Long Lacquered Poems
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I don’t know if there’s a God,
But I still prayed we’d not be seen,
That night we scaled your neighbour’s fence,
To steal their trampoline,
In the halflight the elastic,
Shone like a lacquered animal skin,
Stretched taut across the beaten frame,
Held in place with rusty pins,
Sat there crouching in the darkness,
Like some huge primeval beast,
Yeah it sat there like a drum,
As our souls slapped a beat,
Put me in mind of Three Blind Mice,
Or God Save the Queen,
Or The Rhythm of Life,
Pulled me closer when the net,
Became an oil slick in the rain,
Said whatever souls are made of,
Yours and mine are just the same,
Well I’ve never like clichés,
And I don’t believe in fate,
I’d prefer you to quote Hardy,
I find Austen quite passé,
But there was something in the way,
That you could spin a phrase,
Yeah when you shaped them with your mouth,
Those old words seemed newly made,
You said,
I’ll live my life according,
To the fortune cookie sages,
And glossy magazines,
With their astrology pages,
We can chart a route to China,
And sail by the stars,
We’ll earn ourselves a name,
In brothels and in bars,
Yes we will make our fortune,
And we will find our fame,
In a place where they write danger,
And opportunity the same,
Well I’ve never been to China,
Couldn’t quite see the attraction,
Why fly halfway round the planet,
When there’s sun and sea at Brighton?
And I never understood,
Your peculiar gravitation,
To late night establishments,
Of a dubious reputation,
With their smoke and smut and chewing gum,
And soggy Carlton coasters,
And air of desperation,
And karaoke posters,
Full of ugly men and women,
Making ugly propositions,
You say ‘perfection is a fault’,
By way of explanation,
And claim that there’s a quiet glory,
In decay and all that’s grimy,
And you’ve always been so partial,
To the charms of ugly beauty,
Then sang,
I’ll live my life according,
To the fortune cookie sages,
And glossy magazines,
With their astrology pages,
We can chart a route to China,
And sail by the stars,
We’ll earn ourselves a name,
In brothels and in bars,
Well they’ll never see it coming,
Our touch will leave them changed,
Once we’ve finished with this world,
It will never be the same,
Oh once we’ve finished with this world,
It will never be the same.
Peter Pan? He is nothing but a tale drawn out,
a hero of half-truths, drowned in fairy dust,
the dullest side of a double-edged sword.
Before my time lost its salt,
before the boards of this ship were
chapped, split with oceans breath,
before my features grew distinct with age,
a treasure map, carved and creased,
I found myself in Neverland,
as the first dear friend of Peter Pan.
His mind, repressed by the adventures of youth,
has forgotten how young I once was.
Even wiser pirates such as myself
must work to picture a single moment.
Its the sea that causes it,
as time curls and crashes like waves
against toothy rocks,
small histories are bound to vanish.
Yet, in my steely snare, just one memory remains:
When Peter called me James.
The roads we drew in play led us to water,
and how empty we found it!
A voyage was our grandest idea.
In agreement we labored,
drew up clean sails, lacquered lumber.
Christened with a sailors poison,
the Jolly Roger in its finest form!
We followed the arms and legs of rivers,
watching as they became larger bodies,
waters unconquered, unkinged.
My calloused hand brushed the helm,
Peter drew his sword,
mortally pressing its edge to my throat.
You or me, James, he said,
to be a captain or a codfish!
With a smug grin he pounced,
cleaving the air with great circles,
the sharp clanging of metal rang in the mist like bells.
My brow so pinched in focus, first wrinkles formed,
til at last, my blade struck his side.
Peter fell, outdone.
Your cockiness has left you bleeding.
With my hand held out,
his eyes grew bright and bursting like broken stars.
With a smile wild and white, he let out a powerful crow:
Aye, but I’m a clever doodle-doo!
Another crow, he dove at the hand that bested him.
A pain, a demon, a hell!
Honest blood from my moral flesh.
A black pain shook my blackening soul,
As I watched a crocodile feast on the gift
God had meant for my own purposes.
Peter crowed once more.
I watched as he flew on,
his blood dripping into my ocean,
my kingdom!
May this Jolly Roger forever tread
upon the waves of a crowing cowards blood.
I accept the role of villain,
the rival of the wondrous, flying boy,
but may you never forget who won the sea,
and who it is the codfish, be.
