“Art thou pale for weariness
of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth”
”To the Moon”, Shelley
when there is too much archaic artifice,
the cat who wandered too far alone,
leaves the arcade blazing from the arson of miscue
multiple manipulation of identical chips
falling from the blows of Divinities’ hammer,
The dynastic metronome clacking patiently
across the piano’s cloistered room
the bang of the cymbals at the correct boom
while the dog-ear’d book leans against the hot stove,
ages aged like the eggs on the bar in the barrio saloon
dainty with flat yoke crumbling into greased palm,
how with a vast spit the yarn explodes
the wild ball spilling from the room in a rush
matriculating the manipulation of loose change
in the vectored pocket where the harsh cry moans.
there the mercy of your stylized cocoon, saliva
of end jamb dark wood enema leaking from aged ass.
Hard-wood clack of stiletto twists slick blue cinema
rastaman doo wop blues break meter into rhyme
and a damn good dew is left after the rain.
In a list
A contest entry
- closes tonight by Melissa Gayle.
390 points, ended August 21, 2007, 11 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Krap, Lute
another damn cat poem
like
only you can dew
should end with a good meow
but
that's just me
I gotta read this one again
maybe twice, even
(You must carry a library in your head)
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you are so brilliant...
i adored the last line of this...
i just did...
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Ditto - really amazing and a gold winner for sure. What vivid visuals you share in these lines. Great alliteration, assonance and story told in these lines.
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I just can't leave appropriate comments on your pieces so I am going to be lame and simply say excellent.
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I've read this a few times... and because my brain has gone into night mode, i couldn't quite put my finger on what it was i wanted to say...
till I remembered Mr Mistofelees
:
His manner is vague and aloof,
You would think there was nobody shyer -
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he was curled up by the fire.
and he's sometimes been heard by the fire
When he was about on the roof -
(At least we all heard somebody who purred)
Which is incontestable proof
the proof you see, is here... the swathe of colour and curl of tail, will set off down the paths...
tis all changeling... change and wondrous ... and words
yes words
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Calico cats wear highly irregular patterns
Free verse poems are written in irregular patterns
Form poems adhere to strict meter/rhyme rules...
I think the hints are definitely here to what this is about --
archaic artifice
multiple manipulation of identical chips
falling from the blows of Divinities’ hammer, (really a super two lines).
The dynastic metronome clacking patiently
across the piano’s cloistered room
the bang of the cymbals at the correct boom
(also like those)
there the mercy of your stylized cocoon, saliva
of end jamb dark wood enema leaking from aged ass.
(aged ass .. though Shakespeare's aged ass sonnets are still the most perfect ever maybe you are saying "don't bother trying to write a perfect sonnet, been done - make it new if you are going to try a sonnet)???
this one sings to its own beat doesnt it? like a Calico cat ( jazz, cat .. snap good title).
Like this one lots.
Lisa
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I think we are going to the colosseum soon in October maybe. See the friendly feral cats. They don't stray too far really, I gues they have everything they need in the romantic ruins.
oooooo how they yowl their promiscuity at the timeless skies.
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You use words like a thousand year old english professor, yet you seem to have the soul of a youngun. You never cease to amaze me with your use of words and the ability to create an alternate world for the reader.
Write on!
~*~SP~*~
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