Long Underlay Poems
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Penelope Alecknavage nee perskin whose death aye assay
to comprehend, this son of the late Harriet Harris -
November thirteenth 2016 marked her eighty first birthday
if she still lived these last eleven years - instead met crossway
where grim reaper awaited - though my mum sought to delay
futility to accept Pyrrhic outcome - homage pep rally
thru poetry n essay
writing, and finding cadence of words
helps me (with powder milk biscuits)
gather courageous foray
and means to grapple with demise
of a loved one, and hence my gray
matter sifts thru childhoods' end,
where remembrance of hooray
amidst claque of chattering aunts, cousins, and uncles
the fuzzy interplay
of Penny racing at dog speed across lawn of family home
cordoned off via a jackstay
looms in forefront of my mind,
vulnerable to grief most people sad - me, oh kay,
reckons cessation of life = equalizer of sorts
when significant person without breath doth lay
Tom foolery deft hands of motley crue prestidigitation
playing game versus sobbing as corpse
driven to graveside viz motorway,
where belief at such stark catastrophe - nay
numbness pervades next of kin survivors
especially when passing occurs pre-holiday,
yet no matter whence one departs
bobbing along River Styx to unreachable quay
mourning iz broken with nary sunny and Cher full ray
to warm earth, wind and fire - seeking soul asylum,
trying to blink away ill logic cheap trick re: acceptance,
but inxs of tears for fears begs scene 2b screenplay
not hard rocking coldplay accursed reality
terminal illness ushers helplessness cuz part of ourselves
agonizingly rent asunder, which psychic tearaway
far exceeds any physical pain, and will underlay
the immediate future, which bodes hollow
with the sounds of silence
despite informing musicians or veejay
to lighten moody blue -
boot invariably bono fide, green day,
Lady gaga emitting beat,
per the human league (plus the culture club
of heart felt village people affiliated with goo goo doll
traversing into nirvana)
creates clangorous discordant ringing
increasing nostalgia for loved one lost before yesterday!
Hence, I plunge into imagination to encumber suffering,
Athwart are the horizons wider than my pride,
I, one but three, such a symbolic trope, the Trinity,
A gorgeous exaltation gorged into voracity, itself.
The good is near me! The evil - inside of me!
The principles of distortion underlay the phenomena
Of eternal agony, above and beyond embers of Inferno.
I command the creation of the tenth circle, beyond
Boiling rivers of blood and fire, beyond the frozen lakes,
It’s the core of gravity, the centre of an inescapable certainty,
It’s darker than darkness, blacker than blindness,
It’s dwelling at the bottom of a raven’s gut – and I call it – hope.
Have none! Do not wear livery. Do not submit to a judge,
Nor allow a bailiff to cross your path in the legacy of the flames.
On the wings of poetry far from perishing Evil, all the way to
The dawns of assorted cognizance that whirligigs the itch in me,
I exfoliate the words by setting the residuum of thoughts, in line
With the divinity of soul, that presides in my inner world, unknown
to the world.
A cipher on the head – I cannot be bought as I am not selling
The spiritual cosmology of my imagination, even when it’s ebbing,
No treatise of compromise is saccharine I crave, as I confer
A profane sense in the heathen parish of myself, for myself.
Hence, I plunge into imagination…
Thoughts are electric that's 4 times gravity... talk about defying the laws!
How mad is we, right now!? Bet ya not as mad as me, i bet i seem mad as! crazy right!!..
Now.
How can i continue without being absurd? All i can give you is my word.
I'll keep it simple, i ain't looking for a single or a signing bonus.
To minapulate the masses can't ya see they own us.
I got my cahonas, i stand alone.
less afraid. Don't have a home and if i worked it'd be underpaid..
Call a spade a spade, it is what it is. I'll underlay and roll out the carpet.
Soften the blow when its come to the market.
I'm talkin stock if ya connect the dots, i'll show ya the elephant who never forgot.
Its all about capital, ya believe its capital! how much do ya know, about ya own little capital?
Its only the financial epicenter. Rome controls the religous sector and washington is the state acting protector.
Policing the world, killing boys and girls. Innocent i might add, wanna hurl?
Makes me sick, i ain't american..
I ain't that thick! That's stereotyping and not very slick.
I ain't that ignorant prick. So get over yaself and over it?
We hypnotised by the media, witnessed the lies and hysteria.
Thinking me inferior but i strike the fear in yer.
Remind ya of things you were made to forget.
Ya blind when they sings sounds shady and yet.
Who am i? I'm runnin outta breath
When the leaves fall,
I feel their green call to me
unto death.
Whispering that what was fresh
is no more.
I hear their silence, see their veins
weave through their becoming -
from brittle leaves to tomorrow’s dust.
And as the tree, limb to limb
with the others,
stands tall like a soldier ready for battle,
the leaves fragment as they fall.
They never try to hold on
for they know their fate.
They land as one
with winter’s snowy lace calling
to the bitterness all around
to remind of what once was new
born to beauty on high.
Ignored by passerby,
they lay desolate beneath the underlay
of moments gone by,
every kindness and cruelty and breath.
December’s frozen face tries to smile
in remembrance
but can only shudder under the sullen sky,
mourning reflected in an icy mirror,
as it stings the earth (and I)
with sleeted tears
and the woeful winds commiserate.