There’s something ornately comforting, in a downpour of a day’s healthy rain
So replenishing, cleansing, as renewing, the ultimate giver to feed life’s grain
As standing undercover feeling the smaller flecks of the rain against your skin
With the thrashing of rain against the window panes, creating a deafening din
Each drop, creating rivulets that chase each other down, onto the window sill
There pausing, but, for a second in pools before they take their final overspill
God’s creatures sensing mother’s nature ungodly call find refuge in their lairs
Others finding cover from the torrents of rain that caught them, so unawares
Birds tuck their heads away, wait on the downpour of rain to end, its final fall
In this time just birds of silence, you seldom hear them making their bird call
Within the marble halls of mansions, walls glisten with dancing shades of hue
Gun dogs put out of work lie waiting for their prize, there’s nowt’ they can do
Children sit upon window seats watching as the rivulets fall upon each a wish
Their little fingers pressed upon the window pane giving each rivulet a squish
But; nothing can prevent nature’s raindrops falling, so they just watch in awe
Cats on their hind legs each trying to catch the rivulets drops with their paws
There is more than a sense of security, in this day’s healthy downpour of rain
Mother makes hot cups of juice, just in case, from a cold, we all need to feign
Grandfather sits very staunchly before the fire in his armchair made so grand
A tot of whiskey just for good measure, for medical purposes you understand
While dear Grandma is knitting away, totally in tune to the rhythm of the rain
In the hallway standing there idle rests father’s ebony and ivory walking cane
Who has now took himself into his study, sits to reminisce and to have a cigar
It saved just for such a day resting in its lacquered pigmented box of cinnabar
Cooks busy themselves in the kitchen making all the family their evening meal
Steam rising from the cooking onto the windows panes, does the rain conceal
Until the steam itself creates rivulets of their own, and the outside is revealed
In doing so, makes the clarity of the day’s rain even more so magically surreal
Meeting a princess
It was, according to the old, the coldest winter
any could remember, the wise said it was because
the war had disturbed the weather pattern
One day, it snowed, then it got mild, after that
it got
very cold, the hilly road turned into an ice rink
to our delight of children
We could sleigh all the way to the lake in the town
the lake, poets wrote about; they were building a hotel on the other side where old houses had been
It was the tallest building in the world, mother said
it would be better to build housing for the poor
What did she know, reading books all day long?
In the afternoon, as the day faded, an old lady was going
home, she slipped and fell on the treacherous road
we helped her up; she had a nosebleed.
She opened her lacquered handbag took out a handkerchief that had borders and was the whitest he had ever seen, dabbing her nose in a delicate manner
So brittle she was, like something rare that could vanish
into thin air, I took it upon myself to take her home
she held onto my arm like a butterfly.
She had a beautiful oval face, and we had round faces
like, farm folks, I concluded she was of royal heritage
was she a princess from a forgotten country?
I opened the front door for her, she gave me a sweet I put in my pocket to savor late and also
to show the other boys sweets were rationed.
We had fine teeth.
When coming home very late, the night was starlit
we boys had a great time showing off sliding on the ice
to impress the timid girls
At home, mother sat reading a book, I think written by
a Russian bloke called Tolstoy looked up and said
if you are hungry, find something in the kitchen.
I told the mother of an old princess I had helped her home
she had fallen on the ice and had nosebleed
Princess! She said there are no royals in this town
what was her name? Marianne, and she spoke posh
Oh, her, she was a big, Nazi during the war
I was annoyed with my mother; why did she go and
spoil it all, what did she know about life, with her nose stuck in a book, and who the hell is Hemingway?
Roll back the clock to Josef Locke
(and not before or after),
in climes where shrines have names like Knock
without provoking laughter.
My father was an army man
(and yet me to beget),
all spit-and-polish, spick-and-span,
and quite the martinet.
Those soldier boys were short on poise
in those benighted days:
the Murphys, Martins and Molloys
were raised in rustic ways.
But Duty Sergeant Kevin Coy,
vesuviously vocal,
was out to drum-head or destroy
each vermin-ridden yokel.
His boots could pass for lacquered glass,
his gloves would shame a surgeon:
his dignitas at morning Mass
outshone the Blessed Virgin.
Imagine, then, when Cousin Ben
(all NCOs were family)
provided gen beyond all ken
(with palms perspiring clammily):
“They’re on a charge. I told them, Sarge.
I threatened savage slaughters.
Le nettoyage. A smell at large
in Ballykelly Quarters.”
They hunted high, they hunted low,
they bled the radiators,
more ebb and flow could offer no
Projection of Mercator’s.
Just how to quell that awful smell
preoccupied them greatly:
hard to dispel, suspicion fell
on Houlihan, then Hateley.
Catch as catch can, they caught their man
(not Higgins, or O`Hara):
who’s down the pan? None other than
your man from Connemara.
What Ryan knew was equal to
a peat-bog sown with barley:
he’d not a clue – “What? Put on new
bejeezers, regularly?”
His first long-johns remained the ones
adorning regions nether:
six months now gone, he still had on
the same ones, altogether.
