periodizing memory

tribal myths
of urban erosion,
human decay and devalue
enlightenment forbidden
left to the poet of society

paint flakes
as fingernail connects
a worried sore of what
is left behind

concrete and brick convey stories
only as far as we allow them,
corridor routes to many rooms
as with memories

how can this be a composition
construct of words and thoughts
when it rambles
on moth wings
escape can be a broken window

table and chairs
foam guts spewed
he had broken vows faith trust
here eager in his own involvement
thought theory and contradicts

bruised face spittle dampened
punished and beaten
because of an instinct survival brings
hungering lust
to nest burrow forget

she was resolute
evaded and survived
he had been
twisted by triggers of pain
another room
dabbing spittle off his chin
lifting spoon to weak lips

as with muscular distress
he watched her consume passion
with one who cared
his brutality had brought him
to this

left to collapsing rooms
becoming fabric of the dust
a horror myth
of haunting and fear
for others not her

moth had found a window
grease streaked broken
jagged edges did not connect
with fragile wings
bruises heal
fading as time can

did the sky close

trees doused in solar gasoline

flaring cinematic glow

radiant crawling into eyes

and eventually the heart,

it is beyond the four day rain

so no use writing a haiku,

what will you say to moments

missed out by heaven

and only mortal seen,

air as with light has cooled

leaves and pine needles

penetrate the body,

someone will hunt a deer

stripping carcass on the ground

flies on blood crust,

crows clack and dance on branches

high,

in summer your sea washed hair

fell in curls,

now damp hung onto shoulders

as you move off the porch,

eyes with a carnivore hollering

look at those trees

axe slips in hand

thudding only in the mind

blood trail on boards

not yet dry,

those beings who creak at night

have cheated you into thinking

that cutting laughter out of a

throat was better seen than smelled

footfalls soft blue dress swish

night will crawl back into the moon

and phase out its glow,

taking with it memories

no longer imprinted

fragile in the innocence of

aftermath began to feel

that summer had gone

like an abrupt lover

and everything would be felt

with a frost

of reality

 

 

 

regions of desertion

ashfoot, ashfoot

under moonball capsules of starlight

take two tubes of the sea

and with hipster tone,

squeeze upon my subterranean pinnacle

handcuffed to a midnight train

brakeman with burning lantern

punched me to nothing more,

take two more boxes to burn

smoke and steam

play it cool

sinister strapped luggage fell

to which i became lashed

tunnel -bone condemnation

under white haired

fawns feet

voices from regions unknown

lifted me away

to churches with horns

and fed capsules of better things

hopping away the vision

pierced bone

i was no longer

the bum

with sorry leg

dada at dVerse poets an interesting cut up as i used Gregory Corso In the Tunnel Bone of Cambridge which is below
IN THE TUNNEL-BONE OF CAMBRIDGE
1
In spite of voices-
Cambridge and all its regions
Its horned churches with fawns’ feet
Its white-haired young
and ashfoot legions-
I decided to spend the night

But that hipster-tone of my vision agent
Decided to reconcile his sound with the sea leaving me flat
North of the Charles
So now I’m stuck here-—
a subterranean
lashed to a pinnacle

2
I don’t know the better things that people know
All I know is the deserter condemned me to black-
He said: Gregory, here’s two boxes of night one tube of moon
And twenty capsules of starlight, go an’ have a ball-
He left and the creep took all my Gerry Mulligan records with him

3
But he didn’t cut out right then
I saw him hopping
On Brattle street today-
he’s got a bum leg
on his way to the tunnel-bone
He made like he didn’t see me
He was trying to play it cool

4
Wild in the station-bone
Strapped in a luggage vision-bone
made sinister by old lessons of motion
The time-tablebone said: Black

Handcuffed to a minister
Released in a padded diesel
The brakeman punched my back: Destination, black

Out the window I could see my vision agent
hopping along the platform
swinging a burning-lantern-bone like mad
All aboard, he laughed, all aboard
Far into the tunnel-bone I put my ear to the ear
of the minister–and I could hear
the steel say to the steam
and the steam to the roar: a black ahead
A black ahead a black and nothing more.

http://dversepoets.com/