I walked beneath the ribcage of a giant whale;
Encapsulated in the briney entrails of an empty long-dead being.
Its grimace echoed in these halls of boned wall,
Of which calcite chambers temper;
Sturdy glass upon the shores.
Licked by lightning, hiding hints,
Raking sand with combs of sea,
Until I reached the portcullis,
I was too afraid to breathe.
From the bone, hung weeded curtains,
Sour, from the sea.
Dangled down, to repeat a sense,
Of giant mammal's teeth.
The viscera of foliage hung demure.
Violent, still, while biding time.
Swaying wet with salt, debris;
Beneath sat a heavy jaw.
Unclenched by neither cheek nor jowl,
Yet open for a crunch,
The mouth from which I stepped,
Devoured,
A sense of self I hadn't kept.
What once was oaken, knotted pine,
Engrained in skin of shrub and wood.
Was now the fleshy, un-divine,
Boy who ought and could.
Categories:
fitzsimons, age, courage, innocence, ocean,
Form: Free verse
Off-beat pulse, echoed heart to part,
Separate slime of sweating art.
Body but a corpus, corporal careless muck,
Limbed flubber army legs lashing ‘gainst the yuck.
Mind but memory in meld with melted vision pours,
Trickles of tickled tactile tethers; ancient sores.
A Gelphling gathers Skexy exorcism,
Against a wizard’s litany of prism.
“Some directions,” says I to me,
“Not much to work with, to be.”
An auger delves in mystic vision,
Against the self or whole of catechism.
Trapped inside a poem’s angle,
Body brakes in bend to show it,
Web of woven thoughtless tangle,
Haunted minds in a wanton poet.
Categories:
fitzsimons, absence, anxiety, life, nature,
Form: Rhyme
Mangled words and arcane diction,
Are in fact my fiction,
Artifacts: predilections, for attention and prediction.
Categories:
fitzsimons, age, deep, fun, humor,
Form: Rhyme
I see sun,
I see sorrow,
Mingled on the floor,
A cracking egg, a knocked door,
Mangled wealth and poor.
I hear sound,
I sometimes smell it,
Synesthesia knows not whence,
A response received to transmit sense.
I feel proud,
I feel pity,
For what I cannot tell,
Determine, please, what I should do:
Be sick or kind of well?
Categories:
fitzsimons, confusion, depression, feelings, growth,
Form: Rhyme
Death to you, the same to me,
As conscious is to soul:
Undefined yet understood
In broken words “to be.”
Science seeks to word, the other,
Self, but not the same,
Parts unpaired from pairing smother,
The claim in titles’ game.
Religion boasts the word, the all,
Of us, but also of the game,
Parts too paired in pointed ball,
Round yet square, in some by shame.
The truth is just the same to each,
A reach for knowledge understood,
Of why, when, how, who to we preach,
The reason “could or would.”
Neither wins,
Neither fails,
To say not to begin,
An echoed call,
Our own chagrin,
Loss in rise and fall.
All I want is felt within,
Not spoken nor titled track,
Recall me in your bloodless kin,
Or sanguine soul or skin.
Like mine, moist lime,
Time by the dime,
Spent by the hour shaken,
Credence, empty, petty crime,
To retail penny time.
I’ve been spent,
I’ve been sold,
Neither soul nor conscious failed me,
But social roles,
And endless roles,
Have stolen what’s before we.
Categories:
fitzsimons, age, death, depression, imagination,
Form: Rhyme