Dead station of soul, cold
a cuneiform of heavenly hosts
on a cathode ray tube, born
shadows of forgotten sliver gods roam
digital tears, a broken modem's wail, fear
the hollow shell of the sky, cracking
nightshade fingernails fawn
lost in the echo chamber
waiting for a mechanical dawn
Ashes of humanity
Scattered and lingered in hearts of purity
Hallowed and spirited within the psyche of infinity
Weaving with man's joy and sorrows
Entwined with lattices of honey yellows
Drifting in clouds of human form
Numeric and linguistic crypts of cuneiform
Endearing are thoughts and words, not jive
Sprinkled ashes etched on books of archive
Doors that opened to human interest
All come alive in ashes, blots and dearest
Your ash is the strength, honor of the fittest
I try to be humble
when it comes to evaluating poetry,
reminding myself, that my penned gems
may seem paste to others – addicted
to cuneiform glitter, my mining deeply within
our shared reality tunnels sometimes left mere holes
for better landscapers forced to fill in – the dirt
I scatter to the surface,
the rocks, thousands of years' old boulders
pulverized for dear expediency, justifying actions by
use of strong verbs and a lot of campie adjectives –
the new normal, I am told, nouns are fluid...
I guess, the rain piss, and the sun an insidious thirst
for those shunning government sanctioned kool-aid
to drink, like myself, finding shelter in the holes we
have dug for self and others, calling them natural
abodes, or bypass for an earth
desperately in need of new moral
arteries – Well...having belittled who
I am and what I do, for me, my pen yet lingers
a rod and staff of sorts, a pacifier habitually in search
of divine nipples....
Concentric constellations of cosmic
consciousness catapult cuneiform
cubi-calm charismatics, creating
crystalline coloured corridors
casually camouflaged, commanding
cyclic, cryptic compassion calling cards.
Center court connectives calculate
comparable crying conniptions calling
circus cellular cumulative consolidations.
CAUTION: CARING CONTENTS CONCEALED
Concentric constellations of cosmic
Consciousnesses catapult cuneiform
Cubi-calm charismatics, creating
Crystalline coloured corridors, casually
Camouflaged, commanding cyclic
Cryptic compassionate calling cards.
Center court conniptions calculate
Comparable crying connective
Cellular cumulative consolidations.
CAUTION!
CONTAINS CARING CONTENTS
Explorations of cerebral fascination
Devilish ideas' mutated peregrinations
Spirited inhalations of tribal incantations
Torso-twisting through saucy peregrinations
Whilst the grimy sesame toast's torn asunder
Swashbuckling seafarers burble and blunder
Through Deli Yammer's roasted pickle bars de-acidified
n Arm n Hammer's blue-cabbage-power shake de-histified
If you think all this is rather hard to follow
Dr. Fauci's linking it in cuneiform on marshmallow
Long has it been maintained,
writing sprang from economic drive and need,
seeing as the cuneiform tablets
were soon interpreted with worldly eyes.
But economics is a stylus scratching lies on clay,
a social science to varnish human selfishness away.
The little clay tablets have been unearthed,
Their cuneiform secrets quite deciphered.
I sensed a poem of our century lay revealed,
with men waiting eager in the cradle's wings
for this Sumerian development.
Some five thousand years have passed by now,
yet in a deep sense the moment has never died.
Ancient poet,
juggle words for me.
Write only of a man called Enmerkar,
not that he ruled in Uruk and was born of gods.
For I would wish.........
Nor describe how he ordered Aratta,
( a city-state outside Sumer's domain),
to submit and bring precious stones,
lapis lazuli, silver, gold;
for shrines.
Or that when his demands were met with a bluff,
like a nuclear scientist he threatened,
destruction and dust.
Because having read such things a thousand times....
Creative Native, quite contemplative-
he draws on walls in ancient caves.
So Hieroglyphic speculative:
Cuneiform curses mark mummy graves.
On land the sand, the grains of Man-
exoplated, protective shells.
A last ballast, we're sinking fast;
step lively men, and hoist the sails!
The Tribe has grown and it has thrived-
(their drumbeats echo as if alive!)
We've lost our rudder, I wince and shudder,
and I have lost all will and drive...
No longer fond of the Amazon-
Jungle be damned; I wish 'twere gone!
