Through the ages
monkish chapels have erected alters
built from human skulls.
Mystics have understood
that such morbid displays
can lead to a fervor
of jaw-dropping moments.
The human skull reminds us
that death leaves its own gravestones.
Besides,
such boneyard objects de ’art
simply beg to be made into candle holders
or useful paperweights
additionally,
a dislocated mandible
serves as a most adequate rest
for a lit cigar.
I woke up with sudden amusement,
It didn't look the same arrangement.
The pillows below my head were disoriented, The blanket was unable to bear my weight and looked dislocated.
My dream decided the fate of my room,
The night watched everything with the silent moon.
I chased my subconscious throughout the night,
Never gave up till I received the early sun light.
Day and night fiercely locked their horn, Reminding me as if it is a war for throne.
Out of sight is not always out of mind,
My memories of night made me nearly blind.
PREDICAMENTS
informal
&lyrical
figurative
self-indulgent
didactics
knowingly
re-cycled
prominent
confident
proportionate
reminders
dislocated
in
a
blurred
indelible
unconscious
of insights
"Lost, in a fight for survival, a man refuses to succumb to a harsh wilderness." - quote by poet.
A great aerial adventure comes to
A harrowing end for one man.
His hot air balloon malfunctions;
It comes crashing down in the middle
Of a vast sea of trees.
He is quite fortunate to be alive,
But sustained injuries in the crash.
He shot his flare gun up in the air;
The only one in his possession.
T'was all for naught. Now what?
He has combed through the crash site
For his dislocated phone in vain.
Rainy jungle, untamed; It's no place to wait
For rescue. Wild animals roam here;
It teems with insects and snakes, too.
On the move with a badly broken leg,
He beats his way through the undergrowth
Back to civilization. Danger lurks
In every corner, but with strong faith
And resourcefulness, he pushes forward...
Harsh asymmetrical contour following dislocated noncontextual departure.
Roaming, haphazardly choreographed with precise misaligned determination.
Mindfully staggering indistinguishable purpose, consistently in linear circumnavigation.
A matter of process, a state of perpetual traversal, saves from permanence.
The ad infinitum of specificity is quantum, the superposition allowing consistent continuity while indelibly transposing by observance.
Redundant to its operation, yet necessary in its function.
Leaving spaces unfiled by way of impetus, whilst evidently consiquential.
Paradoxically self referential, pertinently inescapable ever presence.
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
The dark spill muddied my canvas:
Made its mess, dislocated light
And thoughtful lines to the edges
While it claimed the center for spite.
It seemed like all was wrecked.
The time I'd worked nightly
To craft something perfect
(Or at least not unsightly)
Laid to waist.
A vision erased.
But then, I spied a photo of the original.
I thought it would be pretty, as a picture.
Instead, I noticed flaws so visible
They would lead a critic to stricture.
It looked off-colored or drab in places.
Contrived and technically bad.
Downright mediocre and graceless.
My memory of the thing had
Rendered more precious and dear
The plainness this new light made clear.
An impression most unimpressive.
The thing once grieved not worth its mourning.
No longer the crafter obsessive
Or wracked with yearning.
What a stroke of luck!
Now on to scrape the surface
Or from a new layer construct
An entirely new interface.
The choice entirely my own
Blank space for the unknown…
With no room left for you.
