Poetry: September 11, 2009

Nothing seems to move our governors to produce more regulations than when a new sense of freedom and possibility. Time has seen what it needs to see, and now time shall remove what it has grown tired of seeing. The great grand master, a poet of immensity, OMAR KHAYYAM has written in the ancient days, thus:

THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 
AND HAVING WRIT 
MOVES ON 
NOR SHALL ALL OF YOUR 
PIETY AND WIT 
LURE IT BACK 
TO CANCEL EVEN HALF A LINE 
NOR ALL OF YOUR TEARS 
WASH OUT A WORD OF IT.


…you may find these words in the master Khayyam’s RUBIAYAT.


ANIMISTIC ANIMAL:

YES, 
I KNOW YOU SEE THE PANTHER. 
BUT YOU SEE THE PANTHER 
MAINLY SO THAT YOU DO 
NOT HAVE TO SEE THE 
LION. 
IF YOUR BITTERNESS 
BECOMES TOO GREAT 
YOU’LL BE ASSIGNED 
A LIFE AS SNAKES, 
THOUGH THERE IS ALWAYS 
A CHANCE THAT MALAISE 
WILL GRANT, A SAINTED 
SHOULDER TO 
CRY ON. 
AND SO REPELLED, 
I WINK IN 
EDNA’S PROPINQUITY, 
WHAT WILL THEY EVER 
THINK OF ME? 
SHOULD THEY EVER FIND 
OUT, THE BANK OF ME 
AND LIKE FROSTBITE, 
UNDERMINE THE RANK OF ME 
DESPITE THE SWELL. 
SO WE’LL SEE (OTHERWISE 
I’M SURE YOU’LL SUE). 
AND LIKEWISE IDENTIFY 
THAT I DID IN FACT QUALIFY 
AND PERHAPS TOO WELL, 
TO CASH IN ALL MY FUTURES, 
FOR SUTURES IN A GOLDEN EYE 
INSIDE A BLOODLESS COUP.


The little bully poem:

OF COURSE, 
I HEAR YOUR CHANTING. 
FOR WHILE YOU ARE BUSY 
UNDERMINING, 
I LAY BENEATH YOU PANTING, 
AND FERVENTLY REDESIGNING. 
WHILE PICKING OUT THE SPLINTERS, 
THAT COIL LIKE RATTLERS WITH 
SPLATTERED BEADS, AFTER THE DEAD 
WEIGHT OF MANY WINTERS. 
SOME THERE ARE HIDING, 
SICK WITH DISGUST, 
LANCED BY RESIGNATION, 
THOSE IN WHOM WE PLACE OUR TRUST, 
TO SPOIL, THOUGH NOT TO WITHER US, 
WITH ALL OF THEIR RIGOROUS 
EXAMINATION, 
AND BARELY MUTED PINING. 
WE WERE MEANT TO BE PLACED NEXT
TO FIGURINES, THEIR FIGURES 
ROBUST, VIGOROUS, 
WHO STARCH THEIR 
KNICKERS, STITCHED IN BASKETBALL 
SEAMS, WHOSE PEPPER TEARDROPS 
KNOW US 
AND 
DRAPES THE PORCELIN 
WITH RESTRAINT, 
SMEARED PROTOCOL 
WITH A DAB 
OF PAINT,
A DOLLOP OF 
PANIC THAT 
HAD TO BE SEEN. 
IN THIS WE ARE IN SYNC. 
I HAVE HAD MY SHINING 
AND A FEW BETWEEN 
AND PUNCH ABOVE 
MY RANK. 
WE CAME AS GREEN 
AS THAT! 
THAT EVEN GERBILS HATCHED 
THEIR SCHEMES, 
THEN LEFT THEIR FOLIAGE 
AND VERBALS, 
ENTRENCHED 
AND 
MATTED TO THE SCREEN. 
NATURALLY, 
DRENCHED, 
I SET A PICK. 
AND WHILE ROLLING MY ANKLE 
THE REF ROLLED HIS EYES, 
(THAT PRICK, 
NO REAL SURPRISE. 
‘GEE THANKS!’) 
THEN IT COMES TO THE 
END OF THE DREAM. 
I AWAKEN LIKE A MOP 
INDUCED TO ITS LENGTH, 
THEN GRAB MY COCK 
TO REDUCE ITS ANGST.


(and some ‘Juvenalia’- written when very young)

The cracks are peeling on your wall 
The slippery elm outside does bend 
Towards your sleek stiletto heel 
Which, upon my cartilage bumps and grinds 
I bid your service and do as told 
Because I am not being watched 
And because you are the type 
I’ve died to bed in still of night 
I break in sweat but to appease 
And open wide my eager mouth 
To drive my tongue around your breasts 
Then rest my digits inside your nest 
Scarce morality does not pertain 
To creatures fondled by Adam’s lust 
I hardly need your scolding words 
I do what you daren’t, I seethe, you must 
Tear away your gingham dress 
If not but for a little while 
Give yourself to yourself impress 
And to labour bid goodbye 
Your shadow is your blanket best 
So let the angles of the light 
Creep onto your beading skin 
But save some dance for central night, 
For one whose lover’s face is bold and bright 
And then score tail, to tongue, to teeth, to crotch 
Because you are not being watched.


O Resonance, 
Like the stillness 
Trapped beneath 
The silhouette of the lake. 
(and when I get to it, 
I get to it late) 
Like a swan song sung 
By swooning swollen sands 
Lend to me now the width 
Of your hands, and what I’ll 
Make of it will tax few demands, 
Should I break more bread 
Than I bake. And should I 
Bleed more blood than I feed, 
Then I’ll fatten the calves as 
I succeed while watering 
The hills on their lands, 
Keeping it green 
Keeping it lean 
As so to seed more 
Than to rake.


O Providence, 
In whose murmurs contain 
Quantum leaps of surprise 
In whose whispers remain 
The birthplace of resignation 
Without reservation, detain 
What is left of ravaged Mercury’s 
Rainbow, splintered by defection. 
What crippled grip 
Holds now my erection? 
What kind of shit is this, 
Who regulates this action? 
I was raised by leaping 
Lizards in the lounges of satisfaction. 
Whose tongues swallow forks 
In the road, that slither 
With reduction, whose landmines 
Step like sharp destroyers, 
Where Pericles sent his warriors: 
Baptised ‘Cassius’, 
Peeling me cautious 
Corroding my caduceus, 
Slamming me ferocious. 
Why such annotated, trivial 
Playing fields, why no traction? 
Why was the woman in the muted mirror 
Whose terror lay beyond her grasp, quite vicious, 
Whose mind turns arrows into quills, suspicious? 
Whose war paint smudged the bellowing faction 
Which crackled beneath her feet like ash, 
Allowed to wrestle the action, wet my brakes 
while salting my sea foam before it crashed? 
In fact, Life is dearer to snakes. 
And not every Earl can court Confucius 
Even with solutions intact, 
And praised by illusion. 
And now what couldn’t be clearer 
As fate’s foul breath draws nearer 
Is that millstones break 
On millstones wearer. 
I’d ask her to blow me 
Though (by Jove’s arrest), 
She’d just spoil it by pretending to know me. 
An alliance that is no longer feeding anyone is not really an alliance.


COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 11th SEPTEMBER 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED