a poem that I ended two years ago A stab in the dark Cold grass sways their bold necks, indifferent to the season’s grim tale, too short to be told more than once a long, unsteady night. The sounding drums of war. Bleeding, bleeding… The reckoning of days. The hollow eye. A bird above the barren froth. Grass in crystal silence, calling no more. Families and trees, all gone. Fathers long before us waited for their turn to fill the gap. The sun in a sea of salt. Seep through weeping autumn with gales and gusts, with weird tools of dark mystery. The old man hears bells of sunken ships calling in a mist called memory if there was a book of codes. Thrusts of pain spears the old man’s hope of ever joining joy’s magical master switch with its ascendance into a clear cerulean forever. “Speak you bloody tongue of all that matters; speak of all things unsaid, unheard of amongst beasts, hovering in halls as yet unmeasured by eyes.” Leaves of old age fold, as they should and must, soaked soil knows the downward direction, the falling spells his name. This he knows, that in between this and what really goes on there are eyes dying to get closer. Driven by a heavy toll chimney sweeps might allow, the old man forges day’s insanity into the one sword cold nights insist upon. Never promised by tomorrow, his scarecrow fingers beckon. Mortally wounded he falls short at midnight. Once milky skin embraced his dreams with a warm anxiety, gulls hung above the sea. He is bruised remains, eyes falling, leaves. Earth’s dark, exhausted bowl carries his tenderness. Dreams fill his days, sleep erases all hope; a sullen mound, even more earth. The wind crawls like a quiet sarcoma patient over grassy hills in desperation, hollering at midnight with an intent beyond the stars: “Leave me not to time’s device, to the sound of seashells on slabs; let gentle perish be my hollow mass, all my broken feet will know.” Measuring all dark hills a cerulean horizon commences. The old man purges the passing with one word and leaps at wind’s revision from trees that take and give him different eyes. Memories of an old town move through wet woods in bare November’s gaze. Supple ice rolls across hills, dares the thought to see hidden waves of lost childhood summers. Clean, white water once ran transparent under these stones; feathery ferns called for a viridian indulgence; birds hid in green, soporific shadows. Clear chlorophyll rolled like dark thunder. 2 Saturated in a circular perfection, not yet pale in a perfect winter sky, the determined moon wages yet another way to inherit. Sparrows fold their day in merit, there are tales of feathery fames. Once the grass was tall and free, slow nights carried windy messages across a perfectly curved sky. Now the grass is hurriedly trimmed short for the final, concave hour with its mercury motion down. Bold, defying cries of departing birds roll across roadside tombs. The old man finds no plea. Never again shall his prayers fall in love so easily with crude saxophones on the radio. Regal rises above hushed trees, bare with dark, stiff tongues itching in a night-belonging. He has known the coming long before these words. Wild wings, a floating elegance, ride dark water’s slow goodbye; the songs of the grave jelly fish break in a long time coming. Abandoned ferries ruptures, expecting snow’s illumination. He waits for darkness in leaps and recoils, unprepared for the sound bass players can make; there are stiff remembrance reeds in a sea of horns. The eye, heavy with night, colors all that might be, rises, yet falls heavily where many I walks, continues the distance from the here to now. Tall night, fallen dervish snow. Green grass groomed in white, in an icy tell spell grandeur, beckons to sparrows in thick bushes, cringing in dark suspension. With darkness tolling in rooms of surgery he discovers a syllable, his hands sign timeless tales. Slow shadows glide in lost opportunity; crossroads transmute, wither and leave. There are winds that mold hearts of snow; white birches that bow, twig strung, at sky’s dark encounter. Suburbia, evenings dark companion, abandons misery and lost causes. Children’s voices float in formalin over bedside dead visions and pale stories, with wintry fantasies and laughter. A breath of irrevocability cloaks the dying of the day; images of ancient ships sail into a long goodbye sun. Is there a new page waiting? A man in the city howls into the night. There is a shortage of cedar. Dog tired bones slowly rot in a mire mass, in hollow perpetuation, where smug charlatans hide dark deeds behind a ceremonial cloth. 