Best Perforated Poems
Dusk seeps lapis
The horizon looms in blood and coral
Crows emerge from peacock plumes
shrieking caws of darkness
wings flap their incessant onyx
Talon wounds of starlight
multiply and meld
into the coming day
the cover of night perforated
into salmon blooms and cornflowers
6/9/17
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
Rainbow Nation
Blanca is white like beautiful snow in the Drakensberg Mountains
she snorted star powder past the perforated septum into her brain
Black as coal from the underworld mines in Mpumalanga Melanie
had her stomach pumped and purged while sleeping off darkness
Amber is coloured mixed race in the Rainbow of Nations her work
still paid in dop cheap vine that slaves her away in alcoholic trance
Arnav of Indian descent was hooked on dagga grown by the ocean
converted to heroin sold her frail body and skin for brown liquid sugar
Jacobus Bandele Lungelo and Bhavin shared needles and comfort
on the streets of Johannesburg flirted with disaster drug related crime
and their dealers cracked at the dawn longed for dust in the dusk
Drugs do not respect colour gender ability social class and religion
all druggies are equal with craving dependency not restricted to some
Now united in rehab like the state of the nation they all stood at the
table of mountains with one foot in the grave at the cliff face of habit
One day at the moment they now battle their demons resist the temptation
for only the time being from one morning away from the devious mourning
one drug line not taken one fall off the wagon shunned and avoided for now
They have all chased the dragon for far too long and imbibed with the devil
for so many wretched days and nights of delusion torment addiction and pain
Again once more each day anew their only chance to abstain one day at the time
Similar sounds and letter alliteration are literally leaping and precipitously punctuating the
perforated pages of my mired, muddled mind..
Making mental maps for future fun in meditation mired muse, meticulously masks the
real reasons I rise from my favorite fluffy floral flecked futon.
It seems somehow strange but my favorite finely fitted floral flecked futon is infested full
of flippin’ fleas. I feel flabbergasted!
It could be the culprits causing this consternation are cats coming into the corridor
constantly carrying the creepy critters in. Crap!
We’ll have to hurriedly heave the whole heaping kit and caboodle of carnivorous cats into
a crate and fumigate the frolicking fun loving finicky felines. Fine!
Fortunately, I’m finished..…….finally.
It’s skin deep evident,
being black is an inherent crime
It doesn’t matter whether we
peacefully
stand our ground,
or be siren subservient —
Hands in the air,
knees bent
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
In the back of our mind,
fear is a pride looter
Epidermal evidence suggests,
probable cause is
five fingers of uniform blue grave danger
A click gavel falls trigger quick,
siren verdict be: 1st degree fatal anger
It’s just another casket open-and-shut case,
the latest obituary picture
bearing eyewitness of Breonna Taylor’s face
Like chalk on a blackboard,
we get erased ...
so rap sheet easily
Four-by-for centuries,
our coffin pleas
have been iron fetter ignored
The only asphalt sound
silently heard
are the yellow tape trace words:
“I can’t breathe,”
with our George Floyd face
in the paved dirt
Epidermal evidence historically reveal:
We always got shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Skin color hatred smoking barrel explode
on a trigger reload
Being black was our genetic crime
Wanting the good life
on the whiter side
of the picket fence
Made former slave cotton-picking sense
Our emancipated thoughts
were escaped equality sought
But votes auction bought,
forced us to tragically be
paddy wagon pellet caught
And when suffrage hope died,
it was our fault —
Runaway tears shed for naught!
