A whole bunch of fuckers (tasteful title, I know)

I really didn't want to post pieces separately so here's a whole bunch of latest ones. Read one, read the whole lot, or none at all... whatever tickles your pickle.

'Of fruitful flow'


If photos are your saviour, then mine would be found
in tragic words, underground, buried in lead,
dismissed with a trumpet's call.

You say I'm a mixture of
seventeen year old precociousness
and sixty five year old staggered wisdom,
a recipe calling for a quick whisk,
a patient eye, and a mouth that's tasted
countless times before.

I say I'd bury myself in philosophy
if I knew of one sparkling incentive
to know the difference between right and wrong,
between oranges in Seville looking lonely and pregnant,
between the grapes down in the Marlborough Sounds
picked by a fussy vintner's hands.

See? I dream of volcanoes erupting; 
of the pyroclastic flows enveloping my senses,
I'll taste willingly. There, over at Mount Merapi,
whom they worship as a God, they pile baskets
of banana leaves with vegetables
and fake money. 

If you must click a hundred times
to find that perfect shot,
do it now; do it
while this earth is yet fruitful,
a trial of perfection and love
a yearly labour for sunburnt lands.

I shall visit there one day.
I shall till the fields and dance amidst
their circle of drums, beating me onwards,
skyhigh, skyward into the lofty reaches,
into that mix of filth
and life.

 

 

'like taffeta'


what if? a poem
is a fractured stiletto,
flung off
from the nearest balcony
onto tarred pedestrians below.
they look skyward, search
for a disgruntled woman,  
find prayers
unreturned.
this day is
tarnished silver
tinged with blue.

and what if? poems
are sleepy infants
in soapy water,
the bath tuned
to lukewarm,
chamomile candles
offering benevolence
to all.

i
gave eve
over to starlight,
and dreamt
i was
one of  
anais nin's
fingers
clutching
a pencil,
a sketch unfinished,
waiting for more.

what if? amongst
skylights, teacups
and saucers,
i write a poem
for you.

 

 

'Craig gives this a 3 out of 4 on his poemeter scale
(4 now that his name's on it)'


You talk of silence and austerity being gifts
to soothe a troubled man. I am that man.
I am sky-high and ensorcelled in my definitions
of what purity and satisfaction truly mean.

Here, in this life, I am a wayward creature,
too caught up in the essence and art of
knowing absolution to be an impossible vision.
Hold me now. Tell me you believe in believing.
 
I think often we share fruitlessly. We speak
of terrible, tortured things. We drink and laugh,
dance and forgive unforgivable transgressions.
Show me a life of stability and security.

The idea of inviolable beauty drives me.
The taste of forever, while seemingly foolish
is what I've always strived to achieve.
This last line is an anti-climax for a reason.

 

 

 

'run-on, run on'


i'd
hoped to evolve
and returned
empty-handed,
a scar
and a rosary
all
i had.

time to
dip
below
the skyline,
find fault
in the earth's crust
vomiting green
and dusting off
its brown shoes.

it welcomes me.

i wave nonchalantly
back; my faith has
always been
of that swerv-
ing kind,
dodging, catching
silver bullets
between teeth
better
suited
to
munching
mutton chops

and stringy beans
grown
for a dollar a bag
at the local farmer's
front-of-house
setup.  

time to find the trail
i used to sniff with
my staffordshire terrier;
last time, my jar
of one and two
cent pieces
evaded my
wistful searching.

oh! i am seven again!
i am serendipity

reclaimed.

 

 

'Breathless: Prelude'


Skin folds over mine, milk on mocha.
         I remember far too much
                    over random gifts like this.
                                  Too long
                          under the sun
                I've woven sweat
                         and dust
                     in marriage,
         thoughtful of sublime nights
                waiting for me here

beckoning�"
a stranger whistles of Indian summers
folding into my hands.


          Lately,
              I've been draping
                            fiery skies�"
                                down, down into
                    the bone pendant
                         I wear
                 constantly:
        phoenix       and taniwha,
              rebirth        and water
             and mercurial things.
This is my boat. This is my voyage
which speaks of lonesome fog
                 some mornings,
              a touch away
                    from breathless spirit
                          wandering.