“Wear other pairs? These stink – who cares?”
What’s harder to believe
is, unawares, his thighs’ black hairs
had grown quite through the weave!
“He’s now cashiered for being weird –
why then, we’ll depilate him.”
His locks were sheared, and then his beard,
and pubis, seriatim.
Thus Ryan, Sean, of Shirley born,
his gonads wholly hairless,
is there to warn, so sheerly shorn:
a lesson to the careless.
Whatever sins the Pope rescinds,
or parish priests connive at,
sloth never wins. Redress begins
with Shaving Ryan’s Privates.
a door stands in my way.
it is charmingly carved, vines curling
around the smooth lacquered edges.
still retaining the original hue of the wood
yet brighter now, gold shines from within
surrounded by the walls of the forest
hidden away from prying eyes, it seems
to flicker more in the shadows of afternoon sun
first cinnamon – then colors ripple across the caramel surface
till it is less like wood and more a faery-touched pool
mahogany, russet red, amber and umber
adorned with a copper knocker of a proud bird
spreading his free wings wide – a vision of who I could be
and I know some magnificent trove of treasure is waiting beyond
knowledge of what I have wanted since I could want
my hand reaches out, longing in every slender finger
the shining handle is so close – everything I yearn for
could be at my command.
but do I even dare? Could I even do it?
indecision burns every bold stroke of confidence
and the whispering sunlit forest burns too
quicker then I can stop it, smoldering fire turns to ash
ash to dust, and dust to darkness, and then –
a door stands in my way.
it is smooth steel, heavyset and towering
almost like stone, no imperfections to be seen
and through the murky darkness swirling around me
it is the only thing I know now.
one single line runs down it, ready to be pried open
and I could. I could push it open, smash it to bits
I could walk straight through it.
but – how could I? what lies beyond?
nothing but uncertainty and falsehood, maybe
a lone silver mirror with the glass in shards
reflecting everything I do not wish to see
reflecting the person I see in the door
who is blocking my path now. but still,
my memories – long since turned to ash – long gone
piece themselves back together
and I, standing there unable to go beyond
am the only one who has chained myself up.
hope peels back the veils of darkness
I could go running through it, heart pounding
and soaring, and dancing, and reaching,
and finally flying free through the glorious sky
I could.
so I do.
You found me nearly hollowed out.
A bag of bones upon the ground
My soul retreats into my pith
But not before you catch a glimpse
My soul hides within my core
For the light it had, it has no more
Your fingers and eyes begin to comb
Through the mess of flesh
Incaged in bone
You looked me over and sat me up
Then opened up my cranium
Dumped out the mush you found inside
repaired my breaks with linen binds
Then laughed as love
Welled within my eyes
There was no doubt, you were sure
You had siphoned control, my will was yours
And in the shadows behind my eyes
You began to sculpt your plan
you cut away the bulk of my spine
Ensuring what was left, molded to your hand
With precision you built from metal and twine
A device made to replace what you took from inside
A system of tightly pulled strands
With rhythmic steps, your fingers would dance
Upon its lacquered wooden keys
bringing movement to each tethered braid
That now coiled around my neck like snakes
Any ability of my own to make
All were rendered seized
I felt the practice, your hands had seen
Felt the dexterity within your wrist
you cut away my vocal strings
And from under my flesh, you stole
the instrument so finely tuned
Relative to the echos sung by my soul
you plucked it from my being
Like a cherry from a tree
placed it against your lips
Then swallowed it whole
I watched the bulge slide down your throat
And through your lips now crimson soaked
Disguised as me, in my voice, you spoke
you replaced my tongue with silent wood,
To speak your lies as best it could.
You place upon my hide new clothes
To cover the showing bits of bone
you repainted my grain to look as it should
Even my wild auburn curls obeyed your comb
You left my derelict eyes alone.
For the desecration of my soul
Was the final act of your Ventriloquist’s show
Meant to forever loop Inside my skull
My breathless surrender pulled the curtain closed
As you dusted the shelf where your trophies go
A new home
for your Beautiful
Lifeless doll
The Dilettante Diaries: "The Bumble Bee Big Blue Sky Boston Two Step on Love Street"
She said, "Pffft Bumble Bees Rule,
No Bees, no World
Shy Little Hearts
Big power
freedom wings
realised
dreams into reality
unfurls
Who’s to write that story?
She’s just a girl
In a Boston Two Step World"
He said, "Stung, once bitten twice shy..."
She said, "The Devil’s in the Details -
the real deal is swallowing
“The Whole Beautiful”
Big Blue Sky
and opening mouths
tongues speak
transfer a lush kiss
shared wealth
Icarus flies out
Sun in his mouth -
It's a sinch..."
He said, "Lady Bird! Lady Bird!