BEYONG PAINTNG
perceptble
poems
rhmetically
patterned
pale
lyrical
emptied
of
the
obvious
coded
allusion
purified
byr
precision
in inverted
dreams
of
saturated
motifs
streams
of disconnected
conscouness
articulated
& dislocated
anchored
& contoured
by enigma
A flame sparked by heat of passion
Went wild with mutual motion
One versed with words, one with beauty
First sight, sapped the fruit of bounty
But love's spark is complicated
Some limbs bruised, some dislocated
Where true faith is the test of love
Some hearts can go wild like a dove
The heart must make its rightful choice
It must listen to its true voice
Regrets can't make the time come back
For, day is bright and night is dark
It ought to light up my being
With the color and passion
Of its crisp, browning magic
It ought to bring the sounds
Of fire crackle, warm abrasions
And unlimited clinks to hearths
Of every size and flavor
It ought to turn down the heat
Turn up the chill
And turn on the love
It ought to renew our sense
Of joy, togetherness and those
We wish could walk through the door
Just once more
It ought to gather all the lost sheep
Whether dislocated, disaffected or disowned
Into a herd, bonded with purpose
It ought to create human nature
Along the same lines as Mother Nature
Turning green with envy into
Subtle tones of peace
It ought to allow pumpkins
And turkeys and trees and menorahs
To dance the dance, and hug it out
It ought to be autumn..
(10/21/17)
One step, two steps, three steps, four
Up the stairs with hideous thoughts
Preparing myself as I open the door
My mind, even now, is trying to stop me, all for naught.
Towards the edge of the roof, I look.
Placing a note on the side for all to see
Many people on the floor looking shook.
I take a step forward, imagining I will be free.
I fall, but freedom is not on my mind.
I see my father drinking himself to death.
Stumbling like a fool
Words unable to come out of his mouth
At home all day, not even taking a step
My mother, whose body is in decline
Her throat destroyed
Cigarette half burnt, falling into the ash
Her eyes gave out to death
My brother indulging himself in meth.
Teeth rotten and gone
His skin destroyed beyond repair
His mind dislocated, broken
What am I doing?
I still want to be with them
I don’t want to die.
Please wake up, I don’t want to say goodbye.
The stream surges in turbulent torrent
the dry tree felled by the summer storm,
the truncated trunk anchors at the tilted levee,
in the web of boulders it sticks, stranded.
The flood slackens the grip of the slope,
the log begins a new journey
to the remote end the stream ordains,
the abandoned attachment it forgets, dislocated.
My life uprooted by the squall of strife,
drifts like the log, finds no holding ledge,
seeks to find the free course to the ultimate,
the notion of bonding I don’t sense, unpossessed.
The tide of time takes me to the strange shore,
in the alien mooring I linger awhile,
where people see me as a vagrant driftwood,
an artifact of frozen mind, fossilized.
______________
March 10, 2023
For Brian Strand Premier No 1196 Contest
In God’s own world, kind and humane once,
bullets rip through the dreaming buds,
blood flows with the color of innocence,
the flowers of promise never bloom.
Terror breeds in the fanatic hearths,
dislocated minds mutilated by despicable instinct
turn into executor of targeted destruction,
chosen randomly from ominous list of insane caprice.
Morality defaced by indolent intolerance,
understanding disintegrates into abhorrence.
Empathy is lost in the dark alley of violence,
off-course conscience evades probity rationale.
In God’s own creation so beautiful ever,
the children inhabiting the world today,
still smile and play merrily without fear.
God has not given up on the mankind yet.
_______________
January 9, 2023
Contest : Hit List 2023
Sponsored by : Joe Maverick
Summer fog.
The air thick and warm
with a closeness gathering in
the early morning as if all
that it shrouds share
a common breath.
Everything holds together,
birds, water, the pebbled shoreline,
as a cormorant dives
downwards through the still,
its underwater wings stirring
the cloudy strands
of last nights dreams.
I feel it surface somewhere
in me with a shadow
clamped in its beak.
A few early walkers
emerge, pass by, then dissolve
back into the morning without
so much as a ripple.
The fog follows me,
quietly closing up the hole
I leave. I fear if I make
a sound or move out
of this space,
the morning will collapse
into a hot, harsh and angry day,
pushing everything away,
back into the lonely enclosures
of its dislocated parts.
Skinny as Twiggy was in
Flat as a board
Not a millimeter sticking out
Not even her pout
Now it's all about curves
And 'bubble-butts'
Sticking out as far down there
As a dislocated jaw might jut
Friends, as far as this man's concerned
~ Either way, intimacy's spurned
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