Best Dislocated Poems
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Leaning against the ropes, eyes swollen half closed
Its been a long fight....
Blood dripping from a dislocated jaw
Body beaten and bruised; taking a few more blows
Crowd screaming; colourful figures; cloudy sight?!
Knocked down a few times but, not counted out yet
Not yet; still standing to catch a second wind.... ~
My foe is fierce and relentless, the best in the world
This worlds, undisputed heavyweight champ
At least over most of Humanity; never lost a fight to the faithless!?
Been the prince of his ring for thousands of years....
Almost had them carry me out; flat upon my back, in the early rounds
Until the undefeated “One,” showed up and volunteered to become
“My Corner ^Man.” ~
Been doing somewhat fair since yet, still, a tad bit fuzzy in my head....
Absorbing blows amid a fight like this but, I Am, still standing
And I get my punches in also; sometimes, I even win a round or two?!
My corner Man said; “The Real Champ.” ~
"Just wait for the right time, he'll open up, and when he does
Then, put him on his back; hit him with a left and a quick right
Another left another right and then, use your cut....
....I promise you, I shall gladly count him out, for you ~
Just hang on, we've got him, right, where, we want him!?"
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....“The Title ^Fight”....
A LIFE CYCLE
Ejected
Dislocated
Passive
Activated
investigative
Never stop
Driven
T’ward the top
Content
Paternal
Fulfilment
Feel eternal
Perceive mortality
Free
Just a memory
Geoffrey Brewer
September 2018
epigraph:
A Field Guide to the Questions
That Survived the Fire
I Didn’t Start
—
I. The Songs
When peace like a river
When, for whom
I still haven’t found
what I’m looking for
Why here
here comes the sun
Whose morning
the answer is blowing
in the wind
Why ask
What if
a change is gonna come
When it circles back
Amen?
all you need is love
What then
what’s love got to do with it
Why love, then
every breath you take
Who owns
I’m not yours.
Not now
like a rolling stone
Which road
you can’t always get
Why try
Why dream,
anymore
I heard it through the grapevine
Why now
imagine all the people
What remains—
—
II. The Poets
When—
hope is the thing with feathers
Why—
the center cannot hold
How—
I contain multitudes
Where—
in a dark wood,
midway
When again—
a dream deferred
darkens
What then—
dare to disturb
the universe
So why love at all—
it cuts,
and you
were always
already open
Who watches—
someone will remember us,
not save us
Which road—
I saw my life
branching before me
What remains—
nothing will come
of nothing
Why now—
the hour is out of joint
dislocated
Then what—
the same dark wood.
midway.
again.
—
Coda
and after the songs
and after the poets
and after every question—
a chasm inside you
God left there
before the Word.
don’t answer.
it doesn’t need a way—
it is
the way.
The idea behind this poem came from reading a poem of the same title, written by Richard “Canadian Man-god” Lamoureux. Now, his poem went in an entirely powerful, yet other, direction than I thought it was going to go. I happily let him know that. So, he decided to have me touch upon where I thought he was going with his poem.
Some people really need to be careful what they ask for… ;-)
On an 8pm, Louisiana dream
Tastes of nocturnal, July humidity
Succumbs flagrant passions
With moistened grip, they tease
Coltrane whispers annihilate tense exhales
Under concave moon
She threw Mr. So and So onto Pacific Ocean’s waterbed
As if she was a professional baseball pitcher
Down
The
Middle
His exuberance would shatter sound’s tattered walls.
Slow grinds
Chemical reactionary bliss
Similar to Neutron bombs
Minus the consequences
Her tailored skin
Ready for gripped, enigmatic resolutions
But, first,
She had to “freshen up”
“You’re already being fresh, don’t stop on my account”,
He says with Monday mourning frustration
As cedar scented bathroom door shuts with determined patience,
And running water with a mix of Celine Dion hums from her trained throat
He stands to gather his thoughts…
…until his eyes exit stage right towards her opened travel bag
A pair of satin boxers & edible, Cotton Candy hand-cuffs from Target
With a signed, perfumed gift tag,
“Can’t wait for tomorrow, Mr. Such and Such,
-Love, your Hedonistic dream”
As running water came to serenity’s halt,
She exited restroom with shedding curves.
