it does not matter that this poem's electrons are mostly unobserved
echo echinacea panacea or what reel to reel dark
puppetry reveals when the house lights suddenly come
on mid-scene...
it was a Yule murder by knife, passion played hate,
fierce pierced creases in the skin wearing where a spirit
gets inside your time ritual adherence, rattle and
chained pretenses of patterned universes observed...
fable iron tire on down the road
ambulatory trying tying dying to life
as a gathering humankind blissfully
going on missing its imperceptibly
important pieces...
<tissue samples also went missing, no cell irregularities
could be produced as evidence to modernity's complicity
in the killing off of earthly life, from the inside, comfort
and blindness warmed rules of logic>
these ballasts
you are born with
are pawned slowly
and assuredly
it would seem
they are meant
to become future(s)
and arcade pleasures
substitute vagaries
and bone thieves
current cages
for all our souls
whose wings
are promised
in a next life...
they are told
they may want to use
the quarters
they spend
for an end,
fed with mushrooms
by a fire with much wine
perhaps even then
they will be more wisely
attuned than before, to those poorer
than they or just maybe,
like me they will cling
to a stubborn clothed collection
of survival ration-al-ization(s)
things that say yes, there will always be
some other selfish endeavor
we think, we must possess...
some taste
some thing, we must have
in order to burn
in the essence
of the last breaths
Autumn takes
looming the dark
in her subtle
disappearing act...
<you heard singing in ash and whisper>
"...Look Ma, bon non hands, I've leapt from my own
devices..."
EJR ©
If I could give my identity, my energy, my purpose a label, it would be this: "echo echinacea panacea."
ReplyDeleteThat opening stanza makes me think of an X-rated movie theater as a metaphor. People hiding in their dark rooms, but then someone flips the light on. Yikes. Scary, eh? Great line breaks.
Do we, or do we not, want to be "mmm/id-seen"? What's in our center? ---Our sexy parts, our guts, our souls. We do, but we also really, really don't.
"it was a Yule murder by knife, passion played hate" ... Again, with the "you lay," (which is sexual to me) ... it's like being stabbed with a gut-punch to your nether-regions, so to speak. Being eroticized, maybe in an unwelcome way. But still, you can't help it. Great word bending with "passion play."
"where a spirit
gets inside your time ritual adherence" ... Terrifying, isn't it?
"as a gathering humankind blissfully
going on missing its imperceptibly
important pieces." ... Thank goodness, I think. Really, the worst thing in the world is to be understood.
"these ballasts
you are born with
are pawned slowly
and assuredly
it would seem
they are meant
to become future(s)
and arcade pleasures" ... If you only knew. Brain "ballasts" are the worst curse.
"bone thieves" ... Ha. That section makes me think of demons stealing souls, but not really, just borrowing maybe. These are men who are saved spiritually, but they struggle with sexual sin. So their "bones" are "stolen" and put in cages. This is probably about the grip of pornography on pretty much all men. I honestly think it's the worst for Godly men because of their struggles with guilt and feeling like they have to be "better" than "regular" men.
"the quarters
they spend
for an end" ... This is like an arcade for grown men. Again, a metaphor for paying for sex (even if just visual) in some way. The "end" is a woman's "end," and the "mushroom" is a man's ...
"to those poorer
than they" ... I can't tell you how overjoyed I was when reading this last night; not many people, even writers, know to use "they" rather than "them."
That last stanza is killer ... as is your set-apart closing line. "No hands" and "de-vices" ... this has to do with trying to break the masturbation cycle/addiction.
Still okay with me commenting? :) I'll stop whenever you want.
Again thank you for taking the time to comment as you
Deletehave...I do not have many conscious thoughts when
writing...and this piece came about quite quickly last
night, after a long day on my feet in the swells and tides
of food service pleasantries...though, I must admit there
was a kernel/core inspiration for the poem and I did
give, what I thought was clever enough hint in my
closing line...I could have subtitled the piece...Mea'n
Fo'mhair..."Look (Ma, bon)..."
(also there was a viscious stabbing death a few miles
from me the other night, full of long held slight and
retribution...this is what served as the catalyst or
initiation of song)
I very much enjoy what others see in these pieces...as
they are as much divination/scrying as they are
construction...and as for the proper use of "they"...I
wasn't really sure but linguistically, to me, it sounded
and felt better, when spoken aloud, than other syntaxical
options...you seem a pretty keen observer of human
inclination/archetypal Joseph Campbell mythos...I do
try to lens every piece through what I imagine the
Goddess is...
Edward
You've sent me off on a wonderful research trip.
Delete