 

 

'mostly'


mostly, it's just me here, waiting
for clouds to trace circles
on my face. and i think back
to my room, books stacked high:
some read, some left there
for a special day.

i am a compulsive entity, waiting,
waiting to shuffle cards, to split them,
to scatter four kings to each corner
for some unknown ritual inside my head,
thinking: what is the significance
i attach to this act?

my brows tighten. veins decompress.
lungs widen. lips crackle under duress.  
to create: this is poetry i've learnt to forget.
a jazz opera, a pop-funk mess.
and mostly, it's always been me here,
waiting for a touch, a rough caress.

 

 

'insert jaded artfuck response here'


progressive beauty. i have no idea what that means.
perhaps it's too post-modern for my liking.
too

i
am
art
and
love
and
denial
and conflict
savouring
moments
of wretchedness.

how quaint.
nervous.
a kick to the kidneys.
a busker with ten cent pieces
flicked solemnly
by samaritan cityfolk
with a touch of reserved
bohemianness.

is that a word?
is that

oh
who
gives
a
flying
...

faint.
squiggles.
words
pretending
to be
a poem. 

 

 

'Breathing: Song'


Flash sharkbone teeth
and dive under�"

This is home, a blue touch, a silver penny
of sparrows and tuis and mynahs
circling, circling.

Breathe: it's song and shadow, conch
and heaving shore. 

 

 

'Veritas'


I knocked on her door, left orangeblossoms
on the varnished floor. I could see my reflection,
all flustered-eyed and mussed-up bed hair.

But that's irrelevant, a petri-dish of unreturned calls:
somnambulance. So, wish for ocean and spirals in your sleep;
that's where I've always been. It's my stream of condolences
given form: winged bravado, machismo flatly run over.

Why do birds sing when I'm continuously quiet? To blast them
out of my sight: I'm sorely tempted some days. Some days.
Of maroon and burgundy, of plastic wheels on a Tonka truck,
squeaky-rusted from the sandpit it's always resided in.

This youthful lozenge I spat out years ago.
This toast I buttered and threw
on that same floor.

I wish for hollandaise and bechamel sauce. No mint. A touch
of tarragon and music from Vienna, pure and forlorn. Somehow,
these wishes become three kisses I've yearned for.
Eternally.

Windswept caves with anemones at its gates. Flax
and Pohutukawa lining the edges. That was Christmas
all those months ago.

There, I spoke of roots and waves returning, of sunsets
rainbow-runed and benevolently stained. Here, it's rain
and endless rain, polished stones in a crystal bowl, shivering.
Today is a muted aria cut short, left reeling.

What fish in this world could overcome my temptation to join
sea and sky together, to obliterate the lines of earth between?
What world of lips is worth all of this?

Author's Note

If you read through all of these, I'll be mightily impressed.

Reviews

[zig]

"What fish in this world could overcome my temptation to join
sea and sky together, to obliterate the lines of earth between?
What world of lips is worth all of this?"

yeah, f**k yeah. this is a great little collection here, love how it all ended, mixed and new, everthing before it irreverent, mute. great wording great flow, love how the whole thing bends. awesome poetry here, my kind of poetry. zig

[sienikeha]

ya.. kinda loooooooong. lol but good. so it wasn't a total waste of time! some gorgeous gems.. you have something. : )

a few lines stuck out --
"mixture of seventeen year old precociousness and sixty five year old staggered wisdom"

"between oranges in Seville looking lonely and pregnant"

"what if? a poemis a fractured stiletto"

"and what if? poems are sleepy infants in soapy water"

"i gave eve over to starlight,and dreamt i was one of anais nin's fingers clutching a pencil,a sketch unfinished,waiting for more"

"What world of lips is worth all of this?"

[V.B.]

Holy s**t. Let's start with that. Impressed that I read through this? You're far too easily impressed. I am going to see if I can gather up any sort of actually useful words for you here, but at this moment I find myself at a lack for words entirely. Which way is your fan club?

