This is just madman Marc playing with the possibilities of language, don't take it too seriously . . . I don't wanna be crucified on some academic cross . . .
The dark remains of a haunting guitar moan
out across the piano landscape
of violent lights and stabbing newspapers.
The moon hangs in its lonely room,
smokestacks wilt sunflowers,
while a portrait of a typhooned mind
prays for a non devouring shoreline
where the oracles of shells
can be heard in the ears of seahorses.
Oh every answer escapes the delicate cicada’s brain,
floats down and lands between the crusty breasts
of skyscrapers
that embellish lover’s hearts
with busted promises and foreign tambourines.
Christ, I’m so damn lonely inside this decadent phone booth populated by Van Gogh
and shooting stars that pass out
on the far side of the galaxy.
I have collected the weeds of sorrow
between my bleeding toes,
touched the swinging gate of mirrors
that blink back at me
with rolling eyes and tormented geniuses,
been crucified under a forlorn bridge,
but I keep
coming back
for more.
The white silk garment of my woman tries to soothe the nouns and vowels that spill
like confused fireflies from my tongue,
my children bless me with uncompromising eyes
and as I rake the decaying leaves
inside the garden of my dreams
I am reminded that the Indian summers of September
are the colour of non suicidal progression.
I mean, doesn’t everybody win in this game?
Or have I misplaced the sweet nectre of loving
that once breathed with a butterfly’s breath
inside the petalled fragrances of my bed?
Oh here’s to the new millennium,
here’s to the betrayed basket of political berries
that ooze deceitful sap into my weary eyes,
here’s to the medicinal mercantile
mumble jumble mish mash of monotonous prostitution that places us all in the family way.
And as the parade of alcoholic clowns and overweight elephants goes marching by,
I fall asleep in a bed of gypsy moss
and dream of better days
where I can stop following the ignoble grail
and be as free
as a heart
released
from the confines
of a human body.
A contest entry
- Insanity-no rules just write by catalyst..
315 points, ended September 11, 2008, 13 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Free Verse Frenzy (Prewites Only) by poetryality.
925 points, ended November 3, 2008, 51 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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The title alone allows this poetry, as frantic as it may seem, to make sense to me in egotistical ways. As your writing reminds me of some poetry I wrote in the late 70's. I love the twine it melds. Yes... a very nice jaunt with the weaving of your words here poet.
Congrats on earning the Bronze Cup! This is a merit worthy work of poetic-play for sure. Thank you for this entry and I wish you well in the challenge.
Much Love & Resepct ♥
Renee
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Christ, I’m so damn lonely inside this decadent phone booth populated by Van Gogh
that was my favorite line in this. The creativity in this was great. good job -
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Hey . . . thanks for the bronze trinket . . .
Marc
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lol Like a rabbit chasing his tail Mar, but you still do it with fine voice and pen
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Ya . . . this was just me, vomiting up half truths and hair balled excuses disguised as poetry, but what the hell, it was a fun exercise anyway. Perhaps I have been reading to many of the surrealists lately . . . I'm still trying to figure out if holds together in any way . . .
Marc
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Playing? ... good grief, can't wait to see you write something serious again. As to you note on academia and this ... pah! - the so called academic oligopoly is always torn down. This is what every 7th generation of poets must do. The beat gen knew this ... so do you and in that, why care what they might or might not think. As far as I am concerned, those paid to think grow lazy, because the $$$ become important and you must stay between narrow lines, else risk all.
They have it backwards. The risk all part should not be the concluding concern ... is should always be the opening gambit
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Yes Kate, this is just playing, trying to see where a mad scramble of words can take me . . . Hell, half the images in this thing don't even make any sense!!!
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Put it aside for 3 days - don't think about it; look at it or even as much as blink in it's direction. Then re-read it and tell me that again. There is more here than you see currently, that is all. Seriously.
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Okay will do . . . promise. To me it was just a wild fun ride on the rickety rollercoaster of language . . .
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