Morgue blame sent:
Usual suspect motives be
dreams non-violent
Desiring to be integrated legally
into American society
was our heinous offense
No need for more epidermal evidence
It’s just another cell open-and-shut case,
the latest unarmed picture
bearing eyewitness of Jacob Blake’s face
We repeatedly
get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Seems the lawlessness of the land says:
The badge can be
judge, jury
and executioner
Ain’t it blatant epidermal evident,
being black is an egregious, breathable offense
Of which there is no self-defense
We get shot seven times,
by a six-shooter
Perpetrator exit wombs inflicted on
menace to society ghetto we
Aborted justice is our
perforated epidermal eulogy
Being black is a natural-born crime,
evidentiary,
an umbilical sin
It’ll get you pandemic shot seven times,
by a sick, sick six-shooter
Corrugated rhythm of the perforated heart
in the pulse of inspiration torn asunder, peeled apart
with the movement of discovery proving false in every start
as we danced the dance with no interpretation
Celebrated virtue of the lasting and the free
who have bent the will of romance glowing blind until they see
that the wise man is the single lonely voice in his decree
as they waltz the waltz with loneliness of footstep
Convuluted memory of the passion as we age
as our brain re-reads the paragraph on one determined page
where we left our heart with someone who in love did us engage
as we stepped the steps of someone else's dream
Corolated stringing of the music of the mind
in the heart beat of the moment I'm abated yet in time
with the fit of inspiration telling me you once were mine
as I pass the past a shadow reminiscing.
As winter brings shortened light,
as famine delivers harvest blight
So does violence yield premature burial gain,
scarlet tears of Noah’s premonition rain
Crimson tidal force,
deluge of cursed, wolf bane rage
Crescent moon dreadfully presage
a permanent lunar retrograde
On the dark side of the bosom,
sunspot thoughts flow terminally so, err bottomless
Feral feelings blindly comes from
malevolent eruptions,
igneous fears reflect opaque tears of hardened glass
Eclipse hearts
cast an angry downpour —
What does the ill-temper tempest send?
Underbelly hourglass
receives not
another vex overturn at trickling’s end
Rejoice, rejoice
ye peaceful pilgrims
of quantum hope certainty
The celestial sands of tranquility
will soon pour infinitely
As the last Revolution spins
identical change,
the mammon thirst for power
remains the same
Punctuated by perforated voices,
whose hateful noise
stains the grain
1-30-21
a mystic poetess in her thought patterns
of iambic heartbeats, makes new rhythms
with a symphony...joy and pain in cadence.
in her confetti of stars moonbeams cadence
caressing love in ivory and ebony patterns
perforated feelings careen melodic rhythms
in her sonnets, words entice in rhythms
lovebird's lyrics drift in endless cadence
cratered lands embellish crystallic patterns
Catharsis traces passionate patterns of rhythms in cadence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Romans 13:8 “…Pay your debts as they come due. However, one debt you can never finish paying is the debt of love that you owe each other.
the mailbox, stuffed~
mortgage payments, car loans
with balances and deadlines
marked in red.
water, gas, and electric bills~
the hungry phantoms of
creature comforts
coldly due.
we chase the spectral zero balance,
dream of that stamped envelope
with the sweet release of
paid in full.
but the other statement
never arrives~
no perforated tear line,
no due date circled in red.
it’s a debt, unlisted, un-itemized,
it haunts no credit score,
demands no late fees~
a debt we’ll always carry.
this bill arrives not monthly
but daily~in every heartbeat,
every hunch that kindness calls
beyond oneself.
this debt, this sweet, persistent owing
is paid in tears dried on a loving sleeve,
with burdens carried, with forgiveness offered,
and in whispered reassurances.
this debt’s non-ending, compounds with kindness~
the interest paid daily—not in coin
but in soulful connection
and ego transcendence.
Save the glory,save the pride,
Save India 's Tigers, save the indigenous wild.
Save the unearthly beauty, save the exquisite roar.
Save the Royals by the Sunderbans' shore.
Save those vibrant deep eyes which have seen it all,
From the Zebra, the Giraffe to the Monkey who had the greatest fall.
Save the paws which have pounced so hard,
On the Cheetah, the Bear, all smashed like cards.
Save the stripped skin that glittered in the Sun,
Save it from being perforated by the deadly gun.
Save Your Majesty as he pleads for forgiveness,
For crimes that were not his business.
Save the emperor of the Jungle,
The law of nature - let us not bungle.
From 'endangered' to 'extinct' - it won't take much time,
All that would be left then would be a few
activists' cries and whines.
Save the mankind from this great fall!
Ponder, whether your entertainment is worth it all?
