[lit-ideas] Poems from a Drawer

I wrote most of these on a particularly solitary Christmas in 1997

Peasblood

The icon of my life is flowing with green peas
rivers flowing nowhere, wafting balloons of nonsense
like the blood trickling from a squashed cat
the yuletide carols chime with the red and green
rocks in the way, holes waiting for me
hugging to some free grass in the whirlpool of death
reaching to the void always in a hurry
but slowly overflowing the gentle dams
backing up and floating forward
cirlcing round the beavers of wisdom
marvelling at the wisdom of beavers
and the kingdom of weavers
threading spins, yet the words are elusive
always waiting for the dreamers
swirling through the lakes of my memories
and crashing upon the realities eternally
bumping up against them
phlap phlap
marooned at the water's edge like a severed head

Junkhouse

piles in the corner
trash on the floor
building's full

mitre-box set to cut corners
wedges of aestheticism
ensconce the window

glass drips down the walls
targets towards the centre


Momentary Lapses

Hungry like a hamster, I smell the gold of your shower curtain rings
and eagerly await listening to the vision of your immobile thoughts
The snot of Heaven rings terror on the time of our communion
and fermented water laps at our ears
the screeching of your silence makes me thirsty
egregiously slapping our minds together like wet towels on a black board

I listen to the stray cats barking at drops of air
I live with the knowledge that the pickle is not a fruit
Eureka. Take a shower.

Jungian precision makes me wonder whether I'm holding up my end
It's a bargain, this life.
Pink and precious, your lineage smites my lot as low.
Hun I'm not. Hon you are. Sweetness -- Dolt -- yay!!
Opposites attract
I've drawn the shortest straw. The only thing I've ever won in my life.
Coming up lucky in a peculiar way

What are those moments between thoughts?
a;lsdkfj;lsdkfj;afkdljalkdfja;lskdjf


A Solemnity Carol

A mouse pad of lovely blue
Caresses my wrist
I move my arm in extended intricacies
to forage through my machine
what a lot of motion to undertake
seems rather pointless when there are books to read


Artist

I'm so sad it hurts so bad
I'm so tormented, my brain is bented.
It's gone so far, I fail to see
The genius of my artistry.
My muse is withered and forlorn
I rue the day that I was born
Artistic wit has run its course
I have no line to rhyme with this, so what the fuck do you care?
So now I can only prance around in black
And play the psycho maniac.
I follow these steps: one, two, three.
Presto! I'm an artist!


Birth

My buttons are ripe for the pushing
pulsing synapses overwhelmed with potentiation
as you prepare to prove my mind exists
I moisten at the thought of the retrieval of varieties
preference always given to the most labile and obscure
Ontology has no place in our community
come here and sit on my pew of thought
Soft and cushioned, receptive to your seat.
Here we sing hymns of melancholy
and meditations in projections --
rejoice in the icy heat of their fires.
Rekindle the energy, changing forms, states, phases
my wavering valency
drinking the force of your strength
feasting at the font of visceral vituperation
vexing my vestiges in diffident dissemblance
languishing in the view of the summit.
The apex of apathy on your alluvial archetypes.
Aretes and cirques of your mountainous mind
dwell on the superlative icy burnings -- their cause.
Your prosaic introspection penetrates deeper
through the strata, the ridges and folds of my cephalos.
Invading me, patiently waiting for my death and in dying, I am born.


Umm

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thing is, I have this stammer. 


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