3 Whirling within limited existence, aroused, crawling across weathered city centers, the old man foresees all he is not and dares the rest to find its own peace with what no longer is possible. Itchy, incorrigible ways cringes at the touch of the one word, pointing at him. He is lost. His defiant smile breaks his intentions into consideration. The sky is sea-fading fish bone, a struggle amongst clouds for winds to interpret or change with their pockets full of images, grinning over dark, watery graves. Tangled in a warm hide, breathing softly beneath contortions, the old man dares not to fall into night’s justified wrath, he dares not to invoke origin when darkness sieges all ending days. Overlapping moments of a slow now fall unexpectedly into his lap. The old man’s love is a merry icon, a slow dissolve into soft cries prying into the delving, a muted call, fading into dawn. His story is bony tail, a symphonic patriot at play. He disbands and displays dark glory. It is time to mould that which will not play with crude clay. Who will dare dark incitements, flights no hidden man can heed? The old man feeds no flare, no fight, nor what bare needs can prey upon in nights that bleed for more. Thus he calls the pending year by all fear night concludes in cries; abandoned kites run with stars, soar in a wondrous wake. It is nothing more than a glimpse, a voyage of no consequence, that winds its way from here to the potential said so and all the way back again. Drab stories of delusion fall short at dusk. Frenzied voices from a sub zero continent slide down dark moon matter to meet what does not come. Colliding carelessly with salty wood-words of winter, black crows, with feathery bets, beat collectors to the meltdown. Food is the final curtain call before predator blinds hang vicious ways in chains and no peace. Oxygen is more than just a breath. Tuition so much more than just coercion. Flying whishes at midnight calling melt the hour of truth. Cymbal nights – coarse voices singing in foreign languages streaks of light permeating the final hour – fly over the earth with crows. 4 The old man finds himself at war, between righteous howls and dry bones. The power of money makes for long term claims. Hypochondriac men, claim dominance by default. Glossy shadows of power feed on illusion, focus is a self imported aspect of visibility. Daring is a glorious move that does not need blood nor religious fervor to defy the order of deeds. The old man sees flaws at the fundament, all for a keep safe and its winding complications. A tumbling today – a changed direction at the melting-point – where he, as it were, hoped to canalize all potential of a lame and toothless future into pools of consideration. He is wild intention bleeding into a weary night, too bold to be daft or even stale, too rapt to pale or fold. He is shift change from cruel tears into Good night. The sound of sirens echoes, – danger in the halls of fractal consideration – falls short at mercury midnight as bright titans call for moderation. Never before did the whispered moon rip at the core of mortal serendipity with such a definite intent, never before did it occur to him that the haste of days is hereditary. The waning moon has spent all its expensive emissions on cellular mass calls for dawn. Bright nimbus of winter distortion warps distance in glass, transparent drops softly freeze in subtle oblivion. At the dull hour of leaving, when the light of days imbues all he can see, when being breaks into longing and matter makes a million goodbyes, each a sweet bead in a lost rosary, it is then defeat is bearable. Parting is a thousand suns bursting into flame in a single piece of dry wood; conceding is to swell in that light with each breath of air. Cause has no other origin. 5 The old man downs severity and cloaked daybreaks on his way to meet serendipity a cold, flawless, winter day. Burning all bold forever’s beneath a cold private sky he cries for the lost children. Bushes etched in winter nudity exudes flittering clouds of warm, feathery life. Tears of irrevocability ices the cold sea where mighty mackerels hum. Why must he forego all masters of oblivion on his way to the sea? A thousand tears have flowed in vain. A final call will soon roll over mortal condition and nothing but broken tail lights can guide a stray man concluding his day. Malign seas finally die, – long before breakfast – a temporal disgust, lust, a slow burning jelly fish hold in contempt. It is continuance that holds him from fretting, or falling. The falling could keep him from staring at the end. “Good