Her strut became dislocated,
As she stared into his trembling pupils
Wiping the cotton coating from his lips
“Too bad you couldn’t chew your way out of this one”,
The other half of the handcuffs smeared in cursive signature
Against yellow-gold gift tag he hands her with unedited closure
With striking slams against Louisiana hotel door
Parallel to Mother Nature’s thunderous clap
He exits stage left
Giving almost-lover
A proverbial slap
©Drake J. Eszes
I penned a couplet for you today.
Rather, a quill manipulated
my hand and scrawled mendacity.
The misanthrope's who read the ode
applauded with flippers on.
Such insight. Such depth.
Mussolini meets Monet and
the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts.
Call me a scribe and I murder myself.
Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm.
I purposely dislocated my arm today.
Rather, your tongue severed bone
and flesh was torn from my shoulder;
a needed braised boomerang
to stimulate my poetic prowess.
Such clarity. Such wisdom.
Lenin leads Lichtenstein and
the Lucifer Lindy is launched.
Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers.
Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile.
A jellyfish swam through my veins today.
Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant
triggered a fabricated Tanka.
Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone -
more comedic when we cackle together.
Such simplicity. Such compassion.
Bundy befriends Berchtold and
the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins.
Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection.
Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted.
I solemnly yearn to expire today.
Rather, a fool fires in a fury
and a mannequin lies in his casket.
The curse you've driven towards me -
a combination menu
when a lone Woolf inconspicously
devours a battered Browning.
Such diversity. Such nothingness.
Stalin seduces Seurat and
the Satanic Samba softly swoons.
Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection.
Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.
When social upheaval brews chaos of nihilism,
Forfeiting moral values, embracing skepticism;
Instability ensues, clamoring in emptiness,
Believing world is futile, life is meaningless,
As broken norms shout, voicing nothingness
From souls alienated by misplaced intellect,
Mislaid by thoughts, vacuous and mindless.
Barren is the landscape of infertile minds
Dislocated in grip of meltdown and melancholy,
Preferring to host anarchy, disharmony,
Abandoning the virtues of reason, and logic,
Rejecting bliss and benevolence of empathy,
As gloomy clouds of disengagements form
Roiling hearts in intense emotional storms.
When disorder harbors indignity, incivility,
Misery and despair lead to destructive society,
As lost, worn-out souls wander unfulfilled,
Rudderless, in angst of hollowness within,
Aching for love-lost in fractured relationships
Navigating purposeless-digressions adrift,
Going nowhere, hovering over pit of abyss;
Until from consciousness cogent voice speaks,
Enlightened by guidance of wisdom satori,
Harkening back to yore, of inspiring dawns,
Blossoming-seasons of resplendent bygones,
Reminding~ back then, how tranquil life was;
Empowering now to banish reign of anomie,
Exiting tenebrous clouds, shrouding sanity,
Traversing back to abode of grace and unity,
With compass-benevolent of love, and divinity.
I’m drawn to airport departure halls,
to the optimism of leaving.
The suspension of here.
The promise of there.
I like the in-between feeling of transit,
the lightness that comes from
exchanging one clock for another.
And how someplace else makes you a child,
everything new again.
And the chance to leave baggage at home,
to quarantine turbulent emotions.
And the triage of broken dreams or numbed lives
into myriad flight paths,
New Life-bound,
relocating dislocated yearnings,
destination reinventing destiny.
And flight:
the release, however brief,
from reality’s gravity,
the world simplified at 30,000 ft. to
a spread of light-bathed cotton-candy clouds.
In motion, there is possibility.
In departure, future.
In passage, faith.
In altitude, a soaring-free.
In sky voyages, horizon-crossings.
In endings, beginnings.
In boarding, a looking-forward to _______.
I like hope taking off.
My city has been abandoned
by royalty for vultures to defecate and Hyenas to spit on.
The large hole left is a huge hindrance to every emotional functionality
making inactivity a coveted blessing to this feeling
which was once an inner paradise
as vacuum is more glorified to this emptiness
handled by a devastating care-taker.
