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WordScape Triptych 1

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From the anthology, Complaining to the Clock, a work in progress. This is designed to be a "Word Painting" Hence the words are the colors and the rhythms are the brush strokes. 24 lines divided into 3 stanzas.

WordScape Triptych #1 Coming from the Underworld as a ghost, just sauntering out of the depths like you did; With all the rest of us just watching and wondering what you were going to say; Tell us young Beatrice what shavings you encountered in your intrepid sojourns; Regale us with splendid tales, and grand dishes with squid meat and fried barnacles; Intrigue us with your newly-learned dances taught by dead men beneath the grasses. Manipulate us with your pouting grimaces when sad phrases turn inward the head screws; Sweet Beatrice, there is no relief or recourse from these exacting heart exercises; These time-stopping surrenders to the moist touches of absolute skin arousals. Please lovely Dulcinea, guide us to the far-away stones piled atop the ancient green expanses; Where screaming armies once pondered mortality amidst the spreading proliferating weeds; Soothe us with your tender eye gazes which shoot through the airy spaces with calm affinities; Made immaculate with silent prayers and lifted legs around the shoulders of the nobilities. Create us for your strange mansions and your strange universes made of chalk, and fingering fears; These soothing squanderings of doubting time, and the strange splashings of forgetful mercies, Made manifest with the urgings of the stones, and the apex gods with the sharp plastic crowns; Please Dulcinea, sing to us with your tenor gyrations made of pickled stardust and squid meat. And proffer for us, sweet sweet Laura, your lilting songs celebrating the recurring exhalations; From the lips of bearded nomads coming like leopards across the squared-faced, death vistas; Expose to us your battle-scarred appendages where bleeding arrows found the stringed lattices; Reveal to us your arched spinal bridges which flatten and turn with the seeking wind shears; Gather us, lovely Laura, to your immense home hidden in the spiral ferns for tea and secret games; Teach us how to be present and aware of the artifices, as rendered woodenly by the blind gropers; Yes, sweet sweet Laura, we are at your service, but finally, kill us, destroy and annihilate us, With your slithering clandestine movements behind dripping tombstones in the snoring graveyards.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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