Long Gorging Poems
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El Dorado
by Michael R. Burch
It's a fine town, a fine town,
though its alleys recede into shadow;
it's a very fine town for those who are searching
for an El Dorado.
Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare
and the welfare line is long,
there must be something of value somewhere
to keep us hanging on
to our El Dorado.
Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat
from years of gorging on bleached white bread,
yet neither will leave
because all believe
in the vague things that are said
of El Dorado.
The young men with the outlandish hairstyles
who saunter in and out of the turnstiles
with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle,
scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle,
certainly feel no need to join the crowd
of those who work to earn their bread;
they must know that the rainbow's end
conceals a pot of gold
near El Dorado.
And the painted “actress” who roams the streets,
smiling at every man she meets,
must smile because, after years of running,
no man can match her in cruelty or cunning.
She must see the satire of “defeats”
and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets
of El Dorado.
Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town
for those who can leave when they tire
of chasing after rainbows and dreams
and living on nothing but fire.
But for those of us who cling to our dreams
and cannot let them go,
like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets
and the junkies high on snow,
the dream has become a reality
—the reality of hope
that grew too strong
not to linger on—
and so this is our home.
We chew the apple, spit it out,
then eat it "just once more."
For this is the big, big apple,
though it is rotten to the core,
and we are its worm
in the night when we squirm
in our El Dorado.
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college.
Keywords/Tags: city, life, culture, society, social, addiction, drink, drugs, big apple, New York City, Broadway, Times Square, dream, dreams, reality
I remember the land of drums I was born
bedded beneath great hanging nets;
the sound of the conch and the horn.
My blue suitcase filled with stuff,
the red tricycle and pedal car
that made me race and made me puff.
I remember the hounds of revolution nightly howl
on the streets of my island home.
Now I reign afar in the land of my exile
as might a king given up his throne
I remember my first day of school so bleak,
a gingerbread house on Picton Street
where I first kissed a sweetheart cheek.
Hearken tales of men in Sherwood,
Nelly Stone in her rocking chair
reading The Adventures of Robin Hood.
The loud guttural yard turkeys’ gobble and flap,
and kids singing their songs of joy.
I remember the year, the girl, the songs
in all its virtue when I was a boy
I remember the front yard we would play
and the annex rooms we called home
watching The Riki Tiki Show at 17 Gray.
Waving at the Queen’s royal parade
down on Saint Clair Avenue
in the crowds following her motorcade.
I remember huddled around the old valve radio,
long siestas in the hot afternoon
till late beneath a corner streetlight halo
raving drunk slumped Blue Moon
I remember sticky chewy peanut brittle
with my cold Nestle chocolate milk
while gorging my tummy little by little.
Behold down-de-islands dashing
in a pirogue out on Staubles Bay -
the sea spray across the bow crashing.
Watching as darkness fell on high moon and tide
shining on bay and jetty so bright,
when as young eyes grew weary I would
rest at peace all through the night
I remember all dressed for Sunday School
and afternoons at the Country Club
splashing around in the swimming pool.
And at sea playing captain and sailor
on board a ship Panama bound
in my cabin with my toy boat and trailer.
I remember the ports and voyage of no return
into the yonder crossing the equator,
when old Neptune rose from the undersea
to bless our ship and navigate her
Written: September 1990
What would makes a dead ass belly moves
And scream and grunt in a boy's imagination
The ass was dead vultures presence proves
And flies abuzz add crude to consternation
And we in fragile school days state
Look, saw, and lost or broken slate
From fear the animal grunting in pain
Would chase our hearts out against the strain
Clarence had a good hand, our best Tarazan
He and Derrick armed with missile stones
Attacked first the beast, and buzzards ran
And flies cloud the air, while the donkey groans
And grunt and shiver in its belly
Oozing rotten scent miles and miles
The stones hit hard and sank into jelly
My trembling frame still now recoils.
