Long Lower jaw Poems
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"okay
okay"
I were there
mine eyne
pop'd
i felt the heavy uv my
lower jaw
drop
he yell'd
"I won't lower the curtain
Quiet"
hiz voice sound'd
the crowded vestibule
only breath'd
and suddenly
without thuh warn
Flop
oh
my
my oh my
there wuz thuh "yuk" in the
anteroom
yet the rest uv us
gasp'd in marvel
i
for my part
marvel'd when I return'd
home
and
spill'd this here vision
such muse alter'n
pluperfect
lay'd bare
for mine fellow'z
astute critique
I hear that after she broke-up with me
she herself broke down.
A friend of a friend said he distinctly heard
her main-spring go.
They say she broke
in the London underground.
while waiting for the West Ham tube train.
One of her many prodding elbows
sprang a leak,
a sharp knee ground to a halt,
a sprocket in her head
escaped out of her open mouth.
She just toppled there on that platform
an oily mess.
She deteriorated fast they say.
Her lower jaw tried to swallow words
made of toothless cogs.
Eventually she was written off
and declared beyond repair.
It was all so very sad.
I also was damaged, my mangled remains
were displayed for weeks in a small art gallery
dedicated to avant garde performance art.
I hear that after she tried to break me
she herself broke down.
A friend of a friend said he distinctly heard
her main-spring go.
They say she broke
in the London underground.
while waiting for the West Ham tube train.
One of her many prodding elbows
sprang a leak,
a sharp knee ground to a halt,
a sprocket in her head
escaped out of her open mouth.
She just toppled there on that platform
into an oily mess.
If I had known at the time
I would have run to her bedside,
however she deteriorated fast they say.
Her lower jaw tried to swallow words
made of toothless cogs.
Her ribcage sprung, gaping open
to reveal the dangling prune
of her heart.
Eventually she was written off
and declared beyond repair.
It was all so very sad.
I also was damaged,
my mangled remains
were displayed for weeks
in a small art gallery
dedicated to avant garde
performance art.
At Customs
Delayed fatigued grumpy and miserable there was I
yet another queue at Oliver Tambo on arrival another
Check scan body search and
mind games in my baggage
Damascus had been an unusual holiday destination
had firmly attached a couple of splinters just a bit of
Shrapnel trauma displacement
on the movie of my soul
Amena breathing the rubble with one foot detached
collateral damage digitalised toes in my camera
Home still smouldering siblings
Riham and Yaman with Allah now
Sayid coughs up the message of
how the planes came planes came
again and again planes came planes
then mother and father had vanished
Assel unable to talk it is difficult to
speak without jaw when brain leaks
upper jaw lower jaw who
cares who minds the statistic
So many images am I importing the
injustice depravation guilt shame
‘Not in my name’ nameless no
frame in the hierarchy of evil
Destruction of a sovereign nation and
the king makers in the global North West
export and import in trauma and transit
memories narrative existential angst
In the queue at the airport OR Tambo
and the tambourine major plays human
beings sacrificed on the altar of a simple
custom of exporting terror and malice
I am importing so much on my return
from Damascus yet choose the line
‘Nothing to declare’ but sorry I cannot do this
there is no time and you don’t want to know
So much pain so much anger on my mind…
but I have too much to declare
The first thing to unhinge is its lower jaw,
the skull now (sometime in your future),
gnaws the recollection of its bygone face.
It must use the roaming poems of restless winds
as its surrogate voice.
When you are no longer its hands, pick it up,
kiss that sad dome, where its forehead
once pondered upon the meaning of meaning.
Your own eyes are now the very wellsprings
of a hidden depth, which was always the
unsolved mystery of you.
Now here in your illumined hands,
you cradle the foolishly grinning remains
of what you once called God,
yet you were not wrong
for even God moves on.
Concerns
silent bottom sound
passivity
totally paralyzed
anxious
Confusion,
feeling of unreality
the brain boils
drop the lower jaw
... lost direction
07/11/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
To Eat A Peach
Spring is here.
The delicate tree blossoms replace
the delicate white lights of Winter.
From the petals fruit will grow.
Pears, plums, apricots, cherries,
nectarines...
Peaches.
I set the unripe soft rose and yellow
orb on the windowsill.
Two days later I tenderly lift it
and gently squeeze its warmth before
I wash it.
