Whistle Me Away

when apes discover genocide

I wonder how long I will linger

on the verdant green and blue

insulated by my own sickness

that brackish bile

of human contempt

apes will sing not our mythology

but one of burnt forests

and dried out lakes

human carcasses so vile

carrion crows refuse

to dine without the thought

of consequence

and I will lie down

human leaf litter

becoming fertiliser of the new

season a generation

or era where the truth of nature

will win

Chris Lawrence

dead pilot of the apartment building

x had been an activist
man with tentative government connections
who smoked turkish cigarettes,
constant watching in his decay
bare earth surface
at his seat he had died
virus swift had come
someone in apartment 76 had coughed
still powered by central core engines
apartment building zero utopia
named as a joke
lifted it’s ungainly shape higher
loosening from the failing gravity
two hundred passengers decaying
yet within computated rooms
their souls engage
sparks electro magnetic vibration
they would immerse and combine
be the ship was guided away
zero utopia would be one
with the stars
it’s occupants entering a new existence
that darwin and the bible
could never of imagined

poetry , poem

dversepoets.com

 

sucking in breath

sunburnt man

wretched and weary

beneath light and rain,

thunder smelled of goatskin

and musky aftershave,

steps taken like a drunk

falling on his own

sky crossed with jets

over the park

those travelling to another

countries sun to relax,

as slowly it ceased

shimmering haze

brought glare to eyes

worn with failing status

once he was among the rest

spewing from subway to curb

urgent and despairing

eager to get home,

that place with a yard

spill of ivy

trimmed lawn,

but that page had turned

fortune walked away like

everyone else,

yet his eyes sparkled

renewed vigor in his step,

he saw the torture he once

experienced,

now he belonged to no one

bank, employer, wife

even country,

he was an independent state

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defects of the elephant crush many

shadows standing empty

as we moved from the tree,

he worked with sweat for bread,

she wore only handmade dresses

fabric accumulated from a saving mother,

he had written to her heart

as it understood the depth

that his motive went to,

every day in lengthy plan

hours conceived into moments

stolen away from the factory

to the hill,

sanctuary of silence from the state

propaganda and revolution,

fresh baked filled the air with a resonance,

they as patriots fervent as they are lovers,

planned wedding and battle

as an intertwined plan,

analogy of expectation

that had no sourness,

ignore siting safe indoors

sound the bells of union,

warm tingle of happiness

before the steely clamor

of guns

spring-1935 kuzma petrov-vodin

magpie tales statue stamp 185

 

don’t forget old poets

old ghosts play in a orchestra

before painted ladies

across a golden bridge,

memory sepia toned

kodak instamatic

lingers too,

white house lawn

protest placards,

my poetry read aloud

younger me

more potent then,

squint at the sun

absorbing light,

nature my bus to salvation

notation and tune

may argue with me,

i know where i belong,

war and ever wishing peace

the lick of history

cannot salve wounds so many,

shade of tree a haunted place

my grave and i

knew what path was ahead,

so remember and read

wisdom is a growing child

needing nurture along

the way

 

3wordwednesday

as we fall

plastic bottles find no rest

in the surf

washed from the river

beach colored by paint

human paint remains of

eager sprees

in fearsome glow of night

youth and the silent in

alleys prowl,

fast food wrappers

catch the wind on

commercial sails

over street and bridge,

greasy window watches

those without reserve

intimate action

body abraded by brick

balloons of extinguished

seminal life cast to water,

outside as most slumber

patrol cars crawl

citations written to those

caught out,

they use with needle point

vacationing from life

and all it’s disturbances,

away now we trail

in part to the beach

all that is us comes here

slowly degrading

absorbed into sand,

trapped for future people

to see

how as a society we

fell far

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Said as it Was

the clock as a passenger

looks with helpless hands,

as time often cast upon

the rocks of mans momentum

stalls past and present collide,

memory that flattering

cinemagraph of the synaptic’s

relays something other than was,

short breaths come

falter far from the heart,

we as living in this space

age,

flesh wither

wrinkles cluster and deepen

bones become fragile,

yet we strive to linger on

place ourselves as memory on others

so that it is not in vain

even a fragile hand held

is a memory,

cruel tides wash through time

that pull and toss you about,

so steady you remain

until that moment,

that flesh becomes shell

and memory is a function

of recollection,

not ready

it happens

now it is time to accept

and face your own reflection

again

 

 

Palace of the Neon Stars

white leather jeans shirt forgotten

crushed joint spark

 

close to oak tree/

picked up Harley Sprint kicked alive

the virtue of engine noise

as grass gave way to blacktop,

wind swallowed hair flowed out,

riding unicorns to the resting place

of yesterday

 

time bends/

literate words come into mind

long weaver woven sentences

to use

as he sought her out

princess of diamonds and pearls

her rooms would be richly furnished

 

ditch the bike/

clatter of steel

engine splutters into silence,

a burden tugged

hooked on his heart,

emotions break was a wild sea

worrying the conscious

 

diminishing light/

as sun dropped over rooftops

he still searched out the place

The Palace

run down building anointed by graffiti

fractured bricks

rolled  shutter windows

 

snap fingers/

make a wish

saxophone played long drawn notes,

that filtered like nicotine

into his veins

thickening, hardening

flesh pricked cold

 

darkness calls/

not drunk stumbled over steps,

trash septic festering

litter of abused society,

excrement and needles

vibration of notes

lingered in guts and loins

 

stage lit/

by pigeon broken holes

and the princess was there

moving sensual in a half light

full link to reality

saxophone to lips

blonde soul hair,

righting a stool

looked over

swaying

an enhancement to his retina

delft blue panties

bare breasts full as a coming moon

nature to his root

he found the princess of his Palace

the reason of future

blueprint of his plans

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Giving

she put her hand upon his chest,

felt the movement

something inside,

beneath flesh wrapping

and bone protection,

a beating heart

gift wrapped in his  warmth

love and security,

it was for her,

tatooed hallmark

her name imprinted

seared as a lasting impression,

to her touch

it revealed a long and

future life,

of happiness and

everyday happenings,

lost socks and incidental kisses,

that was all she needed

an aortic ruby,

wrapped in the one gift

she loved

life

dverselogo

 

 

 

Boris and the New Picnic

Boris Strugatsky 1933-2012

i was sad to hear Boris Strugatsky had died, joining Arkady who died in 1991 , both now physically lost yet their minds and words live on.

For me Roadside Picnic which became Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker was a landmark especially as i saw it as a double bill with Solaris , watching for me was an expansion of the mind i did not fear or contract from subject and length, so much of the analogy that our world has been visited is true to the extent of our ruination of this world and the traps we set both physical and psychological that have been the rise and fall of our civilizations and also so much was said of culture and politics.

Red Schuhart is a great character as the Stalker or scout wandering the zones finding pieces to sell illegally that aliens may of left behind we also have the horrors of children growing deformed and the dead rising i could go on but say get the book watch the film and immerse yourself in the genius of the Strugatsky’s.

watch Stalker http://archive.org/details/Stalker_891

and to read Roadside Picnic

http://www.scribd.com/doc/93724979/Arkady-and-Boris-Strugatsky-Roadside-Picnic