Easy to attract kind-less control, swallow it
for healing later. He asks if I could drop
the poetry, emotion, joy and soul
that compel me to drive storms, make
love in stars and smile at random
black holes trying to be bright. Lighten up,
I reply through clouds and fuzzy dreams.
My beat’s a crazy crow in a quantum heart;
I absorb sunlight intravenously, dance
in the car park to a rhythm that defies you
every time. By the way, that’s my flame
melting your achilles’ grip to ironic dust.
voiced : http://forgetmenow.podbean.com/e/summer-song/
who always understood what i tried to say and heard the music in my yard-dance, loved the tap of feet and beat of words full of rain claiming night’s ground full of sound
this is my eternal favourite of his voiced poems
she likes them to fight back in her way
your last breath should fit parameters,
maid of Prada’s best
accomplished minion, faking it of course
careful, sweets, don’t rub my shoulder
the wrong way, blade’s a’waiting
moon’s need of a beautiful new scar, one
that doesn’t contravene her
craving for perfection’s granite
face, tranquil in dimensions’ turn
careful, sweets, don’t touch this blade,
its response is pointed inward
a gift for you …
This is not about Tint (voiced)
i’m hoping you’ll know how to put this directly on your place, Noxy, if you care to. i’ll have another go at the w/end if it’s not to your liking!
not about …(voiced)
this poem is not about painting glass,
a slide of ghostlines focus into silhouette
bird captured in bright colour swirl
“this is going nowhere,” she thinks
an echo of a someone else, transparent
before another coughs and says
“you’re painting in fresh blood?”
so here they are, those shadow voices
at the door with starling confirmation
of a cut lawn, fuschia dripping
luscious pink on sunburst daisy chains
knowing that a link has burned, up and out;
this poem is not about how freedom works.
The Wild Challenge (in brief):
Write a poem using the techniques of reversal and denial. Begin your poem with the words “This poem is not about . . . then go on to write the poem. Occasionally come back to the statement: “This poem is not about . . .”
in the claws of silence
waits for a sign
that passage has been granted
that the storm will not kill
though leaves endure
quick bite and split of pure indifference
mouse voiced … sort of …
untitled draft read by Shell
The fallen are so beautiful on the flat-line roof.
Golden hues leave me wanting to make love
in the debris, risk moon folly’s be’st,
climb your ribs on wild fingertip and tongue.
Wind upturns hard veins, they spin to face
a glass reflection facing me; there’s more
to come than playing on the dead, I sing,
thinking of your eyes in mine right now.
Z … read (red?) by Shell
Your alphabet concludes with z while
mine is just beginning, taking off
into symbolic realm where there are
no fences, safety nets or comfort
cloned to tame and shame emotion’s rite.
No, I will not even try to breathe your
language grinding jealous fear and
ownership which may, at any time, be
sold or skinned from bone in battle.
Instead, i’ll fly beyond poor limits, you
will fail to find my open sky where
z is just a bat-snack in a quantum mist.
Bruises fade and when you pull that bitter
splinter from pale heart you’ll find no
scars to mourn, no trail of tears to show
i’d ever been there to disturb your night.
just a thought yearned by Shell
Night slips distance out of sky,
leaves tip breeze the nod and fly.
Time for moon to blossom dream;
let petals fall invisibly,
velvet curve tomorrow’s cheek;
full-moon aware they travel light.
Tomorrow, find stars in warm sand,
impossibly – they kiss his hand.
billet doux read by Shell
You never read these kisses but keep them anyway;
unwrapped every now and then – to amuse
the passers-by and their dogs who chase my words
balled up in string – they unwind even in the dim
before disintegration vents wild succulence apart.
You cannot, will not, see my kisses smile away
their weight and wasted time – but hush,
the dogs are happy, that’s enough for now,
their tongues and tails are wagging for the moon.
light entertainment read by Shell
thus far sweet particles
i am not a voided splash
while you …
may truly lap my soul,
smile in 27 different ways
en route to the core;
thus, bit by precious bit,
we may yet collide
unimpeded by despotic whim
unnameable read by Shell
in a deliciously strange way this poem was inspired by gingatao’s post on art and passion. you can find it here …
So come on, Lord, give it to me
tempest style, hips ’n’ ravens
flying fast and furious.
I know you like bravado style,
full-on performance art,
flames and magic twirling
wheat ‘n’ chaff all-ways;
still, it took us all to shaft
that one, didn’t it?
Not so easy meat that one,
there are problems with duality
and gifts like that, well,
let’s just say it’s lucky that all
artists crave extinction.
So come on, Lord, give it to me.
What are you thinking now,
right this haloed moment?
Maybe we could do it over latte?