Every day is special, but not all you’d recognize
The Fluffy Slipper Lint Day just took me by surprise
It occurs in late October, the 26th is set aside
When people all over the world celebrate fairies that have died
You don’t know about this fairy, the Fluffy Bunny Slipper
They’re seldom seen by anyone, for they’re a night time tripper
They collect lint from their bellies and insert it in your shoes
Or any other footwear that you choose to use
But lint found in other places is not because of them
They’re strictly slipper fairies, at least they so contend
These creatures are so ancient, historians all say
Their name predates the cuneiform found in ancient clay
The nomenclature “Bunny” comes from their high birth rate
They have to make more fairies before it is too late
Their death rate is tremendous, the family’s almost gone
For often as they’re leaving lint, they just get stomped upon
If you’ve nothing else to celebrate on this October day
Celebrate the Fluffy Bunny Slipper Fairy in your own peculiar way
PROZAC IN MY HARD DRIVE
I put Prozac in my hard drive you can't imagine my regret.
Now, the cursor finger flips me off, the arrow shakes and sweats.
There are incoherent sentences on the address bar
with endless threats of suicide that are really quite bizarre.
I put Prozac in my hard drive, now when I surf the internet
every other word is spelled in a different alphabet.
Sometime it's in Cyrillic, sometimes in cuneiform,
sometimes in hieroglyphics and sometimes scientific form.
I put Prozac in my hard drive and I think I went too far,
it spit a CD at me just like a kung fu star.
I am getting kind of nervous wondering what is next,
I get very threatening messages in very vulgar text.
I put Prozac in my hard drive, you know I should have read
the black box warning that the package said.
I hope I can survive this and pray I don't get mauled
while I am waiting for this machine to go through its withdrawals.
There lives with-in, a grande dame fair,
goddess of many talents rare.
Yet, humble in her own shy way,
she weaves her words without delay, beyond compare.
You might just think she lives to write,
that poetry consumes her sight.
I see a soul that lives to love . . .
to share below and rise above, in divine light.
A beauty only few can see
is gifted in her poetry.
As dawn reveals through clouded sky
the glory of its golden eye, in majesty.
A tapestry in varied hues . . .
a rainbow painted over blues.
Her lovely words continue on.
They’ll live long after she is gone, to greet her muse.
This poem is in The Florette form created by Jan Turner
Note:
‘Since the Sumerian poet Enheduanna carved her odes to the
goddess Inanna in cuneiform tablets more than 4,500 years ago,
civilizations have expressed their most beautiful, tragic, triumphant,
and perceptive thoughts through poetry.’
In the beginning the world was flat.
Nature was magical and that was that.
We expressed or selves with cave drawings and cuneiform too
Cuneiform was cool because it was new.
Later came sand script ant it was neat.
Except for its weight it couldn’t be beat.
Pharaohs maintained that the world was flat.
Nature was still magical and that was that.
Through the years things stayed mostly the same.
Scientists came along making themselves a name.
Soon folks were sailing the sea so blue.
Its’ roundness they all knew.
During the Renaissance artist turned up the heat.
The respect they gained was sweet.
The world knew it wasn’t flat.
The world of magic grew faint and that was that.
Science, literature and the arts grew.
The educational academies did too.
Cameras made artist feel obsolete.
Artist evolved to feel more complete.
The world got a little more abstract.
The artist was reborn and that’s a fact.
Impressionist challenged what we knew.
Expressionist had their day too.
Art for art’s sake is sweet.
Art’s expressive circle is nearly complete.
The mind’s not flat.
Expression is what you pull from your hat.
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
'THE WRITING ON THE WALL'
god hath numbered thy kingdom and brought it to an end...
porta-potties scattered around high rises
placed like sacred pillars.
a stonehenge edifice of heroin diaries
and delicate scratched cuneiform figures
scrollings of huge *****es and booby robots.
the eloquent poetry of low brow purists
along the walls they read like the neolithic monuments
of old so telling us all we need to know...
the urinal dialogs written for future posterity,
are defacing angels inscripted with lipstick and pocket knifes.
Lego Cities
Square blocked infrastructures formed from a meddling mind
engineered and fused together with sticky grape popsicle fingers
the Lego Babylon rises with its hanging gardens
strewn along the carpet floor.
A Mesopotamian oasis of multi-colored plastic struts
carelessly scattered for archeologists to decipher.
All those strange cuneiform residues of fingerprints
left by the sugar filled deity who set them in place.
Catalyst of that industrial architect
whose cubicle fortress of a daydreaming metropolis
sits in the corner of the living room
awaiting its devastation from future gods
armed with vacuums and nap times.
nathan martin 2009
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