The donkey lift its head, and books were strewn
And screams were heard, and feet thundering away
And some fell by haste, but not yet in swoon
Wait upon the gorging of their unbridled dismay
But brave Clarence, stood despite our fleet
And hit, and hit again the dead ass daring
To defeat our sensible and hasty retreat
Was this a new demon? Something in tradition missing?
For many had heard, and some even would swear
There was a rolling calf, a demon shaped like a little cow
But myth nor custom told of rolling donkey nowhere
What dark at was then flung against us children now
For we are the outcome of our beliefs, and we
And from tradition's soil we take our mold
Each in his custom his boundary carry
Children's fear are the superstition of the old
I know this now, but not that moment then
Until I see the pigs through the anus gorged out wide
Fleeing, and grunting their fear with ours to blend
Their dismay our innocent stupidity to deride
Yes, it was only the pigs at lunch inwards
Feasting safely from our eyes. But we
Afraid of signs, ignorance made us cowards
Safer in truth, but, O, vulnerable in our fancy.
Mama fox mama fox what will you do
your kits are hungry and its only you
The farmer killed your man and
you didn't even get the hen
Mama fox mama fox its up to you
A boy threw a rock and made you lame
hungry kits whine your name
you limp the best as you can
is this how now it all ends
Your fox-hole is under a fig tree
ripen figs fall and this to kits feed
Roll figs into the den as the kits dine
but you know its only a matter of time
Before the fruit ceases to be
You smell a piglet running free
you hide and watch carefully
The piglet woofs down the figs
after all he is a pig
You might be able to catch him
but its not enough for all of them
So you softly speak for the piglet to hear
sending thoughts into his little piggy ears
bring your brothers and sisters all of em
Huh said the piglet why should I share
the figs are mine for them I don't care
But I am the voice of the soft wind
listen and I will shake down more figs ripen
So many figs enough for a hundred pigs my dear
When you return with your sister and your brothers
and if you have small friends I don't mind others
see the hole under the fig tree
that is where all the figs will be
The little piglet smiled and ran
for his siblings he would gather them
And tell the tale of figs in the hole
enough for a hundred pigs he swore and told
The fox limped back to her hole
a large round rock she nudged and rolled
A stick under made the rock stop
with the piglets inside she could lock
Hoping the piglets greed would show
Not very long and piglets came
the kits all quiet knew the game
So hungry for sweet figs into the hole they ran
the fox pulled the stick after them
and the rock locked the hole ain't that a shame
The baby foxes had bellies full
their mama fox outfoxed the piglet fools
Sweet pig meat and ripen figs
foxes gorging on baby pigs
Chewing on the pork bones the kits drool.
Mama fox nudge the round rock for the hole to open
baby bunnies playing, food for tomorrow she is scoping
How can one man find
More faith in a crevasse of Siula Grande,
Than most will ever know,
Sitting beneath a pulpit on Sunday?
Dulling the truth to grow the census,
Merchants and cowards comfort the carnal ear.
Marketing Christ’s love without his conviction,
Left willful in sin with nothing to fear.
In half doctrines and custom alter calls,
Prostituting the truth with all forms of prosperity.
Akin to seeding hookers in the chambers of Heaven.
Deceived to death twice by hand and blasphemy.
Feeding wolves from among your own flocks.
In the banquets of ancient mystics and bride Blavatsky,
Word of Faith gorging on their mammon,
Left choking in an insatiable eternity.
A culture’s blue concessions are gone,
Giving more choices leaving Paul’s letters unread.
No church discipline or discernment left,
Testaments of burning flesh that once bled.
Refusing to submit to be broken.
Fading old blessings from past obedience.
Confusing favor with common grace,
Hypocrisy’s retribution birthed decadence.
Millions claiming the found life of the few,
In every eulogy and requiem,
Lukewarm afterthoughts of the Son,
Losing everything by never knowing him.
Despising the light of the living truth,
Lobotomizing guilt with the scalpel of ignorance.
Finding solace in the darkness of mystery.
Death marches infectious rainbows of tolerance.
Redefining roles and covenants in hemorrhaging lies
Under the pretense of the modern states,
Illusions of enlightenment killing somatic slaves.
