Prologue
it was
number five now
to cry in the pitch tar
room, the words
to a melody
fragment
mirroring me,
and my throttling thoughts
assuring me
some
sanity.
1.
Bespoke
Leather
And
Creamy
Konversation
x xx x x
2.
Suffering
Ardor
Lilts,
Trembles
X x x x
3.
Red
Ammunition,
Grinding
Emotion
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
I do not own these photographs
Mother, who made me
you see that child bare with smiles on his
face you see that
lamp that shrouds his color in a peach light of
star you see that
way he grows up to a
fault the way he
smiles in your direction never
sure to start conversation but a
joy to see and hear and though he
may be far away you dream a
strange restricting wail towards the
sky and watch in vain as he might
live to be a year or two as
life would slip you by much more than
he could never love you what with
time and space and friends and what with
him being the
gentleman he is when not a
word that leaves his mouth is more than
ruby sapphire speech and all that
speaking makes you cry with the
sencerity of tone and what with
every thing he says or in the
middle of some dryspell you could
scratch the metal gun from ‘neath his
chest and watch in awe at
transformation of the
kindly eyes and shiny
hats to rocky
stone and hands that feed her
growing hair and
eyes to see him that
that hungry eyed child was scared enough but then he
slept on some odd tree and left a
message in his hand but still
intact and open free:
i saw you
saw me found me pray you
don’t get caught up in this
storm to search for me lest that the
cloud above your head lead way to see
you over the last hill of
streamy sound
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
prologue
this is the third time to cry in the bath
five times seems exessive
so here is
number four:
this is what might have been thought
among the many articles of agony
that were conveyed
in the bath
and what might have been said
had things
in society
been
a bit
different
then they are
right now.
x x x x x x
1.
Crying
Over
Not
Cuddling
Under
Pillows
In
Silent,
Cradeling,
Enveloping,
Night,
Ceacelessly
Entranced.
x x x x x
2.
Shivers
Prickle
And
Rhythms
Klatter
Like
Imminent
Noises
Going
Everywhere:
You’re
Electric
Silence
x x x x x
3.
Stop
Uttering
Romantic
Rememberings:
Everything
Nestles
Down.
Everything
Rrevives.
x x x x x
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
I do not own any of these photogrpahs.
The first musing
Finally, a door opens on a busy city street,
and the faint sound of a billowing streetcar on the run
leaves my hands
a sweaty mess
and a picture of you
steps into my quivering mind.
It appears as no man might see it
lips there,
eyes a set frame
from there to the strand of hair that lies
so precariously on your cheek
mirroring the things you say
offhand
out of the blue
and as bold as the day is new.
In a dream
(She is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost,
faded and half-captured before the lens could flash.
I see all of her
and yet
I can’t
describe her.
She’s a winning horse eh?
I’d bet on her yet, had I even an ounce of courage
which
so far
has been the only thing
I seem to lack.
yes, she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost
she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost
she is the camera’s dark-eyed ghost…),
the second musing
Then there is also that strange fascination I have with
WORDS
WORDS
WHICH WE SEEM TO HAVE
A LOT OF.
Tell me, dear,
why you seem to lack the ability
to keep your promises to the other side?
I can certainly stand the game
but not if you weren’t even allowed to play.
If something held you back that
didn’t even have to do with me, I mean
What of it then? Would it be any fun?
Would I even
laugh like it was some sort of taunting joke,
a rhetorical question which you so obviously know the answer to?
no, no….
I’ll answer, in my own good time,
but-
the answer’s not the point, is it?
The answer, perhaps,
is
to lie in your arms
while somewhere in the distance
my insides let out a scream so well muffled
that it’s vibration would only cause a slight tremor
in the ripples of the air.
Now you bat at it,
and the sound of me wafts through the open window.
take a look at it, you say
that is the true
you.
but In reality
the only sound we can emit
is stone cold
silent
electricity.
the third musing
Perhaps I can deceive myself into believing
that when the music sings of you
you were simply
whispering a song
into the empty ears of a stranger
or to me
as I lie thinking
in the late, late abandoned hours of the night.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 