Misery spins in a jet speed round an orbit of madness
while disgrace powers this system with the energy of ruin.
Reconciliation’s manual is drafted in an impossible language
b’cos everything within and outside the shores of existence
are on their knees on my behalf, yet mercy has been squashed
on this rocky heart I arrogantly created.
My moves of happiness have been jacked up
with a pivot of depression as its wheels are unscrewed
by the cruel tools of sadness.
The buttons of our memory now over-punched,
making the heart drown in a gutter of regrets
and dragged to the blind border of melancholy.
A heavy rope is tied around my neck yet nobody sees.
My throat, in cautious contact with a sharp knife but nobody cares.
I face reject like a delicacy without seasoning from a Tongue
and dislocated by doom
like summer without daylight or spring without the rains.
I stand alone and afflicted by this mood so barren.
She has passed the message so clearly
but not without leaving an injured soul.
It was a good spot.
A spot near the bus stop.
A spot where on many days the air was filled with aroma
of fruits and vegetables from tables set up in front of markets.
A spot where a poignant odor from the fish market stretched the nostrils.
There on that corner, that favorable spot of hers where she spread
her blanket
And on that blanket, her well-crafted beads and basket do
heavily employed.
There on that corner, that favorable spot where one would have
no need to have the nose of a bloodhound to pick up the different
smells of people.
There on that corner, that favorable spot she smelled mineral odors
from shipyard workers, whose boots and uniforms were stain by oil.
There on that corner, that favorable spot there were strong musty,
and repugnant smells from dislocated drifters.
There on that corner, that favorable spot, were dusty smells of
the sawdust and paper mill.
It was a good spot, a most favorable spot where her body and soul
ravished the distinctive odors, and the many loud and
indistinguishable voices that were subaqueous to the object of
the sounds of the street.
It was that spot on that corner that whispering winds spoke to her
about in her dream.
It was a dream that was sent to her by Hashtali-
Achafa.
On that corner, that most favorable spot she offered up her praise to
Hashtali-Achafa and hawk out notice of her goods.
And Hashtali-Achafa blessed her with prosperity.
Copyright 2017 Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake
Inspired by a character from the book Halona, copyrighted 2004
...Continued from Part 1...
Poor little Evelyn, her poor physical conditions at birth puzzled local doctors,
It was a mystery she was born with a dislocated hip and a deformed right foot.
And evidence of bone damage whilst within her mother’s womb, that happened,
9 months of exhaustive tests, Evelyn the baby is confirmed a OI type III patient.
Today poor Evelyn is small in size, as typical of OI patients, her mobility limited,
She is constantly in need of a new body and leg brace with special shoes fitted.
With an anxious and loving mother and sessions of unending physical therapy,
Evelyn must have monthly doses of intravenous drug to increase her bone density.
At 4 years old now, imagine the frustrations and the helplessness in Evelyn,
She knows she is different, why she is so fragile, her little mind cannot fathom.
All the various injuries and the many broken bones about in her tiny body,
Life is such a challenge, why is she born so unlucky and so much different.
For every 100,000 individuals, six to seven are born with such dire conditions,
If there had been a more fortuitous mutation at a genetic level, these individuals...
They could have been born as legendary mutants, imbued with fantastic abilities,
But a twisted play in Fate's hand, OI children, they struggle even in normal activities...
Only with advances in Science and Medicine can OI sufferers have a normal life,
With bones so brittle that shatter like fragile glass, they have only sheltered lives..
http://www.star2.com/people/2016/01/03/her-bones-are-so-brittle-they-can-break-like-glass/
Don't slide your arm around my shoulder
unless you want yours to be dislocated
Don't try to tell me I'm beautiful
trust me it's overstated and overrated
Don't ask me if you can get me a shot
I'll probably give you some lip
not the kind your thinking though
more like replying with will you make it hollow tip?
Don't try to tell me you'll take me
to places I've never been
Like where an abandon warehouse
covered in plastic is that what you intend?