Oh, how they call to the small within
me like innocent days
and love taken for granted,
but I, like the leaves, am silent.
Life is wondrous and beautiful
until the end.
As the season of white melts into gray,
the leaves, (and I),
softly fade away.
Written 5/7/22
Monochrome scenes blanch
but color is there as an underlay
of my own viewing history.
Black and white movies,
old even when I watched them
flicker still on an inner retina.
A hero turns conspiratorially,
staring into my future.
What he said into the camera then,
is meaningless now,
but I see his lips move
as if he were predicting this moment.
A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs;
blood fills the flesh of memory,
a dialogue recalled by younger nerve endings.
I remember I love her, but it is too late,
she is dead and she did not die young,
her ancient hand seems to
grasp my fingers now,
seeking closure.
The original King Kong
lives a broken life in my hall closet.
At night I hear him weeping still
for Fay Wray.
He is no longer tortured, angry
and confused,
but I still must explain to him
that the sound of buzzing biplanes
is only the air-conditioner kicking in.
Eventually we both sleep.
Sometimes I think
that all that was and ever will be
is an on-going fiction,
a fantasy for a spliced life
left on cutting room floors.
Perhaps the real Casablanca
has yet to be scripted?
One day,
maybe we all may get to say:
‘play it again Sam’.
Images of ghosts fly behind my eyes
I shudder
sometimes it's cold here
below the belly of warm eyes.
If you could would you transcend?
Slip in between the day to day
and stop time in your mind
to look at me?
Beyond the quiet face
into the underlay
meshwork of elements
paradox, uncertainty, childlike hope
entangled with a personal universe.
Would you look closer?
Intrigued? Interested?
Or brush your fingertips
across the weblike strands
to see which hum against your energy?
There's an internal waterfall
pulling everything down.
It slows me.
Would you taste from it?
Or walk away hurriedly
afraid of getting wet,
afraid to drown?
I wish I could open up my palms like a book
the pages would be tissue paper thin.
It would be called layers
and it would tell the story
of the way we paper mache our souls
and put overlays around our intentions.
I would rip at it one page at a time
and read every word to you
before throwing them into the fire.
Sometimes statements are really questions
they barely whisper their meaning
in a look in the eye
or the tremor of a voice.
How can we we know somebody else
when we barely know ourselves.
Form:
Please do not stress Mother dearest
As i do not want to add to your woes
But the dog has just come in covered
in ticks and fleas
And my sister and I have both knits and
scrapped knees respectively
So many troubles and this won't be the
last to try and comb over or sweep under
the already threadbare underlay or
cardboard box dinning table
Yet just more ammunition and stick's of
rock to be labeled and taunted by other's
with
Exactly just how much of laugh are you
having and enjoying at our expense
I've barely 23 cent's left after i've
settled my rent to patch up the
holes in the front door from the
bailiff's constantly knocking down
my door
But nevermind me what really strings
and breaks my heart are seeing my
children's faces bony and haunt
Like ghost's me do haunt knowing
hug's won't alone keep them warm
when the winter cold night's draw in
But those very kid's despite all of
this and apparently having nothing
are both happy and content at the
same time
Because 1 thing they know for sure
is that there are far worse fates than
being poor
So long as they know Mother loves
them
Ocher and quince wads
pack gaps in particleboard walls.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is smeared by nicotine
When it rains, a paper-Mache atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
The window-sill slants, he dares not lean out.
He listens to street fights; imagines gore
seeping into inky basement wells.
Saturday nights bleed into Sunday. Sometime
amid the gray hours he decides to leave,
to wander vomit blitzed alleys
to search a doorstep and steal a Sunday paper,
then he returns to the grimy room
to read of better places
where better crimes get clean away.
He has a girlfriend, one he sees only once a week,
they sit on the narrow bed reading the news.
She tells him that her apartment has thin walls,
that at night strangers scratch upon them
as if writing to her.
Finally He lands a job in a hotel as a night porter.
His allotted room is pure white and sterile,
more a cell than a living space.
If he puts the light on, all that white hurts his eyes,
in time he gets used to it. His mind slowly
sheds layers of brick-dust and smudged print.
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them;
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him
naked, eyes closed while they both masturbate.
She wants him to watch her.
She's frightened people will overhear.
This is all the sex she needs; she tells him.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking,
holding hands until closing time.
She becomes a missing person.
He scans headlines, obituary columns,
classified ads.
Her parents live in Surrey,
that's all he knows.
On the other side of the city,
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
He stops looking for her.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
He stops smoking;
remembers the silence
once shared.
IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XXXIII
IF you pull a long non-plussed face
Astrophysicists declare Science no Absolute Truths underlay
Big-Crunch might on Big-Bang back bounce about face
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
If you pull a long heretical face
Opt for accidentally ordered Life as did Hawking portray
Almighty be a Barrau's " tout comme " Lord of Multiverse
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
If you pull a long Question-Marked face
Two brothers in '43 jumped into the Future to aver
Great Lakes all make for one big sea surface
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
If you pull a long besotted face
Long walls of Black Holes tugging pulling us in disarray
Andromeda throttle surge through our Milky Way interlace
Who'll say All-This's but mere hearsay
So if you must pull a long-lost inane face
Light-propelled ET-ships visit us NASA-men say
If you can the future tell e'en of one of the human race
Then nothing anyone can ever do the FUTURE gainsay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, February 14, 2019