Poetry: April 20, 2013
Poem: STUFFED ANIMUS
Swell my stuffed animus and me!
Cue the lights and help me forget my thumb sucking entropy.
Fluffy and tugging at my sleeve like a knee baby seeking forgiveness:
“Yes I spilled the water, to take me past your borders of restraint, which I have to cross to get next to you.
Of course I respect your sense of order, and the ways that collect in me a recollection of days ahead, but trust that I am your timekeeper instead, and the reaper, announcing himself before the sickle becomes my father’s keeper and mortality runs too close to the deadweight that finds itself another sleeper full of woe and dread”.
BTW, Camus was drunk most of the time, but it takes a lot to shame us, one of the elders said.
If BUTHELEZI had a lazy booty would he lose the booty he gained in his raids on the city?
Or am I crazy?
The sleeper awakens and gathers his tokens before the sinking whole. He financed his favors by betting all his silver on the golden rule. With grace comes cool and the gradated acknowledgement of the rest of your school. And on the face of it, the grand gestures mortality demands, and what falls into the cracks of space can still land in your palms and fall in line with the forms we trace with our hands.
JUDAS WAS A FRIEND OF JESUS’ before he stopped his drinking, he sobered up and wound up with his head in hands, shrieking what his mind was thinking about what the Lord was teaching us.
Even when your heart is broken, and your last teardrops have spoken lament. You spent your evenings writing anguish letters addressed to ‘HEAVEN SENT’.
I see this even as my saliva splits the sands and my fingers brush moonlight off your face; as the daylight pierces the curtain’s strands, you who were laid to waste, dust dancing where the sun is poking, spirited in its present haste. I was wonderbeast, I am oracle, flesh and documents historical at least, solid and ephemeral, even when choking on metaphors coiled like a snake to rattle the polemical, whom I eat like cake, the last part of the beast to slay before my dragons become the feast.
And before the thistles of my harvest fall fallow with release, before I count increase.
Before the leaves have matted into the hair that the worms wear, before new seeds are planted,
Where tall winds are stroking.
My mask fell where I last lay.
I last lay down the other day.
Except when I am joking!
I take it with my Coke and Whiskey.
Otherwise no can do. A smoking barrel nudges my lips to kiss me. But I’d blow it away before I let it fist me and give a nod to you.
Then I rise like a fever unsettled by yeast, in an oaken cask where bread is baked, stored in a frisky temperature. And then singed by carols the baker aches to sing wistfully, before his thirst is slaked, like the moss at the feet of the lake, bathed in by the emperor’s banker, whose fortunes never surveyed the foundry of fate’s savage exemplar, but fable’s angry curse.
Though when he sings among us, he usually sings some Mingus.
He tries to hum Vivaldi, but sounds like Genghis Khan or worse.
Though when it brings us profits, he tries to B.B. King us. Trust me, the matter couldn’t be simpler,
Nor smoother handled in any accountant’s office, even if the Feds tried to finger us,
And rebates reimbursed.
Soiled and bungled I do not take, except for the sake of love, which I wear like an ephemeris from which Memphis brings its gravestones and granite runes.
There are many planets where they make a circus of the moon.
In ALPHA CENTAURI, THEY LOVE CALAMARI and
Stretch out the time by stretching out the tunes.
Craved I the loans which the loins put to the canvas of our stretched content
And cover with brushes of painted sentiments
Some houses drawn in, others left undressed
And to passing pirates trusted, like the shuttered
Shacks on the beaches of Bari.
And with all of my knuckles busted, beaten back,
To the cut and thrust I leave the carving alone.
I survived, so I can’t be sorry.
Cold snatch the blues from the grinder switch
That grabbed its purse and used its verses
To scatter rain throughout the earth.
Which it then arranged in the order of:
Bones to the north, metals to the east.
To the west, all of my sweat,
To the south all that is left of my enemies,
Already buried in their robes of regret.
There are no last words to have once
The ruins overrun the love you save,
And the skylarks pass what is left of your sunset,
As the dunes and swell erase the footsteps of your safari.
DEFENSIVE POEM # 4:
YES I KNOW THAT I AM NOT MAYA ANGELOU,
but check this out, you are not either.
