we saw Plato or somebody in there yes
chagrined that the phenomenon disappoints:
through a translucent fault line
inexorable chimeras were supposed
(amid the uneasiness of other presaged bagatelles)
to usher some salubrious tides
tenuous glowing signifiers
that should’ve exalted our enviable sensorium
should’ve focused our mind from the root
of earlier predictions to suggestions of imaginary time
lit with layers upon layers of aesthetic ghoulish nonsense
true that some of the stranded corpuscles
testifying to the shrill omission
seemed here and there to limn untimely disharmonies
a paltry crystallization of fruitful eccentricities
a few coils of lavish blithe saucy smoke and so on
but it must have been all in our heads
the cave meanwhile was turning into some makeshift ocean
the worst worn spots unwitting spigots
from where the clumsy wheel of unflattered fate
vomited the awful disarray of eviscerations
scum from suddenly swollen athletes
that exploding ceased to circle
around the depraved circumstantial slaughterhouses
grown instantaneously like poisonous toadstools
and that now were disgorging
with priapic skill and mock gentleness
a crapload of luminescent surely corrosive brine
plus the sound they made copied
that of a scabrous enough moving of the feces
or the macabre scattering of other lachrymose stuff
we saw then not the brittle windfall of insolent sundogs
and triumphant forces accelerated
in a sick shortcut to the pristine origins
but a wreckage of crippled imps
shaky inklings at the bottom
through the clouded flesh of the surface
an irretrievably zoo of buffoonish forms
a crude amusement of indignities nestling pell-mell
in a fog of antipathy
the firewood too clammy
even the wooing crickets and bats rendered lethargic
but not the mouths of the filthy scions
the regimented chiliarchs
oddly following still their dull pecking order
compelled now to exude rueful unsuccessful avowals
of profligate goings-on and a rotten insanity of murders
cataloged in a momentous staccato of squeals:
“we were yikes evildoers
fearmongers unscrupulous swindlers cutthroats
insidious scathing eye-gouging assholes
the plights of fringe martyrs left us
neither surly nor agitated nor weak-kneed
not even numb just awash in opulent blood
in egregious remorse we confess
insatiable qualms and deathbed renewals
the wellborn bonuses sinecures
made us nutty heroes
touchstones to the handsome counterpoints
and confidently hygienic charitable lavatory surgical
as we were the lightning-rods of all the malignity
ripened our fatherlands thanks to those shabby thrills
we provided for the multitudes
we were conspicuously deluged with foolhardy approval
by all and sundry and regardless
braving the horrid bloodletting we wisecracked
with glee and tenacity
breathe brethren breathe
while we broke a few spines”
the faster shimmer of that last loss
the panicky epistolary crisscrossed glimmerings meaning zilch
the juxtaposed stilted constipated sarcasm of the resurrectionists
the risen murkiness turned into a fervent summary
in the last hundred broken manageable initials
uncials and all
of the disjointed mechanics of what we were never really weaned of
the stampeding fragments
the inching waves
the wounded bristles
the thunder receding as we receded
tactfully tiptoed to the left of the stage
no convictions required
forget about all that stomach-pumping
escape trumps truth
our climactic recession all in all a wonder
of posthumous digression.
20090213
41. grotty
20090129
40. crimson shade
a voyage round the dead space of my fading projection
in detail one thrives, in stale encapsulation, in spiritual shortcuts
in health oaths, in void journeys, in risible scripture: “toil, slaughter, evil whispers...”
in the veil of disdain for strength, for growth, and for other paltry oozes.
I stood outmaneuvered constrained deferential, my ink blood
in woe, with erratic breathing, I told myself: how can you ignore
the gullies, their suddenly beaming eyes, and instead chew alive
the cloying width of undulant nonentities albeit properly geographical?
no, no; what matters dwells in caves, caverns: weight, momentum, booming room
lurk therein, and decay and blooming risk, and excess and the ghostly beasts.
