Anesthetize Beauty – A Poem

 

Anesthetize Beauty

Porch light pondering
little mirrors on the floor

All of our intentions shift yellow

perfuming
wakes of escalations

Glad acquainting
popularists
in

a youthful headlight
sigh stammer
become

smiles
blink inhibitions

motion
time

Parodies the television

Dissolved arms in kerosene
artfully crafting
a shell to hide

vengeful relatives
who

no longer listen
Great mind balloons

Sleek voice
gathering steam in early
morning

hiccoughs truth
farts
elegance
anesthetize beauty

in the borderland
between
leaden pole and
moralizing monologue

Keepers of The Last Verse – A Poem

This poem is a prelude of sorts to Gomorrah, a seven part poem I wrote. I had not planned really to write a prelude, or any more of the poem for that matter, but this came to me and called for me to do so. If you are interested, the rest of Gomorrah can be found:

HERE

Keepers of The Last Verse

We were named The Keepers of the Last Verse.
Knowing nothing of ships we set sail to The New
Land that was once Old. Before entering the valley,
in the mountains we built The Shrine. Aienu, The
Sun God, The Crownless Peacock King, spilt his
blood over the evening sky.

The valley was empty and life bearing when we
arrived. It was We who founded The City. Built
The Library over The Ancient’s Alter. Dug out The
Catacombs for The Old Gods to watch under us.
Placed The Door deep therein. Began The Festivals.
Set watch at The Gates. Formed their opening
and closing Ceremonies.

We tilled the soil. Harvested The First Fruit for its
wisdom before The Tribes arrived. Nomads who settled
in the valley. Becoming artisans, architects, financiers,
politicians, merchants. They laid the roads and
erected the buildings. The Three Spiraling Towers
to please Aienu and his wife, Linti, Goddess of
The Sleeping Star, The Crowned Mongoose Queen.
The Tribes crafted the bells that have chimed in metered
time ceaselessly ever since.

We became The People and The Tribes Citizens of
The City. Together the valley prospered and grew
in our care. We shared much of our knowledge with
The Citizens. Our Library was opened to them. But the
secret of The Door, the hidden ways of The Catacombs,
and The Last Verse We retained. These We passed by story
and song only to our children in The House of Life that will
one day be left abandoned.

The Pier – A Poem

 

The Pier

Greet me
when summer begins
to fail
by the pier
where the songs
of the waves
come
crashing along the pilings.
I shall be dressed
in a vest of
turquoise delight
wearing a shining gold watch
that pointlessly counts
out the hours
to midnight.

Under us
beneath the wooden planks
of the pier
buried deep in the sand
is the old wood locker
full of the bones
we had collected
years ago.
Complimenting you on
the colorfully slender
trousers
that you will be wearing
you’ll smile
in the shade
of your large brimmed
straw hat.
I will present you a flower
(a white lily
or a red carnation…)
(…for you were always
the sentimental
one)
and we will walk
out
to the end
of the pier.

It will take us all day
to reach
our destination
as we stroll leisurely
past
people casting their lines
far into the dark ocean waters
full of invisible
treasures
and treacheries.
Perhaps they will catch the golden fish
or a muscle
full of pearls.
The lulling music
of the
water will
rhythmically dance through
the salty air
that moistens our skin
as we speak
of our professional achievements
and personal
failures.
You
burdened by the
long hours
at your thriving practice
and to a husband
and three children
you hardly
know
and me
divorced
and lost in the corporate files
of an office building
downtown.

At reaching the end
of the pier
we will have come to the past
in our conversation
but those days
will no longer pierce through the dark
of the night that has
enveloped
us.
In the glow of the light
you will sparkle
as you
lean over the edge
of the railing
and toss the flower
I gave
into the sea.
One more bone for the chest.

I will hold your hand
as we walk back
in a silent stillness that
cannot be
broke
by the waves
or by the seasons
or by the tides
and we part at the entrance
of the pier
as autumn arrives
in the muted voice
of the dead
resting
anxiously
buried
in the sand.

Sunday Drive in Ohio – A Poem

 

Sunday Drive in Ohio

Ohio,

I can hear your poetry crying out
from the red soil

in the grass trampled
flat
into ruts gouged
by tractors
running along the side of the cornfields

in your people whose hearts
are filled with love
and eyes with
suffering

in the grey stone buildings
weathered
and nakedly housing the
fleeting opportunities
of desperate lives

in the goldenrod and new england aster
growing wild
by the roadside
the smell of asphalt swirling
across them
and their pollen swept up
by a vigorous gust
scattered
and lost
in the wall of the trees covering the hills

in the ghosts in the valley
rising ceaselessly
heavenward
from the tall chimneys
of the power company

in the rocky cliffs where your ancestors
are eternally etched
and their reliefs refined daily by
the passing wind
and rain

The Creature Wakes – A Short Story

Deep under the house, with its dark halls and rooms filled with the nostalgic talismans left by past occupants, the monster was woken. A creature whose shadow, hate and despair had years ago seeped down into the foundation and clung to the walls. With foul, venomous breath it infected the air as it took shape, grotesque and unseen. It rose, called by a desire to devour the love it felt had invaded its domain. Up the stairs it crept to the master bedroom and out to the balcony overlooking the long yard with its crumbling wall. There it spied the two girls playing near the fountain with their father sitting and writing at a table on the patio, and its heart was filled with an awful lust. But, as it lifted its gaze to the bordering woods, it saw a fox sitting in the shade of the trees. The fox’s eyes were fixed upon the creature with a curious smile twisting along its mouth. And the creature knew then the fox, yet it was too late to prepare a defense. Three piercing barks shot forth from the animal, and the creature felt its body dissipate in their wake. Its form shattered. However its spirit, potent and still dangerous, could not be undone, and it settled over and filled the house, hungering in the dark for death and disease. The fox, with a satisfied air about it, looked over to the girls, catching the older one’s gaze, and they became transfixed on each other

“Dad it’s a fox. Look!” the younger one yelled.

