Greased Poems

Bamboo

Grant me rest under your lissome stems
Let me hide from the raindrops — shiny globules
That drip with tropical hauteur,
Rain that harms the ribs with cold rebukes.
Welcome me within your greenish lair, from
Your cane roots to your starry leaves —I insist on visiting
In your prime, so fresh with dew and so green, like
The envy in the gritty eyes of singed composts,
When waving rays of the shifting sun
Bathe the narrow venues formed by adjoining stems
Up, up and up the stairs and dome of the jungle.
I pray to shoot up with you and befriend the skies.
Oh, such elevation!
Fill my gourd with green wine;
Make me drunk with the spewing colours of life.
My heart is open to receive light —from misty dawn to
Dusk crowned with your blessing.
Let it rain on, I pray.
My palms are spread out like your leaves — I borrow the
Innocence of your frondescence.
Carve me flutes from your nodes, and, from them
Raise the cadences for summons, to be accompanied by
Drums fashioned by hands greased by the gifts of
The forests. . . .
Raise the joy, the frenzy, the tone of the ceremony
Raise, raise . . . upheave them
To royal heights — such as yours.

Insomnia

Insomnia 

By Evelyn Aimarie 

Sleep eludes me
A winding serpent 
Iridescent and alluring 
In murky water.
I grasp for her but her crow feather sheen black
Scales glide through my fingers 
Like rough, cold, beautiful 
ink. 
Greased in memory-
she slips.
My mind is constructed,
Carved by her teeth
To mimic. 
Repeat
Repeat
Repeat. 
My mind is now of the same cloudy material,
Broken pen leak,
Broken music box thoughts.
My life has become blurry.
Muddy.

Extras

Only when my costume’s
Been hissed at with steel
Do my garments ripple in small, stormless waves.

Only when my mask
Has been greased in pale mud
Do my blemishes blend with the sea of my face.

Only when my hair’s
Met a shower of glue
Does it cow to the waves that my fingers might make.

Only when my prop
Has been sharpened in stone
Does it shimmer like sun-shatter left in a wake.

Why preparation
To such a degree
When an extra’s the part you’re most likely to play?

True, when you’re starring,
I’m off to the side,
Doing my best to stay out of your way.

But I have a stage,
As do you, in the mind,
Somewhere my name’s at the top of the bill.

There, I’m flood-soaked
And pregnant with lines
And you’re in the dark standing perfectly still.

Oh, noble strangers,
Who pass through my life,
Storied and nameless, busy and kind.

There in the passing,
Your extra I’ll be,
And in my performance, maybe you can be mine.

The Poetry of the Broken

My God is the God of broken ladders,
many rungs are missing
and I don’t have the skill to mend them.

My usual recourse for the unfixed
is to pen a poem about the
imperfect beauty of the
unfinished and damaged.

Breakfast is just for seating two,
there's another broken stool
propped up against a wall -
a silent testament
to 'found poetry' that needs
only a missing meaning.

I am not useless,
my wife says I am not useless,
but she never suggests furniture
that comes as a flat pack anymore,
and she often asks more adept visitors
to bring their own tools.

My God is a God of broken rungs,
I shall keep striving to fix them,
keep my toolbelt greased,
as I hammer images and metaphor
together
with yet more split nails.

Creation Story, From the Tongue Outward

In the beginning, there was salt. 

It hung in the air like unfinished scripture,
gathered in the throat of the sea,
waited for a mouth dumb enough
to mistake thirst for an invitation.

Then butter,
smeared on the void like gossip,
greased the dark’s knuckles 
like an understudy,
taught the abyss to melt.

The first sound was not speech—
it was a swallow,
a hush,
a crack of cartilage between molars.
We spoke in reductions.
Grammar dripped from the bones.

On the second day, teeth—
tiny altars lined with nerve—
ground memory into ashable pulp.
Pomegranates burst like promises.
Figs cloaked their apples in lace.

By the third, we named what softened.
We named what burned.
Built ziggurats from rind to rind.
Wrote psalms in onion skin.

The fourth hung hunger in the firmament—
a constellation shaped like mouths
mid-ask.

On the fifth, we forgot the recipe
and mourned it like a god.

By the sixth, we’d tongued every fruit
that offered a rumor of sugar.
We learned:
the mouth is a beast with no leash
and excellent taste.

And on the seventh, we lay full and feral,
belly to sky, 
licking 
the holy oil from our fingers.

Heaven's Harpsichord

Harpsichord in heaven?
Cubic or spherical?
Bread, O baker? Leaven.
Just flicker as you fall...

Dancing lights apace in space?
Watch them in her face.
Ghost, vanish without a trace!
Gold, case, carapace!

Desert floor in winter?
No more than one inch, snow.
Shredder, got a splinter?
Tormented, O my foe.

Panels, dance about the night!
Sparks in porcelain!
Falcon, gather wind in flight!
How we'll meet again...

Yellow eyed priest, bid the feast!
Shepherd, are ye fleeced?
Squire, page, are the wheels a-greased?
Only if they're pieced.