Trust me it's for your own good so just stay on over there
cuz i don't always play well with others
and i never said the game was fair
a million others just like you sweet talking all the time
the same words to all the girls dumb enough to fall behind
Now this is nothing personal your not the first to try
I'm sorry it has to be this way but your just another guy
I stand on the cliff’s edge and look down,
The falling stones, I hear their resound.
I close my eyes to feel the winds embrace,
I sense its touch all over my face.
I’m alone,
No fear...
The white waters pound the rocks below,
If I fall...
Who would know.
This is my selfish experience
My life is of little significance
The coward’s way out
I feel the wind moving about
Its blowing on my back as if to say jump
It would be all over in a minute with a thump
But like something invisible keeping me on
Though I see the happy things in my life all gone
I decide not to do it, to step away
Then a sudden scream I heard, aimed my way
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I slip over the edge with my face all screwing
I scream and start to bawl
“Urrrrrh!!!!! Arrrrrrrrrrrsehoooooooooole!!!”
The fear I now feel racing through me veins
And the pain I'm about to feel rushing through me brain
I helplessly lash out at the cliff edge
And manage to grasp hold of a protruding bit of veg
I’m brought to a holt like a snap of a whip
Then snap, crackle and pop I’m moving again to finish of my trip
I hit the rocks with a promising thud
I punch the air and say “Thank you me Lard”
Well I was air lifted to hospital with, a dislocated shoulder broken ribs and two leg bones,
If it weren’t for that hiker I would be ok walking home...
Ps some where amongst that bit of veg
If you ever climb down you'll see me teeth stuck on the cliff's edge
yeah, i went in
and i picked up a novel and took it to the counter
she said, "oooh, i do like this one. so heartbreaking and inescapable.
it's about being dislocated from friends and numbing routine and desire."
i said, "it's not for me, it's for my mate, bill."
the bloke behind the counter came over and whispered to me,
"before death, i will be recognised
as an expert fencer. all we have left is fantasy or the examination of the self."
his name badge read 'peter'
he had the phlegmatic charm of a proto-slacker
he handed me the receipt and
i ate it in front of him
We lean in, like a sculptured work in progress,
enigmatic scent to kiss,
when suddenly,
the three inch wide orange rubber bands around our wrists,
pulled behind our backs,
spring us away from each other
at supersonic speed.
Hair flying in front of our faces, slipping through wind without weight...
Back to opposing sides of the world,
tethered to work, anxiety, bills, and the unavoidable
responsibilities of adulthood.
Immediately, I feel my ankles bulge
under the strain of stretching out to meet you again.
My skull is an arrow aimed at you
and I perspire indigence at what I leave behind.
There are no words big enough to explain what I know.
That you are on your other side of the world,
arrow-headed in my direction,
straining wrists in orange bands,
shoulders almost dislocated from the magnetism
that life injects into the scenario.
It will be years again before we meet, perhaps,
and yet, as long as I have the knowledge of our combined efforts,
I have the strength to push ahead, pain what may.
The air is still stained with our image where we barely kissed.
Holographic disturbance which no soul will pass through,
until the orange bands are stretched to cracking rubber, thread size,
and we breathe each other's air once again.
Patience is an additive in my blood, these days,
and I rarely allow myself to ponder,
that, in the mean time, in all this strain and wonder
on our opposing sides of the world, struggling to reach one another,
we must continue to live in the same house.
I wake up in a bath of sweat
I am late starting my journey
Weightless clothes hide my being
Protect the skin from reality, my reality
The garage door shuts up in a rearview mirror
There is nothing else but emptiness
The rose bushes prune themselves
For an artificial Californian winter
Dislocated trees pretend to whither genetically
Along the street I slide encapsulated in soundproof
I ride in a bath of distorted forms
Cannot figure out why the street ends up in stairs
I merge in an one-way freeway with ends of marine layers
Curious eyes greet somber, slow and mute police lights
I am finally free to fly and collapse in the Pacific
Slapped by wreaths with my name in purple
*
A three year old with ash blonde hair jumps up her beach towel
She runs towards the ocean in an excited déjà vu
I grab me with my two little hands and smile at my regenerated youth
An obsessive dream re-occurring - our street ending up in stairs…
Again and again…