But before the dad could see the fox spun about and ran quickly off deep into the woods.

 

*****************************************************************************

This is really a scene I wrote which is a part of The Deerfields, and both belong to a longer piece I am writing. To read The Deerfields, you can find it here:

https://marcellosrevenge.wordpress.com/2013/07/09/the-deerfields-a-short-story/

Antoinette – A Poem

Antoinette

Sunday, and I have just begun to understand
its significance
as I ponder
in my studio over Franz’s Clock Shoppe
the subtle art of the guillotine,
Antoinette,
and the frail fibers of life.

Outside the window I watch how the street
is a clutter of activity
with the shoppers
gallantly searching for hidden bargains,
the delivery trucks unloading their goods,
and the children yelling, laughing
and bored
by their parent’s side.

A group of college students, some of whom I have spoken with a few times,
play cards at a white plastic table
outside the café
smoking,
sipping coffee
under
the jovial air of camaraderie.

Antoinette,
my Antoinette,
crosses the street
wearing a short black summer dress
and I touch my neck to feel the slender muscles,
tendons tense
in a romantic freeze.

The fabric of her sweet attire
accents her fabulously limber legs,
defines sumptuously her
barely covered derriere
and just conceals
her coveted hoo-hah.

The soles of her feet remain a gentle
pink hue
as she reaches her bicycle,
puts her small package in the basket on the handle bars,
and rides away,
escaping my life
and the bloody guillotine.

Frantically perspiring I leap out the door,
down the stairs to the street with all of its bustle and noise
but she is gone. In desperation I enter the store she exited
asking with shallow breath
the cashier of any information regarding
my dearest Antoinette.
Yet he could give me none out of professional
ethical
boundaries.

I leave yelling Bourgeois Bastard!
at the poor clerk
and search
for hours
throughout the town
for the girl
who departed on her yellow chariot
bike
but I find no gratification or reward.

And for days I have kept a watch at my window
but she never appeared
again.
I peruse the newspapers for any news
of any beheadings that were
spurred by the fevered spite of the disheveled masses.
They have remained meticulously vague.
Oh Antoinette,
you gave me pause
to consider the mercy of the guillotine
and summoned me
to decry
Sunday
and all of its splendor.

In the Face of the Apocalypse – A Poem

in the face of the apocalypse

sea wall
waves
break
impregnable mist
floods the
shore
line
holding hands
in the face of the apocalypse
brothers scream
and
laugh
on the walk
way
at the rail
rusting
seals
rest
in the yawning
sun
draping over
the
cove

Solitary Illusion of Love – A Poem

 

Solitary Illusion of Love

You shuddered when the chair fell
and broke
against the door
and I saw our future illuminated in the scratches
that were scarred into
the paint
near the bronze hinges.

Yes
it fell.

But Hanna did throw a tantrum the other day
when I asked her to come in and
wash up for supper.
I had just put the noodles into the boiling water.
Red faced under the bright white sky
she glared at me.
Furious blond curls full of dirt
and sweat
sticking to her skin
as she unbridled her anger
at me
yelling “I hate you!”

I didn’t have it in my heart to punish her.

Only indifference.

So I told her to go to hell
and walked back into the house
to dump the noodles down the sink.
I made a cocktail and smoked a cigarette
as I ground up the meal
in the garbage disposal
listening to the music it made
more satisfied
than if I were at an opera house
performing Orpheus in the Underworld.

How is that for an appropriate response?

I don’t know the feel of you any longer.
When your arms surround me
in the evening
and you lead me to bed
where your grappling hands clench my
obediently
surrendering thighs
your breath
smelling of minty contempt
scraps along the nape
of my neck
and my lips resign themselves
to yours
all I taste
and feel
is the sanitizing turmoil of disdain

But let’s just leave the jumbled pieces of the chair
where they are.
Where we are.
So they may be a reminder that
whatever else
we may be to each other
at least we will be
honest.

And I will remain with you
to be
that solitary illusion of love
which you seek.

Dwindling Humanity – A Poem

 

Dwindling Humanity

I see the faces of the dead
rolling their eyes as
they accompany me in my hallucinations
of reality.
My humanity dwindles into the small
point
of the pen
scratching its way along the paper
under their scrutinizing gaze.
Obsidian smiles
urge me to write and yet
mock my efforts.
A sprawling confession
are all of my writings,
words dripping
as I peel them from my skin
to feed to the dead
and ever intensify their hunger.
But having abandoned love
I draw closer to these specters,
to the hollow pestilence they carry,
and I find comfort in their soothing malice
as my self
becomes lost in the pages and
what remains
longs
to join their company.

America – A Poem

 

America

America is a delicate child who always
carries with her a curious sense
of the absurd.

She can be seen in the gardens, from
time to time, lounging under the
banana colored

canopy reading Dickens or Chandler.
Or dropping pebbles into the
pond, imagining

they’re her lovers, watching as they
descend forgotten past
the tadpoles

into the murky depths, her hand crushing
the moss and the lichen
clinging to the rocks.

Dazzlingly beautiful, the blood of her
forefathers shapes her, curved
and luscious

in blue jeans, long curls of hair, red as
autumn apples, falls languid over
her white t-shirt

that masks her in innocence and purity.
The July heat thunder rolls over
the fences and

tickles the walls of the house where she
dreams of paper planes and
charlatans. America

bears a strong patience in cruelty with
charming sophistication. She gives
hope that waits

on assurances of prosperity. A captive of
her own lusts, America constructs
complex designs,

ambitions born with feigned nobility that
that she sees will never come
to fruition.