Biting into it...
the sweet liquid is Ambrosia.
The juice runs down my chin onto
my tee.
I greedily suck the peach’s flesh dry.
I daydream as I munch.
Peach cobbler, peach pie with a lattice crust,
peach shortcake, peach muffins,
stewed peaches, peach tea bread,
slices on your cereal, slices in a bowl with cream.
OR...only for dessert?
How would a
chicken breast soaked in a peach marinade taste?
My taste buds begin chattering.
Summer’s here!
corn on the cob, okra, tomatoes:
small ones that pop in your mouth
and big beefy wedges that
garnish crisp celery slices, carrot medallions,
tender Bibb lettuce, sliced mushrooms, cucumbers,
asparagus, broccoli, Vidalia onions, cauliflower...
Watermelon, blueberries, cantaloupe,
strawberries, honeydews, raspberries...
Juicy hot dogs, spicy barbecue, thick charbroiled hamburgers,
hot German potato salad, 3-bean salad, macaroni salad,
potato chips and French onion soup dip,
soft pretzels dipped in brown mustard, popcorn...
chocolate chip cookies, Snickerdoodles,
strawberry shortcake,
chocolate cake with red, white and blue frosting for the 4th,
apple pie
— softball, Mom, doggies —
I awake with a start. There is drool
on my pillow.
Another day begins but it’s really
not another day.
It’s the same day I’ve been living
since 1 May 2017 ~
The day I let the dentist pull
out the last 5 teeth I had
in my lower jaw.
And as I come to consciousness
my tongue pushes
against and spills out over the
the soft toothless tissue that burns constantly
and is covered in a thick gooey saliva ~ place a
teaspoon of Elmer's
glue in your mouth ~ if
you care to have a taste
of my reality.
Summer’s here.
Clear your palate.
Clean your plate.
Barbara Dickenson
1 May 2018
- [ ]
Everything is an issue with my friend
I hope she is a girl as she is known to claim
She thinks she is Marilyn Monroe so
Think on my pretty
In fact there is but one good eye
Like a lighthouse beam beckoning
About the middle of the head
Large with yellow, pus oozing on her tiny face
Sometimes it looks cloudy or milky white
Under moon light it stands out frightening
She orders me to give her money...a gun
It must be time to make love
Or take her dancing in the dark
That makes perfect sense for the digestion
A large tooth stands out yellow gray
Turning green and festering today
It protrudes from her lower jaw
Stands as a monument to former days
When there were plenty
From the vicinity of the mouth she shouts
Commands me be still while she takes aim
I am a target of her love
She screams at me to pay the rent
Slurs her words, most unheard
Pretending to be sultry
My girl is far from pretty
The distance is from here to Mars
Ugly defines her nicely
Skinny is her only attribute
Shoot me!…. Shoot me now my pretty!...
A birthday gift to me
courtesy thee youngest sister of mine
The special parcel
courtesy Amazon courier
hurriedly delivered softbound book before
yours truly could thank him/her cuz he/she
dropped off outside our apartment door,
upon opening the well sealed package
my lower jaw dropped to the floor,
when I beheld the unpronounceable title
dealing with Holocaust
never knowing heretofore
a specific name
(of those faceless millions)
destroyed in the concentration camp(s)
sufficiently suddenly, and subsequently
finding me immediately linkedin to Jámbor
(a Hungarian word meaning
'godly modest well-disposed,'
hence a nickname
for a humble and friendly person,
whose hitherto unknown existence
most likely exemplifying a storied life
possibly quintessentially resplendent
with riches gull lore
ideally whose company
gifted as some lucky person's nextdoor
neighbor, thus her
ITKA FRAJMAN ZYGMUNTOWICZ's spirit
(the subject of the book,
titled REMEMBER MY CHILD)
constitutes a paternal relative to boot
Itka's great grandfather was brother
to our great grandmother
so basically a third cousin relationship
inexorably pulled at mine heart strings
a must read detailing one story
that came to light postwar,
where embers of anti semitism
smolder jumpstarting, intimidating,
hinting, et cetera Nazi lionizing roar
which account detailing
aforementioned survivor of Hitler's
so called final solution
approximately four score
years ago, yet history
cannot and must not repeat itself
lest lovely bones and ghosts
of those mercilessly slaughtered
would cause a vehement uproar.