Relativism’s heart courting the things he hates.
Enticed by the delusions of utopias,
Bound in the fables of autonomy.
Throats upon The two-edged sword,
In this American tragedy
-------------------------------------------------------
12.04.14
This poem attempts to capture the Fundamentalist view on certain issues with other movements within Christianity. Also, the man in the crevasse, chose a different kind of faith than you may have assumed.
Nature, Friend and Foe
Speak out the words to the soft petaled plants,
that grow wearily in the distant corners
It is there that the scrub jay alights,
squawking and gorging on berries.
This habitat has brought the wildlife to the garden,
in an endless search for food stuffs,
always glancing over their shoulders heads turned 180 degrees, ears taut,
translucent eyes peering, fright, flight,
an evolved history, chiseled in practical instinct.
I am speaking to you dear nature,
from me you will learn exactly nothing,
it is from that which you are that I will learn.
Listen to my plaint though it fall on deaf ears.
Though you hop or walk, fly or scurry, crawl, swim or slither,
movement is your the essence, your vitality, your survival,
which appears to invite you to take the life that animates and live it to any and all ends.
Is there no loss for you, do you not care or bother for condition?
If we as a race of evolved mammalian beings were once like you,
how is it we've fallen so far from the tree and yet continue to survive?
Did you dear nature reject us, are we a sullen body of flesh
unaccustomed to following the laws that govern your being?
Are we but a rejected group?
Fires that burn forests and wastelands,
ignited by the thunderbolts from Jupiter's hand
both cleanse and rejuvenate an overgrown and tired terrain;
lava spewn out from out of the mouth of a volcano
drives itself over the land building and combing the landscape with layers of liquid rock,
cooled by atmospheric difference.
Flooding waters, ferocious winds, the whirling and swirling of earth
and its organisms of flesh and bone
thrown up and into a vortex of howling change
is greeted with impassivity.
You, my nature, friend and foe, your indifference, your beauty
and the brutality of your wrath are both vexing and compelling,
how are we to understand and continue to care?
Suey Creek
October, 2012
You Are Not Invited
--Latching onto my soul without an invitation--
Elements around my shore expose more than air
--Playing with fire is not a game you will win--
----
Silently she swarms in like a leech,
Feeding and sucking from the wounds my pain left behind.
She came inside: "Uninvited!"
Here have a drink, and die!
Taste the water drips that sail across my lips
Plodding vigorously in the open air of her unwanted hostility
Forbidden as one, I noticed her aura a sickening light
Imprisonment that haunted smoke around her own imperfections
The hate and envy, she lives in resides airborne
The sound that she have summoned up hunger
Brought me near the edge of everything
Feel my pain, a touch of impurities
Tainted, infected, poisoned passion, her face disguised
Surrender toward serenity, the lighthearted woman I am inside
She will never take, my full eternal grace
It’s time to reveal that blazing fire I hide
Drown her from the false flown sorrows of gust
Hold her hideous head under water--- burn her false fire out
Never will I turn my back and watch her muster them broken lids
Lungful of lies poisons the wind that flows from her snake like voice
Maneuvering the skies, scheming that snatch in
Like a viper twisting its unmatched curves,
I strike, like a pyromaniac --A burning match
Allowing her to taste a part of the air I breathe
A waste in the breeze her insecurities
Trying to destroy what she can't be, what she can't see
At the end, blustery weather will remind her of the sea inside me,
YOU! The Angel, who crawls around like a shadow
Gorging its way into the heart with a charm of greed
Twisting reality hoping nobody sees its true sick identity
Slandering my name as the master of evil and manipulative
Marking my territory, warning others of a cold draft
Grasping the beauty that glows from my soul
There it stood on the ledge UNINVITED
The devil walked and took my shoes
:)
Brainstorming (For Me) Generates "Writer's Block"
Lesson obstruction,
but more so an over