At least I am scratching with my pen while you are scratching at your balls,
like rubbing balsam on the tree and annoying the birds with catcalls.
Luckily your voice is lost before one kitten falls free.
You, still looking for a leader. You’re a sucker either, or a feeder.
Like your mother was a breeder.
Stop selling short the landscapes of your desires.
There are choirs waiting to sing your shores towards waves that visions of horizon hoards, whose pacing has seen the rug worn from fathers and their little lords, even ones with ring worm.
I pray that you find your spacing and Collect what memories slant the mouth agape and furnish it with pleasures.
DON’T KEEP MOST OF IT ON TAPE!
The roll is real when the right feel rights the wrong,
or writes fresh verses to a familiar song, the kind where once heard, you sing along until dawn selects, what to edit from the files and what to salvage as waste or as nostalgia’s last fumble or bittersweet taste.
Once on tongue, what one swallows one reflects.
While the quarries of opinion barter a new deal for the weaker sex,
The one with whiskers on their faces,
Sharpening their razors across their necks.
Poem: Trojan Hearse.
IT IS NOT THE VICE THAT KILLS, BUT THE ROUTINE.
Nor shall my sons grow up in the shadow of my sins. Or wandering past
The point where confidence and fate meet, losing their sands before the hours
Begin and tossing their metals before the golden mean, before their hands are tied
And the wrinkles of their regrets are seen
and taken by the tides from static to wave,
Like a vessel without a mast.
Cutting them off at the shins and made to swallow what they fail to grasp while young,
Nor with a plan to follow. I would not be SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO
were I not concerned for their tomorrow. So on more faith I lean, until the light has restored my
sight for the nights that come, to shake the sobs that break in like the tremors of an earthquake.
More likely to steal than to borrow, and more likely to stare down Mercury
For the value it leaves to his namesake, for them if not his own sake,
Or the price of foreign quicksilver.
Poem: Arbitrary Motion
TOO MUCH IS ALWAYS TOO SOON, and too late never enough.
I once kneeled beside a flower stall, and begged the forgiveness of all who passed.
I had laughed off a gallant portion of my youth and with ruthless justice soon amassed
A bluff of quarters I couldn’t see past, for playing with the truth. Mainly off the cuff.
TIME IS A CLOCK FOR THOSE WHO MOURN and a guiding light to those who dream.
My pentacles see through the cusps of the moon, as uncle in the cupboard drinks the rougher stuff, at last. (It was spoiling in the basement, soon to turn to acid).
He lives behind a warehouse on the borders of Lake Placid and dreams of living in Aspen.
A young girl said that she would bear his baby in June, though he knows she’s grasping, because he had his tubes tied before last springs bloom (so this couldn’t be his bastard, uncle’s early days were tempered like the sitting parlor dressed in plastic).
But they lived like queens and had enough room! He’d see if he’d survive the baby boom, at his age he might need the clasping to the bosom of a story, whose heart was gasping, and out of breath, if not also out of time. And her mother had been a stripper, who unrobes now only to unwind.
Diamonds rhyme with all facets of glory, and the greater vice was not to the vine, but to the olive and the lime. Voices rasping like Otis in flight, whose starlight trumps the twinkle of assets that flicker where the lotus gathers, into a frail and endless night. He confided once that Paris would never sit still for his blunders, nor would he spend a dime, or plaster him with tales of wonder when younger and in the dales of paradise, spinning on his revolver, and spitting on his pair of dice, while wearing tie and tails.
Twice, he claimed he put his purpose to many a one, who were moist and exuberant, tolerant, no longer cloistered, who claimed as boisterous sirens to be the whims of boys, his only lubricant being that which could fill with felicitous glee, whatever glistened to his notion of memory, which moved him from his sandals, like pearls skipping across the slate blue ocean as Neptune wears the horn of plenty and calculates the currents of his symmetry,
While bouncing the foam waves as the cream of his desire, the milk of his emotion.
It’s a case of basic chemistry, though love arrives with vandals,
Bouncing their combs on a loose high wire.
ANYWAY, this girl might be a charlatan, though she is fair.
And her mother is horny.
Which may be enough to keep my uncle there,
Blowing out new candles,
While cupcakes feed his love handles.
COPYRIGHT SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA
MILANO 20th April 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED