April 8, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.8

illustration by Arthur Rackham

 Erstes Märchen

(an underbelly Spring poem about what happens when a 
cursed to live forever victorian shoemaker pisses away his luck)

he spends time walking 
the rhyme narrow 
shop stone lined streets 
these beaten completes
centuries old 
smooth to jagged toothed 
elliptical life, 
strife, struggles, 
booms, thrives, 
classes, symbols, 
divisions of labor 
and spoils for the hives...

this was his life's billows 
and bellows, frenetic and 
dust hazardous...
his life in soft furious, 
quiet beckoning him on...

he was at the pub 
in his old town 
who knew 
he could not 
make a shoe... 

his city always 
talked to him
telling him 
to lose himself inside 
walls and thoroughfares

explore my venal corpulence 
his city would hymn
ascend and fall along 
my atrial cavities 
this is where 
chorus rings out 
and dance cards scent 
form to what whispers 
you are meant to hear
your pleasant distractions
so near the drowning of sorrow...

very few things 
moved as slow 
as he liked
most moved 
too fast

"I made their dress too fine 
and lined as if corset cinch wear 
I swore by my oiled leather 
and smoky haze filled linger 
I thought they were going 
to stay forever..." 

what ran 
through his eyes 
towards passers-by
outside remains

this is an
fantasy poem 
a tome roam for he 
who left alone 
wishes, thrones 
harder work 
than he had 
want for

there were begs 
of coalescing afterthoughts 
something of who he was 
or might have been once 
had he never met their magic
or buzz dizzying vibrations 

cobbler is warbling 
cohesive coercive 
sermon-ettes to himself 
with awl and punch 
scissors and intricate
stitching laced 
for more pleasure
he spits and sputters 
between eloquent sound 
and mad disjointed syllables...

"and a good bell tongue 
for your fat bottomed 
wenches I fancy..."

he bellows 
whilst he collects 
a picture 
of what home 
may be 
as he
courage stammers
tippling ale
in ye early evening
gas lamp and glass flickering...

he stumbles out 
muttering about 

"I wish I had left them 
just in their skins
I need to get back to calling
to those damn elves again..."


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