Connect, O my fibers!
Build high the city walls!
If they're born to jibe, sirs;
They're bound for taking falls.

Tyrant of the borderland?
Show them how we stand!
Crush them in thy hardest hand!
Order countermand!

Silence in the place of whole?
Remotely control.
Ye gods, what is mortal soul?
Golden light a-bowl.

Fries And Burgers

Feeling kinda cruddy, yup, that's the word
Too many fries, too many burgs

When will I learn I can't handle that stuff
Stomach rebels, starts causing a fuss

Once could eat nails and all kinds of gunk
Now I eat mush and ground junk

My teeth are all gone, can't chew anymore
Things go down whole, my tummy gets sore

So such is the life of this senior type dude
Head for the washroom, each time I eat food

Food disappears like famous greased lightning
Or I sit there for hours, really quite frightening

Irregularity's my name, I'm “IRREG” for short
Hope an operation, I don't have to resort

An artificial esophagus transplanted in me
So I can go regular like it once used to be

Oh for the days when I could eat all that junk
Those days are gone, who woulda thunk

That one day I'd be eating my morning cereal
Laced with Metamucil or some such material!

The Beast

I found the monster in the mirror, fleshed stitched with the fear of guilt, a puppet bound by veins. With whispers of rot beneath each breath. 

I fed it well, fed it lies, fed it fear, greased its tongue with my own deceit. Till the shadows spoke in cadence with my voice and I knew there was nothing left to redeem.

I chewed on my own skin, hoping to purge the beast gnawing from within, each tear a prayer to silence the beast, but all that I tasted was the stench of my own decay. The bitter rot that was me. The truth suffocated me, and in that suffocation i became the beast.

Tin Man's Dilemma

The Wicked Witch was Tin Man’s fantasy
He'd never seen such a beauty as she
It rained and his joints seized
Left poor Tin Man quite peeved
Every step that he took was misery...

They stopped at Yellow Brick Rd gas station
Asked the pump jockey for lubrication
He sprayed Tin Man with grease
So, he could move with ease
Tin Man jumped up and down with elation... 

He held the witch’s hand but wanted more
But didn't foresee what fate had in store
Something hadn't been greased
Tin Man wasn't too pleased
When his rusted man thing dropped on the floor...

Impending

Moments become wet steppingstone
over a stream of consciousness.
At breakfast, a TV delivers omens
with a perky disposition.
Buttering grilled bread, distracted by normality,
slipping through the well-greased gears
of a self-made reality,
then a singing hint of burnt toast
ripples through suddenly aware
nostril hair.

What should you do today -
walk the mood off
or pray brother pray?

Will the monstrous appear,
its likeness --- cute and kittenish,
though even now
new velvet satanic horns
are already budding.
Will the fuzz and fur turn quickly
to scabs and scales?

Sinister left-handed slaps of hysteria
swipe the sweat from wrinkled foreheads.

In a room bereft of natural illumination,
a light on an open laptop is blinking,
imagination types a nightmare
on the underside of its blank screen.
Brains unchecked by reason,
swivel inside their bony portholes,
they search this way and that
for a more feasible fantasy

before this amorphous apprehension
emerges fully clothed
as an all too familiar
mirror image.

DOH!

For four generations at least,
they’d carried ‘round that ball of yeast.
Tucked there ‘twixt the thighs,
it made their bread rise;
their pans never had to be greased!

A Strained Note Rimas Dissolutas

Freshly brewed fog and a fall rain,
the mist could transform to a beast;
Winds might swirl becoming a frog 
pulsing so loud inside your throat;

You’ll second guess and feel insane 
when elevated fears are greased;
Hit that plot twist with no prologue 
left rolling in those tales remote;

Bring that quill back to analog,
tranquilize this poet’s stained note.

Squeaking Wheels

Squeaking Wheels
Miracle Man
8/22/2024

Wheels that squeak loudest,
nearly always get greased first.
That's why folks protest?

HEELS OF CORRUPTION

A silent, deadly virus
Corruption spreads its stain
Infecting the healthy sectors
Twisting the threads of our governance.  
It carves deep holes where plains once lay
And builds up hills on flat ground everyday.

Even when good is meant to be
A palm must be greased to set it free
A bribe to make breathing easy
Turning virtue into frail hypocrisy.  
Corruption walks hand in hand with governance
Erasing every noble trace
Leaving behind a trail of disgrace.

I Couldn't Talk About It, So I Wrote a Poem

-------------------

Raging murmurs of night's incensed flame
Release my soul from time's lonely contempt;
I pour groans, greased bills for this secret craving 
That my mouth, in disguise,  words play 
About sweet babbles, once again 
To incite passion quite crude of fleeting trysts.
Pump upon pump of sighs quench 
the emptiness 
Just for now...my hunt for company
Loitering on a district 's sleazy street;
Untamed as the red of moon
That my thirst to relieve another gulp of angst
Unleashes what is cold and burnt within...
Until curving feline gaits slither along
Waiting for a  prey; a gratifying reward 
From a stained  drained love dejected,
Not by grace's command this heart endures,

But through a lusty thought: life is simply a game.

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