Poetry: October 23, 2009
By what quandary
In the pale of your eye
Turns my quizzes into
Lullabies, rings, on droplets
Of water lilies tumbling?
Your moonlight lisp
Is mercy stuttering
On love’s abandoned wings.
I am through
My feet are fluttering,
The milk on my moustache
Has gone to cream,
And these are the dreams
That require less numbing
To blow the nose I’m thumbing.
(or so it seems). Dust rises in
The tailwinds, then falls
By its own weight, sneezing
Out what breezes it were forced
To negotiate in the rain.
What treason exists
It freezes, the rest it rushes to
Uttering what it pleases.
The next 3 ‘poems’ are a portion of my Lazy Poet Stew:
1)-She was never a rose in fine clothes, more like a rogue in vogue whose cloak and daggers strike repose and for whom it may be supposed is possessed of derision and God only knows and to whom siren wails are customized religion and sandstone the diamonds still gripped in her throes. She bathed in bloodstains that seeped from the drains of Spain, as from a spigot. A bigot with words, I’ll admit it. And I a pigeon toe, batting for my chirping cricket and finding my clothes in the thicket.
2)-They have fathomed that to fail is just if the bank goes bust and if enough confusion is thrown at us before the cage is opened and out leaps, startled, the addled blade in the shoulder blades thrust. At this stage, dooms-dayers, nay -sayers, and riders of the purple sage, who chafe at charges against the winds while smearing their blood across the range, folded like leaves by the rushes on the page and by rouge, pinafores and damp face blushes, mutual white hot kisses, manually, for trysts such as this is (where graveyard camels hide in the mists of oblivion, straining the wrists of the cupped hands of Christmas).
She knows that your time is due
This is upsetting her,
So she’s upsetting you.
That’s what they do
When the goose has lost
The house and shoe.
Stay loose and bake,
In your own stew,
Shake if you must.
Stay within your
Sauce, take the sack
But avoid the loss
Otherwise, you’ll quibble
(and ‘incidentally’, floss).
Don’t count the crumbs
From the bread you break,
And neither drool nor dribble
What trees absorb your hanging moss,
And in whose sap the veins
Of birches bleed, whose
Sticky hourglass of moments
Passed now display a
Feast of centipedes
(frozen, if not flaked
in a critical moss perhaps).
Avoid the dull of dingy raps
Spare yourself the cost,
Which stammer out
Instructions that stale before
They rinse, that pale before
They ride the pony’s they
Never quite convince, that
Hammer fists and their
Limber digits into slaps
Of invective and its gloss
And its scars on the wrist,
And the pus of the
Wound it taps, and
Turns to renegade snaps
Which shelter us from loss.
This we will admit:
Eat well, get your sleep:
If it came upon the midnight clear
Then it arrived here just as deep,
Like the sediment which
Settles on lobster traps,
Crusted shells and grit.
I’ve seen more crap
..than I can stand
So I write and wait, in loose pyjamas
..watching the tide roll,
the ripples enunciate.
Past the ampersands
..punctuating the moment
Before it gets too late.
The lines are blurred as the lines are drawn,
I step aside as spawn. One, broken hearted
(by what they heard),
The other huffing because they got outsmarted
By the ceramic Moors on the lawn,
Who finish the indexes others have started
A step before they’re gone,
(like Astaire tapping out
The winds of fate
Who howl because their
Vowels are slurred).
And whose whispering takes its toll
On the tall sails which on high waves call
Towards what wilderness this is.
METAMORPHESIS: In whose endorphins sit,
The sum of what I make of it.
Our eyes were as big as our tears
I index fingered the ozone
While my assets were poked in arrears.
Tore a hole in a whole new reality
Rode the lease out on a principality,
A rogue’s own, complete with spears.
That taxed the wine stains on my bib
and in tribute ate my salary,
for armaments and settlements
that needed infusions of dabble
and scratch, and all the money
I made on my watch.
This exercise in dominance
Drew lines in the sands
that raised its rum towards
what pranced like gravel on the
Shoulders of prominence, so seismic, and
of such a hard way to travel,
So like splattered tattoos quivering
in the jellied moulds of
Love’s shattered weary arms.
And why is your mother hovering
Above the flag pole with her demands?
Watching her hair unravel,
what she can’t outsource
to foreign lands.
..Compliments! You are
Our millionth customer Sir!
The rest is now a blur,
my shoelaces I see now more than
my past , they said it wouldn’t
Last, the engine out-gassed, the
sails out-winded in places. So I’d
have to concur. No one knew
What to make of her
..whose shallows sank the war torn
Reduced to bunnies boiling
in the bath,
striking out the rhythms
from this Sibyl’s
Who live outside their graces,
Who fly beneath the masts.
Storks on bended knee
confess to nothing,
Hard bastards they are.
Meanwhile I’m harassed.
We break a house in two
Like breaking into a house.
Sealing it with a wrecking
Crew, and a ball and chain
Which resembles you.