night weary wisdom’s fading. Tonight no one can play elusive to the smile of pale stars, shadows will not play.” Death has no further say as day finally falls into broken night; haunting rites and intangible ends give wind to voices soon lost in blame, lament and salt. Time is cruel at midnight falling. The sea puts shanty history to sleep with shimmering waves, with moonshine and reasons that continually reflect on waves. A hand recoils in petty pilfer, signals dark dead discipline. A reptile restitution implicates a new now, a fully believed sanctuary where human expectation warps. Theft is located somewhere between the third and forth vertebra signaling a lost tail. Prostitution goes while transparent skin tells another tale. Codes of conduct define what he is as he materializes in what he sees. 6 Elevators rise far beyond the wanted floor, turn into blue subways with female drivers shifting into new tracks every time you look. The phone rings. Cellophane thoughts of a certain cerulean sentiment unfold a hollow multiplicity. The old man is barely here. Who can challenge his appearance? Night after night he scratches at origin, dares specters to dance with him. Night after night his proverbial nerve longs for love’s sensation in a brief fleeting moment. Soaring through the entire all there is he embraces the irrevocable outcome. Speed is a lethal companion. All possessions will transform into rock, into blood, into bones, into grief for integrity, leaving dubious praise in the dust. The city moves cadres of dead eloquence down the streets on catafalques of lost innocence. 7 Torched by fires of oblivion he longs for water in late rush hour cries for the opium of hindsight, for the ultimate here. Memory is his only legacy balancing on seas with gravity falling in words only condition may direct. The other speaks. “Long live extreme and august anger uniting roaming packs that crave mass destruction with words of want and swords that flash in eloquent fashion. Hot gain is far more exciting than the anguish of poverty; dark hearts speak louder than unpaved streets. Long live the voices that pray for blood, unforgiving instigators of fear and obliteration.” Winter began with a blue gentleness, dancing in soft circles of integrity; peripheral crystals encouraged mild control as a matter of being in charge. All that he is and all he does leaps at the touch of snow. Morning is merely the name of his white intentions. Glowing in insidious times, suspended like herons, turning their curved, beady beaks toward a final surf, the old man dives into here for a glimpse of harnessed light. Calamities toll like shadows in the eye of the witness. Weight fills all recollection with more than regret. “Cry you hollow man; the wind is in your shoes. No one will follow you; the echo of circular water is only sand in a tumbler.” Daring dark day’s profundity the old man slows down, facing inevitability. The day’s trying process collides with his intention to express; the dance subsides, what must be said is lost. The moment is caught in the middle of a history with the best of all intention. The distance between what has been and what will inevitably come carries his name. Webs within circles of distraction often hold his attention as day follows moon on its way to forgetfulness. The electric night, with a baleful light, is a watchful eye. A dark smile burns all intention, the bit needed to light the hall; a fuse goes. Never looking back he finds the wind irresistible. 8 Deeds cringe at dark wood’s end, slither and die over leafy lips. He hesitates, although this particular crossing is of no value. Nevertheless, there are phantoms attacking any conscious effort. It is here he meets what is with no lazy cloak of misrepresentation, here, where hazy tell tale customs cast anesthetized spells over shadows. Never before has he been fraught with a rendezvous of this kind, binding all cracked second perception into a sole moment of here. There is no other touch. Scavenging scholars of grey intent bleed across pillared temples, over crossbows and sugared lust, dusty images of what might be are purple words disarray, an arrangement of flowers perhaps. The element of understanding has to do with keys and clouds, a state of origin. Birthed mortals need to breathe the wild. Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain, someone plays the piano. Voices float like white clouds over any possible objection. “I do believe in the sound of words, the spoken, the impossible, the mad glimpses of belonging, the electric flashes between my bedroom poles, the taut cerulean wood where the moon is shifting.” The wind, the air he moves as intentions move him – highways and wasteland – cannot be collected in jars. Slow is his purpose following maps of old. Steeped in ways of imaginary wings, he is intense, in bold leaps he jumps over old lost lovers. 