whelming flood of ideas
makes dredging, conceiving
than giving birth
to an amenable notion
more difficult than grabbing,
(even a tony tiger) by the tail,
who readily admits
said titled quasi moniker
denoting onset, sans
(to experience authorial dearth)
of satisfactory acceptable theme
(first to pinpoint, than expound)
more accurate generalization
cerebral struggle
regularly visits this Earth
ling, when embarking upon
a literary creative enterprise,
thus gluttonous analogy
to swollen girth
after gorging ravenous
appetite on verge
to keel (crushing
screened iron curtain garrison)
over 'pon arduously
(belching at every
step, viz process),
while lumbering
to heavenly hearth,
(a Homeric Odyssey) filling
the dining hall with mirth,
thus, I hoop fur
ewe dear reader,
spending your time
whiz wool worth
the effort receiving insight about,
how this logophile really
haint goot much clout
to boast, (nor doth,
he...wrack his mind
to coon sitter) himself devout
lee gifted, (cuz...he aint),
nor does yours truly
make pretenses to flout
any arrogance, bombast,
conceit, et cetera,
yet avers pain
staking effort
(akin to sinking grout)
to plug up gushing geyser of
superfluous excess bursting,
competing, and exploding
beyond capacity of this lout
finding me (a
piggish porcine – person)
hogtied with no
recourse but to pout
reaching pig tailed wits end,
as pertains to this poetic scout,
who welcomes inspirational uber lyft
through swiftly tailored
harried sty hill.
Body, Mind, And Spirit Triage Co-Opted
Viral microbes didst relish
meaty morsel feast
hyperbole (included greased
for dramatic effect) ceased
not, but linkedin
constituent facets increased
with right wing conspiracy
of mine physical health least
up to par today found me writhing,
asper like a wounded beast.
I feel as if giant size
(yes...with closed eyes try to see)
nasty bugaboos did invade me,
and shrunk down yours truly prithee,
(this from gorging on one not so heavy
corporeal doddering entity) si,
whose light humors opposite of glee,
thus envision this bard, granting himself
woolworth truevalue as a flea
to continue poetic tale
(agonizing sham “FAKE” rocked Leprechaun)
on microscopic scale
essentially, a myopic seek reacher
relative of Spongebob, the latter hale
ling from Bikini Bottom,
whose absence aye still bewail,
especially his misfortune sail
ling from toilet bowl
into water treatment plant
leaving sopping wet trail
of eyes rubbed red,
which sadness happens to this male,
when he experiences
invisible nine inch nail
piercing vital organs
with no energy to wail.
Mind boggling to this scribe
how itty bitty organisms can imbibe
every last drop of vitality, describe
epidemic, which if blithely ignored
more virulent parasites could
affect the entire human tribe
fallout nearly as complete
approximately bajillion years ago,
an unimaginable feat
asteroids crashed Earth
generating temperatures
greater than Miami heat
surface with scarring and beat
meteoric plowed shares into swords
whereby predominant species
huge lumbering beasts uttered holy sheet
or a similar facsimile thereof
similar to poet reduced to (of course)
NON GMO gluten free shredded wheat
resembling chopped liver
after trampled by Little Feet!
I like to be the hero in my dreams,
a seafaring captain steering my ship
to a new conquest with a beautiful woman
in every port. I like my dreams dancing
with movement and adventure.
I like to be the victor over opposing
forces, the savior of the weak,
I want to loot the riches of evil.
Damn it all, for being unable to control
the beast of sleep that pirates my
dreams away from its heroic feats
and the saving of beautiful women.
Why do the demons of dreams devour my flesh?
Those monsters gorging themselves
on my good dreams, leaving me spent,
suffocating in a hot river of sweat,
dimming my lucidity and making me see
my dreams from a prison of terror,
leaving my mind in a smoky glob,
thus making me a prisoner of madness.
They run me through fields of rotting flesh
and gleaming bones, naked corpses
with staring eyes, hands that strangle,
knives that disembowel and blood that
pours out. They humiliate me and beat me!
They make me a slave and become my master
I end up sucking my thumb before they lead me
away and feed me to sharks.
why do they plunder my good dreams
when I turn out the lights.