AFFIDAVIT AND GOLIATH:
With the loose coins in your hand
After spending all of Pandora’s bucks.
You’ve altered the time band with your
Acid, which has turned my tides into reflux.
Otherwise it’s quite tacit, the wake between
The eras and what it took to pass it. Swing
By, if your rope can reach me, while I swan
Around in my pond of tears, just leave your
Foetus by the lake, leave the breadcrumbs that
Marked your arrival with the mice willing
To carry the bread they break, but make
No mistake: These are the stunted willows
Which cry out to the whispered stars: ‘Send
Mars!’ And hurry before they snap the tendrils
of the pencils in their graphite flow, what fictions
and numbers hurl themselves beneath the scribbles
of what fingers grab it, scarring it into the shape
a halo takes, right before you stab it. Say a mound
of mystery appears and with opinion forms a question,
suppose I strangle you with your own shoes and call
it an act of passion? What if all of your scented pillows
were only mean acts of self satisfaction, which can only
permit what weathers are forecast by the grin that is ripped
from the grip of your fashion? Stockings, because those,
would bury you beneath the stench in your nose, sort of
‘French’, like finding a snail on the edge of the bench
while fingering your way past hose,
That time in your least favourite park, the one you got fucked
in, once in the grope of dark. Once, I got sucked in. A cavalier,
..a rickshaw without a charioteer, or a pot to piss in, standing tall nonetheless,
‘cause I was there. These trifles we exceed more with our courage
Than the wounds that bleed through our dress. And in this we bless
ourselves, to extract more as we resist the less, which subtracts
more than it caresses , and which addresses more than it dismisses.
(In case it blitzes, more than it presses). I feel like I’m running
in porridge, like in a swarming field, beyond caring.
..On the bitter outskirts of the forest, in a desperate search for an elusive source,
Of the wrangler who steals my force. I am conclusive, outsourced, daring
..my doubts, trying to factor my vectors out,
As the quarrels remain intrusive.
With the jingle jangle morning now throttled
By your embrace. Please give up what remains of your
Chase. Before the ace in your line-up loses his bottle and his assemblage
unravel to reveal its face, while instruction is still infusive.
..A beer is still strong without lime. TURN YOURSELF IN, WHILE
THERE IS STILL TIME!
AN EXCESS OF BOURBON:
Holding your breath while
I plead my case.
What know I of human race?
An Alien I, Who knew
Orion when he was a burlesque
Queen, slumming and calling
It research. Who correlated
Cleopatra with her dressage,
..most ‘bridle’ calls
Rehearsed. Who bribed
Orestes when he had arthritic
Wits and only arrested apologies.
..What need I of
eulogies? I carry hemlock, shamrocks
punk rock, debit, so my hymns are
locked with Socrates. My weaknesses
are well versed by sagging branches
On erstwhile trees their ash bark
Blanching, a table somewhere
Missing a leg, though its arms
Come out right in the counting.
horses are stable, though
not all ‘veggie’,
..My bats are all loud, though
None are called ‘Reggie’
And the fables I wrap my
Virgins in have fibres
their virtues wrapped in sable
before their touch disperses,
before it gets too heavy.
They sit now to eat at table.
The napkins and the menu
Are set and the rest we haven’t
Got to yet. And my pills
are making me edgy, competing
with me for my verses.
the glint of candlelight,
..the red checkered wine,
the compromise of night,
Makes gamblers of lovers
Before they bet, as it makes
The sheets they shag on,
Assert themselves with sweat.
(I’m conservative, my mattress,
Has to always have the tag on).
GRAVEDIGGERS AND CRADLE ROBBERS:
We interrupt this portion of our pity
To bring you this news from the city:
Back to the country is back to death!
While the dying steal what’s left to deal.
Our yeasts and potatoes have quarrelled with rain
And been forsaken by the beasts
That slayed them, while politicians
Redefine the meaning of grain.
And corn on the cob, some say now
Sobbing, takes less time to cook
Than it does to explain.
With dice is how we played the crease,
That turned us into walking stiffs
Who in the midst of stumbling
Gravitate to the edge of cliffs,
Where unless the Eagles take
Compassion, we break our hearts
on the stones they dash on, moulting
the tarred feathers borrowed from
our fathers, whose blues licks
Cracked the tumblers with riffs
that squeezed the lightning
from their squalor.
..Clutching at a fist of straws
..as the lungs leap out to holler:
RELEASE ME FROM THIS LEASE,
SET MY WOES TO TOMBSTONES
BEFORE THEY CEASE ! I am frozen
In this chosen womb and in this room
I call a truce. I barrelled my way through
With my ass on fire, if lost I’ll find another
Ruse. These knuckles are kept loose
and lean, until I retire
and catch up to my peace.
My options myopic inside a womb
Where I keep my spleen, my self-abuse
And harbingers of doom.
And finally, a poem , in the spirit of political correctness for our deaf friends:
AND READ THIS!!!
OR ARE YOU BLIND
CAN YOU HEAR ME?
COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 23rd OCTOBER 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED