blazerblazer
-------
Sun saved for dark future
and present nights and days
The painter steps back to view the work
compares it to the field of corn before him
Falls off the known ignored cliff behind
into the chaotic sea below
Just as he begins to fall
he sees his painting
full of angry corn
raging against its roots
trying to fly to some heaven of its dreams
Vincent crashes into rocky water
The hovering predatory crows
dive down to feast in the sun
The unreachable
The glorious
Sun
Lancelot Price 2015 August 24 blue Monday morning
It's amazing, inevitable, that we writers of words and singers of them, are so many times inspired by the story and the vision of this one late nineteenth century man
maybe our names aren't important at allmight it be said that a major [maybe THE major]
problem with humanity is that we take life personally?
IOW, don't each of our individual existences actually
just pertain to the ongoing evolution of the universe?
it's not about our feelings; it's about cooperating in
the general nonzero progression of 'everything'
now, i'm not saying i remember to keep this in mind
during my daily waste of the time given me -
but, i do think it's true
llp - dA - aug2015
hymnal of the left behindturning the corner
he wondered aloud
if her figure
was formerly
nebula dust
or at least
an expression
of infinite number
delightfully present
at dusk
or maybe
a holy phrase
softly engraved
on the face
of time
the brilliant slant
of deliberate
rhyme
the subtle sway
of the spheres
in orbit
the quiet way
of her precious
worship
when he returned
to her, proud,
her fixture
was adoring
another's trust
and he
was at best
nonplussed
Family Reunionin the thin sweat of:thumb556934881:
picnic summerhills and sun,
i swat something away,
but the tiny toxic heart
of ghost gland and stinger
still remain, barb flared,
its venom and memories
still tapped into mine
this reunion throbs
in a time opposite mine
beating the last break
of its fix, into me
into the fevered blur
between us, our micro-armies
at war, within, over which of us
hosts the other
and which of us
is the poison sack
torn from the abdomen
of the memory
still writhing in the grass
quietly turning grey, drying out
letting go, as if finally
broken free from the hive
the king in yellow
i'm condemned to gaze upon these ebon constellations,
sequestered in this keep of moon-raking crenelations;
i hear cumulonimbus breakers pounding hali's shore.
saffron rags, a pallid mask, hastur's blasted yellow sign;
these images are flash-burned upon my mind's jaundiced eye.
and i shall waste away in carcosa forevermore...
paper-godsHe wanders around a night-skin city,
thinking maybe he'll find his shadow-twin; long-haired, Korean-born,
somehow he made it to New York and now that part is pirate-Jack history.
But years have passed since he last played pretend with his look-a-like brother;
acting like angels dropped down from a quilted heaven,
their wings cheap Wal-Mart things strapped to their immigrant shoulder-blades.
Too many hour-glass winters, sharp summer months have gone by,
without these boys even noticing how big and jet-black
hollow the holes in their toy-soldier hearts are.
The older one swears that even though he was adopted into a world of sun;
glass-menagerie chandeliers,
he still feels terribly frozen..
Oh paper-god, where are you tonight?
That kid, now grownup but still craving answers from a muted society,
he now drinks his fair share of orange juice-vodka in the morning
before going to work, inheriting an empire.
I see him all the time; in the elevator, across the road, on the bridge
tagged with a
MatreDear mistress of each whirling wing,
Merciful Mother, hear my prayer
(The offspring of a serpent's nest,
As all prayers are)—
But still I ask, while these lungs work:
From every facet of my soul,
Let your name shine, refracted gold
Off a black pool.
The listening oaks stand in the sun
Ringed ripples toy with granite's edge
A finch flies over, chittering
With fright or rage.
Death waits locked in the snake's cold eye
Is this Your justice – or Your play?
plutonicplutonic
-----------
Pluto
so round
so solid
so very planetary
There may be hundreds more beyond
even its great remoteness
But I cannot help
but be impressed
by its Greek godliness
its Reality
Lancelot Price 2015 June 14
It's a love e ly day in the Neighborhood
A love e ly day for a Neighbor
Mature Content
Internalized LoveThis is sunlight
In my hands,
Scraping sandpaper
Stripling ribbons of
Lightning wire
Paper thin
Forming my lovely
Sunlight lei
Of halo-white
It glistens
Twisting in sonorous
Brilliance
Embellished with shining lights,
Beached on my neck
And precipice shoulders
Reaching, as though alive,
Superheated from the forge
And burning
Like open flaming
Campfire or
Saturn's sienna ring
It sinks beneath my ribs,
Nestled in flesh like
A trapdoor spider
Springing out when you breach
My shutters and
Steal me
Toffee and AshesHer lumpy braid twists round itself,
strands of black and gold untangling,
curliques of brunette dangling
above the toffee-colored shelf
of her shoulders. Her eyes, dark as ashes,
burn between her chomping lashes.
dreamsome mornings you forget to wake up
and spend the day
mistaking cobwebs for aeroplanes
or space shuttles - or other weightless things
like itches
translucent plants
float on breezes (I can’t remember their names)
creaky rocking chairs
rise in bird-like choruses
you never quite noticed
before this day
flight is all around you -
orbits intersecting, tropical lines
lifting themselves from dusty globes –
setting a stance to lasso whole continents
you remember you named yourself
in utero,
and inside - the tiny gap
of infinity
between your skull and your pen. Across the river,
alongside the high school lovers
and hopscotch kids,
random vertebrae sit in school uniforms
future poets in their melancholy patterns
- the mist from park fountains
marks them eternally present.
You remember a letter you wrote yourself whilst waking,
Your dreaming. Don’t wake up – create.
In the cool light of morning
chestnuts of memories
that scattered your field
can
monarch sunset (Twitbit 19)beneath a charcoal sky,
a monarch with frozen wings
tumbles like sunset
hope
hope:
a burning spark of purity in a greying hue
as a golden sun rises after an age of gloom,
to push green growth across parched umber.
Vocal chords awaken after an extended slumber,
remembering songs that weave into lightness,
causing constricting thoughts to loosen their tightness.
This, coupled with the metallic tang of clarity, when all around
white noise roars in muffled tones; a bitter cloud
of jet-jade jealousy pulsing about a crystalline sound
that tells you to just hold on for one more moment
despite the odds that you will show them:
eyes opening wide, looking beyond any past errors
you are a being of energy, you can overcome any terrors.
Curio Shop.Across the span of decades:thumb554885063:
Faces are put to their paces
Traces of dust
Galaxy-wide or bust
Under the overflow of time
I am a mime
Because here words
Are weightless
And you are a tourist
Taking your shots
From careful angles
Fret not
Over these trespassing signs
They were put there to test resolve
To erupt within you the urge to explore
This place was yours
It always ways
Here each grain of sand
Will sing your name
As it stings your wary skin
And the beat of the sun
On your neck
Will synchronize
With your own
And down the years
Your regret for leaving -
It shall gnaw away at your edges
Grinding -
Eroding your confidence in
the fact that you returned to all this
Your feet will drag over this place
Like tired eyes on newspaper pages
With more and more rarity
Then not at all
And all your camera will collect
Is a lot of dust
it wasn't my bodysay the name you know
won’t leave you. say the name
or say nothing - soon the living
can’t stay home. imagine saying
the name that can stop it.
imagine understanding it was right
dropping out of school
to see your father die
and sometimes it comes back
with a vision. imagine
if you really wanted out -
hear the grass dying
in the background.
and there is no someday hope
that you can remember,
that no one has died,
and now it owns you -
living as a punishment.
see how a long time
is only a thing in my pocket
a moment ago.
TADPOLEI remember when you told me that the Stars
were spun from the cosmic weight of spiderwebs,
and the best secrets were strung from cat gut
and hung to dry on the fickle clothesline of
Summer conversation, who could have doubted
such sage words? I followed you around,
watching you dissect a beautiful moment with
your jaded whiskey breath, not really knowing
that you wished I was a tadpole so you could
drown me without feeling remorse, but I couldn't
swim anyway...my legs were slowly disappearing
and I had not yet learned how to breathe
through my new layer of amphibian skin....
so you kept me in a bucket, feeding me
the gut of wishes that will never be,
and I dreamed of a season sticky with
a true love instead of cherry popsicles,
I dreamed of being the smartest tadpole
in my school and not so much dead weight...
September 16, 2014
© Jewel MoonSilver Knight - All Rights Reserved.
Slum GodsWe had met in the heart of England;
the middle of fucking nowhere.
His voice was this deep,
aged whiskey.
I wanted to drown in the amber -
drink myself to the bottom
of his larynx.
When we were twenty-four, he'd promised
the big city was where I wanted to be -
where we wanted to be.
When the sun went down and
orange flames licked the sky, we'd worked in bars
and stayed up till dawn.
The casinos did the best breakfasts,
at 4am.
We'd licked the plates clean and
gambled our money away through his poker face
and my cocktail dress -
a sequined dogs dinner.
At twenty-seven, we'd moved to the outskirts.
The night skies were so clear
we'd grab the stars by the handful
and counted them like beads
on an abacus.
But the city called us back,
every night,
that city of nymphs and monsters.
La ventanai.
In my dream Grandpa My stands in the veranda
across from my apartment—as always, in the shade,
and his linen shirt shows no perspiration from the heat.
I believe we are in dry Madrid where I have not been
for years. He has been dead twice as long, yet here he is:
no death mask and his smile calm. Grandpa! I call.
From my window our eyes meet. Grandpa! It's me!
He remains smiling, but won't return my wave.
ii.
In the next dream Grandma Suzy comes to visit,
maneuvers herself through the door of my Piso.
Grandma, I say, hurry! Grandpa's here.
She gives a girlish laugh and comes to my window.
She is seventeen, as she was in Chicago, celebrating VJ
and sipping her first beer. She has no eyes for me.
Grandma, I whisper, why won't he say anything?
He's shy, she whispers back; he's so tall, isn't he?
Hearths that arentThere is
too much void
between walls.
Not enough
bubbles running around
livening the air and the
breathes of the residences.
Instead of a fertile furniture,
where entities may grow
and lounge on forward,
there only dust,
a dust that does not even exist.
:thumb558093029:
if walls should answeryou, as I imagined
shifting mercury on moonshine porch
half-scooped truth with a ladle
from an uncovered pit in the ground
beating your chest like wardrums
I never asked for this
excavation, to be unearthed
from years of dust and sadness,
suspended from strands of vanilla thread
looped through intermittent flashing
lights in the distance
and I never meant to stand, a scarecrow
caught in the webwork
chasing you away
Somber Disillusionmy only intimate will be
loneliness
I am the aged eagle
watching others soar
the broken shell
washed upon the beach
time will be spent
in memory
rising suns
moonlight nights
when I was never alone
today I find
once again
I have to say goodbye
theories above a chessboardthere wasn’t any palm reader who would pretend
to see anything in the basement. ordinary men who thought
the whole thing would be amusing always had them -
there was no one I truly believed in.
an accident arrived and lived on soup.
he was singing and hurrying home,
the same as I. the thief looking back
and disappearing.
summer tiger, stepping outward,
died in my care. every detail melted
beside the woodstove -
an abandoned post office had been waiting.
every detail looking back
and disappearing.
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