The Perfectionist is Listening
the rich are committing suicide
and taking us with them
the prosthetic limbed bastards
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the masters of the universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the hard on of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around
even their machines were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but not lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color hell
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
petulant and stupid gods
thought their figures included all the angles
sword point conversions gun point perversions
now their carcasses are steppingstones
what quirk of an infinite being
makes this burning plague village
of a planet so alone and necessary
of course none of this is protection
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft in the arms of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
My muse did her fealty recuse
My honor she did stealthily reconnoiter
My discourse was grounds for divorce
Finding my writing no longer enlightening
My blithe parlance no longer my mistress did entrance
With my prose she did forthrightly dispose
Each short she did subsequently abort
Each regaling verse did prudently disburse
Each perforated line truncated with lackluster shine
Each conjured sentence only increased my penance
Each glamorous byline she did smugly decline
Each dilated phrase with a bridling border did encase
Each gilded stanza a burnished extravaganza yielding no artful bonanza
Each tethered word coagulated into a stolid curd
Each bloated quote sunk my creative float deeper in the moat
Each lofty rhyme labeled too smarmy and sublime
My metric time no longer struck a concordant chime
Each literary device neatly spliced would not even a novice entice
Each repetitive, stagnant metaphor made my verse a bore
Each strained, tortured simile engendered no empathy
Each supplanted metonymy a shock wave lobotomy
Frog playing violin
Perforated Ceiling Washer
White Dot Wassily Kandinsky
©Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
16 December 2014
Notes:White Dot was painted in 1923 while Kandinsky was a professor at the Bauhaus. He combined various shades of white which are thought to imply possibilities in life and bold curving shapes of black which portray the antithesis, death. Interspersed are varying shades of red, blue and yellow.
The circle was the perfect shape to Kandinsky and he felt it was "the synthesis of the greatest oppositions". He believed it led to the 4th dimension and was seen throughout many of his works of art during this period. The black circle with the white dot draws the viewer's eye to the upper right of the canvas with an intensity that is broken by the "squiggled" black line that bisects the canvas on the diagonal. The triangles as well as other shapes appear throughout the piece broken by diagonal black lines. Not only do layered planes of color give this two-dimensional painting depth but tonal variations of color on a given shape lends a three dimensional feel as well.
Kandinsky's connection to music is felt as the riot of colors and various shapes can be compared to the arrangement of musical notes. The combination of angles and curved lines as well as bold color and shaded forms imbue the painting with energy and one could expect to hear a symphony resonating off the canvas.
In the death chamber confines
The soul of my mind
Handcuffed by tragedy
Sentenced to death penalty
Just close to a blink of my eyes
With an illusionary greetings
Of long lives
Standing before me
Face to face – My death.
Startled I’m like the whirl
Of the breeze on cobwebs
Hanging in every corner
Of this death chamber
Not in use for centuries
Neither I can blink my eyes
Nor breathe my breath
Asleep is the fireplace
With only ashes
Decomposed in wetted firewood
Neither the wisp of fire
Nor the glow of flame.
Rusty hinges on the door
Perforated by rust
Through which holes
Smirk the gloomy bored moon
Seeking shelter for a night
A moment of unpleasant and discontent
Moans like a wild beast
Severe wounds
In inner of the minds
Moans like a cry of spasm
By unwilling sexual desire
Seduced by the enemy
In the defeated war
Echoed from the walls around
Fearing to have an ear
Will shrunk
In the emptiness of the room
At any time the electric shock
May turn the body to ashes
Only a fistful of my breath
Remaining in my body
Will hurried to rebel by
Shattering every words of my poem
Like the old railway lines
Discarded after the war
Hides its originality
In the rust and grassy grooves
Rebels of another kinds
Like the silent crater of sleeping volcano
Erupts and scatters the lava on the earth
Every word of my inner minds
That’s collected in the coarse paper
Only sensed by my wounded heart
Indeed it’s my poem.
***
Grate them like cheese, these
Hushed memories, so I no longer
Obsess, on my perforated chest,
Scrape them off of my plate, no
Time to waste, Sorrow
Salivates