9 Startled by silly words silently soaring over snow’s dark, fine cover, the old man finds himself in disarray. A host of long lost images plunges through early windy presence demanding to be named and dear. The sea rocks the day with echoes that fly the light, rolling over dark below. He stands by water, horizon leads to long distance, a gull cries. A Sunday morning bell; eyes that raced are still. Glorious peace that eats the heart! All that and with regrets he does not covet. For a moment he dangles; a bait for the ambitious and ignorant. No sweet aroma meets the starfish surfing on dark water’s curve. Death has no say here, it is the enchanted dance. The cod tolls for all men, the squid falls, grey clouds of shrimps and wet clams – with weepy secrets in a foolish eddy – fall in into yesterdays darkness. 10 Dark deeds wring sweaty hands where another man just would say: “It costs to harbor a volatile spirit under a capricious skin! Flee!” Like a smoldering fire at midnight cold December crumbles. Night abducts all frenzy, seeing carries mist to sleep. The math and the result beds with the very best of our age, cheered on by the lazy, by eyes of unfocused sleep. Tonight all content is external. The speed of the thermometer is certainly of no avail to the no longer alive, nor do they aspire physic content. Winter breaks chilly seals with light from a singular fire. The touch, soft and discrete, speaks of an old man in a cave. A ray of hope cringes, eats light, stops moments before winter strays. Drab sarcophaguses of night slide into a flake white openings; a dark eye, lost, feeds on diatribes. There is no solace. Who calls for more when it is dark? Shadows of guilt flicker in rooms where no house wolf ever reigned. The air smells of more snow, there are no regrets, only tiny diamonds of snow. Tonight he is rich. 11 Definitions of the see-through whirl in tainted rainbows over cities at the early hour rising. Indigested ceremonies of division plunge without scope into lethargy, talk nonsense by the window. The closure of flickering loss winds all ticking hearts minutes before clear sky breaks. The end of an imperfect day sinks below all that is left of aspirations and hope, loss is dragged behind drawn curtains. Brave intentions fold in sleep, dark dreams approach at midnight. What is gained will pass, reduced to figures of logic. Swirl you origin of unending watery curves, you cause of bright flickering reflections over breaking bastions of no faith with their ragged coastline struggle. Waves fettered by air will merge in watery lucidity. Singeing “what ifs” curl and die, faces slow inevitability. Weakness is a common name when liquid is cheap and opaque essences hide inside blue tonalities. The ice breaks at dawn, forfeiting all his intents. Planetary dreams surface In careful surveillance. Who sees the doorway? Who baits continuance with truth? Indecent spreads of desire drift over old wisdom. Genetic belongings are more than a physical drive for uncharted marshes of bursting songs. Slow back burning trains, rail-sounding Indian Tablas; he bets his lost tale on the night. Cautious beneath a mask of social alarm he talks freely by the bar. Daring the limited is about all his breath can muster at this temporary station. Threads of comprehension pull at everyday’s withering say; the silent agreement with what comes have carefree fingers. No blame on him, he stands to lose, he is grief and sorrow is tomorrow. Night might not find another lover silently turning intentions into inevitabilities, it might not survive. Fidelity flies with the best. 12 Teenage girls, scrawny like unfed geese in the spring, float through harbor attention on their way to blue ocean’s loss with only a smile to support them. White froth fills the gate, terms are not yet drawn. What dark there is murmurs in anticipation. A thrust breaks the oily mirror, A buoy shines in silver light. Not yet immortal is all these girls can ask for. Cranes are the old man’s view of the continuous aftermath. Offspring in chemic confusion, seraphs and historic delusions, all unfurl their uncertainties in nights with no further say. “Must the concept we name days be caught in midsentence before what is, is implied?” The leaded invoice slams the gate, there will be no more fiasco at the end of this night. Ships are moored. 