Your House is on Fire!"
She said, "Long ago maybe,
the Empire now strong in unified minds
unfurls to The Town Crier
A new Kingdom
Love
Power
rising higher and higher
Ok tiger, maybe a spark now,
Not yet into bonfire"
For a Woman
that once was a
Butter would melt
in mouth Girl
dreaming unreachable
bigger blue skies
She irreverently
turns keys
in hearts
A Fire opens latches
Lacquered Chinese
puzzle boxed
pheromone trials
and strange
very odd matches
Carniolan whispers, “Bring it on”
She now smiles
and captures...
Judges 14 buzzzing bees 8
Air thick with flying honey
All Along the Watch Tower
She opens the Gate
Hendrix’s Bumble Bees speak,
in hushed reverent
unified tone,
"It’s never too late..."
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
1.
https://genius.com/The-jimi-hendrix-experience-all-along-the-watchtower-lyrics
2.
"If the doorbell rang in her apartment, she would say, 'What fresh hell can this be?' — and it wasn't funny; she meant it." You might as well live: the life and times of Dorothy Parker...
3.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icarus
4. hmmm, interesting, ah that Dark Bee...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carniolan_honey_bee
5.
Secret "Bee Spell", a riddle, inserted into this Chinese Puzzle Box. Much Love, LUX VITAE x
The Blue Stones/Be My Fire
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znOA3xCtHfk
I am watching 3 inches off of the floor,
The man outside waits at my door
I know the screams from within the box
Howl and call upon your order upon the rocks
But I know you can hold your tongue 'till the end of the night
And I know you can wait until I seem right.
Feel your spite, wait for the burn
For we all want, we all yearn
Wait 'till the rafters waft clear air upon your neck
And slither the silver lined tears that slipped as I begged for you not to check
Went as you dreamt and I wept as my days fell to waste
In haste as the rafters breathe my name and a lack of accosted face.
Calm the wolf from within the box
As it grazes your poisonous flesh to protect my infancy from the fox
And I know its not time to let go
But the manhole beneath my feet pounds at my door, as I fall slow
The stars dont seem so far, I have found
Wait, for the words beneath the world may fall down.
This cant last for much longer, not anymore
But there's so much water pooling beneath the door
I wait for you to pick up your head from the floor
Before I fade away and fly
Further towards the future prediction of faded grave
And engraved words that spoke of one, and none that forgave.
Wait for me, wait as I wave, hold upon my lacquered oak door
And hope your unsustained kisses sing the words slipped beneath the door
In my heart I had a place for you
In my mind, I thought you knew
through and through, your fist would always break through
Before the chain of the swing broke and the manhole only grew.
The poem never ends heartfelt
We forget this flesh, blood and bone was borne to be felt
Forget this sad life, for I'll slip by silently
And we can separate separately
Before your order is recieved
And my door can recede.
Treat the right side of face, made up and out of place
Criss-cross down and turn before the water can swallow what is left of the face
Lullabies left to ripple across with words sang through a silver lined haze.
A famous alumnus is visiting the university. I got an invitation several days ago to a small, socially distanced, masked, focus group. It was to be early on a Saturday morning - so, why not? I was excited to see her - I’m a fan.
We were a diverse group of about 20 (covid tested before admittance) students and I was in the back row. Seating was offset so everyone could see everything perfectly. I craned and swiveled, when her entourage came into the room. Then, there she was - I’m sure I was grinning ear to ear (behind my mask), we clapped, excitedly. She wore a navy business suit. A jacket over a black blouse with slacks and black shoes.
She gave a talk, about the challenges America faces. On YouTube, her speech-giving voice always seemed artificial, cold, harsh and brittle. Here, she was low-key, motherly, whip smart, personable and humorous - everything I had hoped for.
Then there was a question and answer session (NOT easy questions - did I mention whip smart?) followed by a no touching reception line. And OMG, she’s a foot away. She seemed a lacquered and corrected sort of person - professional - I guess you’d say.
Everyone was gently elbow bumping with her, so I did too. You’d say your name and class. “Anais Vionet, freshman,” I said. I wanted to say “I’m a BIG fan” but I thought I might come off as either fawning or even worse someone bent on wasting her time.
We both smiled, me behind my mask and I bobbed a goodbye nod, but as I went to step away she said, “How’s your Grandmother?” I was shocked but I managed to say, “She’s fine, thank you.” To which she replied, “Please tell her I said hello.” I just nodded, “yes” as a sort of “I will,” and stepped away.
I glanced around, there was no handler by her side and she wasn’t wearing an earpiece - how she knew me I have no idea - but now I think she’s considering a run in 2024. My grandmère would be a whale of a donor.
What a bizarre encounter.