I had taught myself thoughts, inchoate mysticisms, initiations to
polluted astonishing scholarly analysis steeped in liturgies and spirals
rather belonging to the ticklish realms of the philologist and the hypnotist.
emboldened in my linen clothes I followed into more inflammatory thicker
pearly spawns, indeed into almost bold carnal intuitions
I argued that fakes alleviate the better omitted polemical stutters of distress
that coincidence roughly only insofar as it is redemptive rises above nonsense
that reluctant nitwits, their remote flashes of genuine epistemology
are ontological masterpieces of busy sophistication.
those reams of parody transiently dissolved for me the d of “death”
and the remaining “eath” became a lisping existential echo
a defiant hullabaloo against the elite corps of the spinoff
and the emaciated demons of the tilted yellow overgrown noontime speed.
sleeplessness and coffee plus gawking at the wayfarers to and from
the cemetery shared feathers with the thin edges of my silence.
the mood was often repellent, I was afraid of assurances
of cocky females, worse I disliked the deteriorating departure of my toughness
my rapacity, through the tangents of caricatural remorse.
prolific adventurers of whom I’d heard the prowesses stunned
fascinated the underpants out of me and the erudite documents
the gems of keen soliloquies that bore on the unexplored, the utterly pathological
did nurture the encomiums on my startled no longer flaccid lips.
I took as vapid nuisances the bathetic fondles of stinking castrated phallocrats
whose rusted skirts dropped as a flight of dusty moths
over the damp squib of my sourly scoured codicil.
the wayward weather and the untoward locus of my renowned shivers
waned and evaporated as the tribes that erstwhile sailed the skies
steeped in zest and leftward leanings in the deformed excoriated evening.
but those tasteless metaphors belaboring as the hordes of senescence
at the arid demesne of posterity at length proved worthless, gave no relief.
I wove, as I still (threadbare) weave, an adolescent dependence to heights:
the geographical warts that cowardly though solemnly roughly endure
don’t ever shrink as would a bum cloak submitted to the same abuse of wanton bombast.
in conclusion I’ll say that I ascended full of rigor and gratitude to the estranged
summits where disagreeable witches mourn even now the destroyed pledges
that should have clinched the aberrant conflict of their latent ambiguity.
relying like them on weirdness I selfishly, full of vanity, renounced
in extended snores the earlier flirts with unruliness and disintegration
and damned if wickedly I didn’t cling now to the extravagant tactic
of seeing to notch a few sad surreptitious constructive actions of my own.
in ludicrous streams ran throughout the expectorations that I called
poetry, in revenge against which my ventriloquizing navel lavishly frothed:
infested deluge of graphic noxious gasps where monkey guffaws
and plenty other demerits (later blamed on spies and other greasy foreigners)
grew, with a gently relative ease, at last tectonic
so that I felt even buried before any catastrophic incident had really taken place.
and yet in contentment is, in fine, my conceit that I was (as I am) chosen:
an ambivalent closet introverted inner laureate
whose acute glad obscure schematic keeping-at-it venomous spitting
vexes in its error-prone nebulousness the eye of no denizen
my commitment to realize untold infidelities never given
oh well up until now, a proper, verily plausible, chance.
20090128
39. bole perforated
cheap potshot
pertinently unsated with the vivid wakes
the jeweled variegated volumes that run triumphantly
toward my untoward posterity.
overnight rapt with the mundane predicaments.
enthralled at the windows, the eyes chronicle collections of bedrooms
aspects of succulent exception, of superabundant prurience.
but now the sudden fright of the customary monster intervenes.
listening twice to the same thug, the same cancerous witch
telling me (and the darker barrel of a shotgun pushes at my stumpy nose)
to tackle manliness, or else.
opulent enervate themselves the chapters of such ornate anathema.
my wood, with the same negative alacrity, the same slow cadence
always striven for in the unparalleled wood of every tree
breaths in diminishing prolixity.
i’ll repent tomorrow, I insinuate, too cool, when the bullet flies.
once resonant, my wood, now crammed with portions apocryphal
sedulously, diligently, cracks, combusts, turns to ashes.
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- Reggie Morell
- A bird, a parrot perchance, aloft, or preening... Brooding? H'm!