the “greater than” symbol that appears midway through a line. I’m not even sure that you should remove them, though, since I personally like seeing the little marks that illustrate the writer’s process of creating and crafting effects like rhythm, symbol, etc. It’s like seeing the sketchbook of a painter. I certainly prefer reading Dickinson’s poems as she left them.
The poem as a whole is a gorgeous collage of human memory and sensuality. Sights, sounds, impressions, remembrances, and more. The line of dialogue about parents meeting is pure literature. It leaves us to wonder whether it’s internal or external dialogue, what it means, what it says, etcetera.
Very rarely RL/comment myself, so have no grumbles on that score. Truly appreciate such a positive & insightful & thoughtful comment. Thanks for the dream narrative & chapters suggestion too. Think the rambling verses merely reflect the Greece mind state. Always liked the Marc Almond quote: “if you going to wallow, then wallow deep.” Lol.
By the end of five days, even I was bored with Morrissey’s voice. I know death is inevitable, but in last 2 years, more people in my life have been exiting than vegetarians at a McDonalds Appreciation Disco. Of all the cliches, appreciate people whilst they here, is the most true.
By the end of five days, even I was bored with Morrissey’s voice. I know death is inevitable, but in last 2 years, more people in my life have been exiting than vegetarians at a McDonalds Appreciation Disco. Of all the cliches, appreciate people whilst they here, is the most true.
23rd Jul 2022 10:22pm
I have to say from a few read throughs, seeing it unfold, feeling its depths and reaching tendrils of memory, it is some of your best work. You mention Morrisey but oddly enough the song Eyes Without A Face by Billy Idol came to mind as I was reading, the kind of haunted reverie it evokes. I could really lay a decoctive praise upon every stanza, each a gorgeous archipelago in the misted oceans of the whole. Red wine skies from morning breath simultaneously establishes a strong visual image and emotional presence. Free santa hats for the bereaved gives me a particular pang each time It passes through me, the sad, commercial superfluity that remains when we're in great depths of loss. It reminds me of this line about an old man in a dingy room looking at a picture of M. Monroe, all the emotion that is quietly imbued in such an image, the irony, fragility, purely human. The sense of weariness and age is some imbued through milieu, environment, presence, all flowing into one another, it's utterly shattering and gorgeous. The refrain in the middle is like a lancing apex into a starry night of mystery, a held breath for all that may lay beyond, be it the universe or nothing, a quiet hope seems such a desperate lunacy and yet holds the poignance of being in this knife edged being. The Morrisey quotes occasionally grounding the reverie in present moments, the sense of flowing time and space is the soul of poetry.
I'm utterly struck by this my friend, I cannot express my admiration in words, absolute masterwork of truly speaking and truly being.
I'm utterly struck by this my friend, I cannot express my admiration in words, absolute masterwork of truly speaking and truly being.
23rd Jul 2022 11:12pm
This scribble has been truly blessed today and believe me, the praise is reciprocated. As always my friend, your visit to my page is appreciated. Lot of me in this. Think I told you about my last visit to Mum & Dad’s grave. There was a drunk causing loads of chaos & noise in the cemetery. Every sinew of my body was screaming to head-butt him. Would have been wrong for so many reasons and realised I needed some time away from this town.
From the womb to the tomb, we’re all travellers really. Ephemeral (living) ghosts never quite reaching the right runway or platform. My oldest sister has only ever had 2 home keys in her life – I’ve had about 36 – ironically, I confess to being quite a homely chap. Think I took the wrong exit out of the pub too many times!
I’m familiar with that Billy Idol song. I have measured out my life with song. This is the Morrissey tune referenced:
https://youtu.be/mibfRl_TTHw
From the womb to the tomb, we’re all travellers really. Ephemeral (living) ghosts never quite reaching the right runway or platform. My oldest sister has only ever had 2 home keys in her life – I’ve had about 36 – ironically, I confess to being quite a homely chap. Think I took the wrong exit out of the pub too many times!
I’m familiar with that Billy Idol song. I have measured out my life with song. This is the Morrissey tune referenced:
https://youtu.be/mibfRl_TTHw
8th Aug 2022 2:19pm
It's always a pleasure my friend and brother. I'll listen to the tune now as I begin my crawl down the updates page. Always a joy to see there's something from you.
