Exhaustion as Navigator

Window cracked- 65,

     In what seems, like 30’s

The likely capped end-speed

Portent subdivisions, split,

by lines afar, glowing

pastels covet night, flickering

cast of moon’s radiant height—a quivering

amends the harbinger’s sight, clashing

with one’s wherewithal, as fate

relates akin—rapturing a lost fight’s sanctioned state—

unto the parallelisms, the shifting lines, the origami structures built within

Belladonna, blissfully close, eyes arrest, encaged

again, by the prematurely postured dream—

Relishing the happenstance of SRO’s unmitigated stance, especially since promotion’s long since been scrubbed and left to chance—

Of an ignorance indicting slow, the plausible power of the spreading word

         Angular brickwork, to which the conscience swerves, observing the bedrock that’s home to such machines abandoned—to rest, in limbo, beneath a starless sky—yet the signs and signals warn still—to which you question, not the thought, but the belief that they’re awake with you this stretch of night

Escape though you shall, untagged and free, breaking away from obstacles seen, unto an open space of asphalt’s generous creed—

drifting behind a steady coaster, oblivious to what time’s been spent— watching the horizon spread aglow—

 The lines flashing in fictitious streams, brokering this big city’s life, offering, but another grail you’ll never know, if this sleep continues glimpsing through it’s deadly flow

To which forcibly you pry ajar, the lids betraying you now…in the deadliest of subtle drips a-glance, accosting the reality forming it’s surreal syndromes allured, upon such corruptible states,

You are broken, you are weak…the knowledge is fierce…this straight-line will not stitch together seams, instead incomplete you’ll quickly see, as song’s blare quickly collapse, broaching caution’s warning once more—

As this slippage begins to fray apart, focus weaves and warbles timid slow, breaking into waves of rhythmic flow, careening lullabies the screaming child in you seeks, and through this and other forces unrecalled, fade you swim, out from and into such seas of unanswerable melodies

 A quick purge pronounces shock,

In quick flashes you are not convinced

This is not but a continuance of some

Severe reel of dream—playing, deadly games, the deadliest of larcenies…. where the mile markers indicate just how far you’ve travelled since, the last wince aware you were

And before the curtain calls again,

You know where this path must now go,

scanning the exits for

any inn with vacancy to spare, only

needing a door to lock, and a bed to

regenerate what’s been lost

is all you desire….exhaustion,

as navigator…there have been

worse guides

The Polarity of Obfuscating Voices

listen to ‘The Polarity of Obfuscating Voices’ on Audioboo

Ahh..Tuesday.  You all know what that means. Yep, another Open Link Night over at D'Verse.  The ever-talented Natasha is tending bar and mixing drinks tonight.  So head on over, imbibe upon the amazing poetry on display, and while you're there, share one of your own.  Cheers.

For my offering tonight, you kind of need to listen to the recording to get the full gist of the piece.  As the title suggests, there are numerous voices in the poem.  I think I did a decent enough job with the various dialects I used, but I'd like to know, positive or negative, how they came out, especially for those of you in England, Scotland and Wales.  You should hear five in total.  It was a lot of fun putting together, hope you all enjoy. thanks.

Mobility of Martian warlords

and the unlucky marksman

that couldn’t flee

Junked-up edgy bugger

falling away from home—a

polarity of immolation, obfuscates

all those rectangular sensei’s buried within

Echoic in vibration

echoic in tone

with the words

that first forced

sound—from speckled lips the barker spews

Last Call….

                  spinning still

last Call

                  stumbling down

but

         no one

and I mean, the no one I could see

cared enough about astronomy

to hitch their rocketship to me

And so I trip the sidewalk waltz,

thinking of celebrity and the stars

         in thirty-second spans

I am who I know I am

One part mandrake

two petals squared

         sup the milk

but beware

of the poppy dry—clean picked

         hallucinations free to dream

of a day yet appeared

         where imagination becomes

blurred replications of a knowledge plan

where everything we’ve grown to understand

is clear to see, the darkness drifting from the day

        

Until those hours of conduction fashion such a stance

ennui fills the chalice high

         of the martyrs and the saints

the masses and the clans

                  of all those ever dreaming as drive

 to dream out loud, to exclaim

         for discovery and not for surprise

and to do so

without

the ogling eye

         of an effigy

who once

was determined

a man

So

until

such a day

breathes my air

I will walk, as best I can,

         with granite ankles

                  making concrete steps

                           across a universe made of sand


Also, proud to share with all the brave poets participating at Wednesday Open Mic with JohnnyK at The River.