Details |
Devotchka Lovingrace Poem
Your suicide
Wrests the act from the hand
So that fire can envelop the bottle
And skyward
And bright
And living
Technicolour dances in extremes.
We effervesce and burst
We rise up and with a fury
A million or more
We wilt back onto the vine
Waiting to be harvested and
Transformed into feed for machinery
The blocks and the slabs and
The blocs and the Slavs
And the pointed jagged teeth
Of a rusted saw three thousand times the size of the moon
We jigsaw and puzzle and pile up
And bric-a-brac away the inheritance
Of dead men coming into dead men’s fortunes
We store up and cascade
And chisel
At the face of a dam
As a plague of locusts descends
Within the imagery of Uncle Sam
We shoot in succession
And with twenty-eight barrels
We could split the world to pieces
And commit
Several of the greater nations
Turn and shoot and all goes black
As the litter is circulated
In samizdat and under purple cloth.
Copyright © Devotchka Lovingrace | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Devotchka Lovingrace Poem
Grey box
Grey box stacked sideways and
Heavenwards
With spanning wings and no sky
No faint trace
Or morning ember.
The sky turned over
And rolling and folding.
The denizens
The citizens
The comrades linked like mail.
Deep red and black and eyes.
Manufacture a semblance
Of better than and lesser than
And modern man and model man.
All the while fifty feet tall and grey.
Tell us a story
Of a communist. A socialist.
A red star shooting skyward.
How life is better in our grey
Against their grey.
Starvation differs in the dialect.
Collapsing.
Copyright © Devotchka Lovingrace | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Devotchka Lovingrace Poem
Conceal my face. The jagged lines
Cut away an inch- no more.
Uproot the grey and secrete a bed
Of black as night.
Contort my frame
And guard my gait
With bated breath
I sent for flowers
Signed in concealed hands
A name that will not exist
I was twenty feet tall
And the Statue of Liberty
Wilted at her knees as I breezed aside
In a moment
In a mirror
I study
My broken and splintered.
I watch the dance of rot and decay
I am piece by piece
Fighting to recreate
And salvage the shipyard of my
Cast iron will and declarations.
I will live forever.
I will never change. Never age.
Copyright © Devotchka Lovingrace | Year Posted 2018
|
Details |
Devotchka Lovingrace Poem
Hammer high, hammer high
Dreams of love or war
Replicate and manipulate.
Metal. Metal.
Manufacture, mould, make do and mend
Build myself a crown.
Fracture and rot
Show me your broken bones.
Build it high
Spire, spitfire, situation tires
Into overspilling global landscapes
Of thrones put out to sea.
Nightmares are dreams in other words.
Build myself a crown
And relax from my hand
The hammer high and heavy sigh.
Europe burns the world.
You should relax yourself to
The fact that we like you
Show me your broken bones.
Playgrounds stretch out flat
Like paper or global diktats
Where upon one day in fact
We'll build a city
Build it high
Where we live upon and feast upon.
Build myself a crown.
Copyright © Devotchka Lovingrace | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Devotchka Lovingrace Poem
Years on the rack.
Stretched out and winding
Cogs and broken pieces
Shrapnel.
While I
Box upon box.
The unburied dead. The hatchet.
Littering my surroundings
The casings of a former life
The scorched earth. The salt.
The endless devastation.
While you
Small town to small town.
A view of the sea.
Several hundred miles from
The battlefront.
In your armour made of paper
And your cogs
And your litterings
Of endless vast rubbish.
A gust of wind so strong
It could send your flat and weightless
Two dimensional sense of self
Flying. Splintering.
Lost.
I am recovered
Piling away
Myself with the remnants.
Box upon box.
The traitor will bleed.
Copyright © Devotchka Lovingrace | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Devotchka Lovingrace Poem
My blood calculated
The width and diversity of my body
My hopeless spirit level
My anchor placing sunken paws
Into the grips of the dirty earth.
I have grown like good stock
And unhinged myself of
My restraints and set foot
Before foot and conquored a gait.
My body all the while
A little box
Full of grey bric-a-brac.
I have manipulated my mouth
To mutter animal sounds
And pieces of precious code
That the others can understand.
These pictures fluctuate and flutter
Painted inside my head
A screen of endless manufacture
And invisible machines which
Surely stand higher than a god.
My blood calculated
And my evolution continues
Locked and stifled
On the sacred ancient ground
Where we bury our dead
And build our cityscapes.
Copyright © Devotchka Lovingrace | Year Posted 2019
|