13 Weird tools lend themselves to lost cures and high lore, play in waves of blue dreams where saxophones of old walk, murmur nonsense at midnight, tease the old man’s mislaid directions with baffled images of infinity. Words flock at the foothills with rolling water’s entry into pools of longing. But he is lost. Dark aspirations. Attempting another context, he gives birth to a breath. The water has broken. Lost in waves of slow extinction, shaped by the agony of old mothers, the old man cares not for the gloom that fills his eyes, that points him to the shore. He walks not in today’s peace, nor beneath a wicker basket sun, rolling across feathery fields, hen-shaped and slowly dying before his eyes can say goodbye. It is a mother of pearl morning, – beneath an empty turtle shell – smelling of wet decay and salt. He mounts the sea with pain, the serpent grinds its sand, a stray bird shrieks. Day after driven day he wrings his futile fire, all that lost middle men may scorn in lost calls for consideration. Midnight moon is passing, perpetuated by the ticking of a old boy’s retreating heart. All is contained in this manmade morning where he stands by a window, cleansing nebulous night with grief. Teased by dark end’s tell tale perusal he falls windward into wet grass, the viridian is a dark horse. The bellowing roar of water breaks the seaweed summer, discards vacant shells and dead fish. Never before did a promise of continuance roll morning into steeples and cider, with only seahorse to plead with. An old man lost in views: There never was nothing more. He is close to you. 14 There is no hidden agenda the old man can count on, no cheerful day, tap dancing to fireflies and girls on their way to the meat market. Streets of silver beg him to see the fracture. Bones that melted for Paganini reinvents the way he falls, a soft surrender flowing beneath a cold sun. He carries tall trees and the dying of the winds to rest in grass. Pale bones and summers where once wooden flutes echoed out of groins in silent laughter talk to the descending sea. Fierce is the fire that feeds on false sainthood and salt, on naked arms in cloth. Watermills in stiff collar at high noon move with gullibility. Sureties are pale words on waves rolling wet sand to the dry shore. The cat’s smile folds under dark water dreams. Wild to the obnoxious bone he tells his tale to the crowd with no hope of a here after, not expecting anything more. Stretched, corrupted and lost at the brief disturbance of influx he ploughs the earth in his own fashion grieving for nothing but the end of days. Going down with thunder, with the fat fabric of clouds in their wake of yesterday, – with too much umbra – he separates daybreak from wild water. He will not die in dread or fear, nor tolerate the coming of mean storms. All is salt and fish in tears, all is shape or seaweed. 15 There is a feline sorcerer summoning all birds at dawn to roll into the palm of his hand. He wants more rain, he wants more grass. The second death came that dawn, gulls and crows called out just before rain and wind left the night to prowl elsewhere. Early birches, charged and soaked at the edge of more rain, tell their own story, unfurling green flags to a distant war of mongrels and squatters. On distant banks the poor are squeezed far into the burning dessert where parched scorpions bleed beneath a dying crescent. Migratory whispers around lakes, in trees and high above, herald thunder with beady eyes. The shaman’s shoes has gone ahead with the brooding light. The passing of dreams roll over wet grass. 16 “I am the first soil, the breeding ground of all conscious effort tolling in windows.” Wine flows red on walls and sirens interfere with the dead street walking; thugs feast on visibility. Money makes bombs that burn children. Fingers of old itch with power. Giants roll down captured hills, break into villages with cheers, dreaming of a world of free banking. There is a call for fat children. Free fall suicides, daredevils the old scribes forgot while copying the myths, fall into darkness rising below Gilgamesh mountain. Nowadays rivers of tears run through broken valleys where cedar and cannabis once spiced the air, where the olive was a stream long before the flood. No shepherd ever strapped belted death to his day, no goat ever went missile for the sake of a different tale where Ur does not echo. Shamash! Ki! The Sumerian ghosts still sing in the shadows where villages bleed.
Posted on: Fri, 29 Nov 2013 12:30:20 +0000
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