[Sidewalk Chalk Art]

you write too much. or you have too much time on your hands. i'll be back to dissect later. :D

[Kaela Craven]

long

[mysticgmekeepr]

I'm a mixture of seventeen year old precociousness and sixty five year old staggered wisdom for sure. And one of the best dogs I ever had was a blind Staffordshire Terrier named Dandy.
I think I very much identify with your boat and your voyage and the things clung to and the ones let go of.
Well I did read through all of them but no need to be impressed.
because they grabbed me and pulled me through each line to the end, and I didn't want to stop while there was still more to dine on. Stunning and beautiful echos...thank you.

[Charisma Moonfairy]

This is beautifully and creatively written, kudos

[Touché Armada]

4) Back for more.
Why? Cause this is is is all too good to not read again and then some.
Run on run on, that is just what this one does, from moment to moment
Empty handed maybe but with a full stomach a little more back bone faith in something anything perhaps that the sun will rise once more and again a world captured with dirty feet and laughing eyes and the feet leave prints as the eyes capture lines.. There has to be give when you take. Chance, its the smile across the table rippling in the heat of a flame, or the wrong turn that finds that little shop you always looked for, or the phone ringing that makes you get up and move to answer it just to hear your grand ma ma say oh sorry dear, I'm not sure why I called now as a car crashes through your meagre dwelling right where you sat a moment ago (That last one is a true story, though it's not my story =D )

[Rachel Eisenberg]

i guess, maybe, the job of writing is sort of to conjure a picture of its writer... all your stuff is easily accesible as it is, but putting them together on one page really gives a more cohesive (?) sense...

gah.
i dunno.

i ditto emily burns' comment.

hm... i think i've read half of these and commented upon them at some point, somewhere. but i don't really want to do it all again... but of course you had to challenge us. so i'll say this:

fruitful: gives us this "scene 1" feeling; capturing an accurate picture of you... "here i am. stare, observe, watch, wait. here i am. here you go..." you know...?
taffeta: you told me to never read anais nin. so naturally, i looked her up... and this quote hit me: "I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."
eh, yeah... dunno what that has to do with taffeta, but i like that you're nodding to someone else... that you are just her finger, nothing mre. "a sketch unfinished..."
and i've always liked how this one ends.
craig: i could have sworn you had another italicised bit in there, but that's no matter... uhm...
this one gives a very open, clear (?) outline of you, negatively. you're troubled, bewitched, wayward, unstable, insecure... this one has felt (since i read it first) really dissatisfied and ugly, but in a sad, pretty way...
run-on: "... i am serendipity//reclaimed."
i think this is one of my favorites. it has some really cool things in here, that make me ask questions that might or might not have answers. it's also a little happier. it's more childish (+/-), nostalgic, wistful...
breathless: i like this, especially in conjunction with breathing... i had more to say, but i forgot it. oh--i like to see you switching up your syntax sometimes... sometimes.
mostly: hey! kings in the corners! i haven't played that game since i was 10 and my best friend taught me how to play, and cheated because i didn't know the rules. she could get away with it... what is the significance, yes?...
... i like your rhymes. understated; simple. like a light touch, a cool breath on your ear.
jaded: . . . definitely already commented on this, so yeah... nothing new...
breathing: pretty.
veritas: longing again... a little bitter, a little unhappy. "This youthful lozenge I spat out years ago."
i love the last line, in context of the rest of the pieces. i love things that make you think, and when it's through, those questions are more inwardly answered. or something.

meh. 17 points later, how do you feel? XP

i like it... when do i not, though?

[J. Hampton]

#4) "Ron on Run On "

Sometimes evolving ....means "returning"

yes....seven could be ...serendipity

liked this .....I do believe you are going retro on us

Blessssssssssss

[J. Hampton]

#3) I gues we'll have to call thissss.... " Craigs 3 "

" ensourcelled " ....poetic license ? ...I'll have to flip to the dictionary on that

"Here, in this life, I am a wayward creature,
too caught up in the essence and art of
knowing absolution to be an impossible vision.
Hold me now. Tell me you believe in believing. ~~~~~~ ( fav line )

I think often we share fruitlessly. We speak
of terrible, tortured things. We drink and laugh,
dance and forgive unforgivable transgressions.
Show me a life of stability and security. "

~ inevitably....the tangible...wins our search
grounding...I spose

Blessssssssssss