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Hound Of Poetry Poem
From neglect comes deviation, electrifying radiation, like a leaf in the shadow,
Drying stanza so bore-some, a bit much candidly said,
In the Sun thinly it is spread,
As it comes to - an End.
Unpropitious almost as a son left to die in a wooden casket,
Beating the chest, screaming the pain dumped in the basket
This fight that is looming, so void and gore,
Drained of meaning, young and old, shaken, - I’ve been told.
Hey, loner-donor go seek Freud and subscribe to the membership of bold.
What name, say you?
Look up, zap the depth and any chance,
Given but not forgiven, just sanitised slam dance,
Not tipping the balance,
So settled, decisive and predisposed,
Here comes the pain rolling down the mountains at Pieve di Cadore
You do not know whether to ignore or adore.
I am a natural riparian who likes to fasten poplars on the banks of my heart
My eyesight at breast height gets pulled by gravity – down!
Sipping on a glass of Vitis Viifera while avoiding an overdose
In the eyes of a true ochre sensible enough
To touch the ground or poke her.
Grab the ivory rod that is a relic of lies,
Crafted for the bride who held it dearly
In the arc it traveled back and forth,
North to south, back to north.
Everything crumbled, thorn to pieces,
Gunning down feeling after feeling,
The fight is looming, but I am not kneeling.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
Galleries of life, ignorant and tough,
Sometimes as sandarac’s incense, usually morose.
I erase bluntness that grew a cravat around my heart,
Abominable inheritance riveted into the soul of farce,
But there is nothing more valued in life than experience,
And there is a bag-full of it in every one of us.
No remorse or isolation, nor any type of solitude can adjust
The solemn desertion that he had to live through.
I am a repeat stranger of sleepless nights,
Lord of rage and hope deposited in a vending machine,
Even during this epistolary hour as a rusty apparatus,
I tick away the time of my life with a slackened pace,
I bore pain, and challenge the horizons where hope seeps
Into the shadows of silence. ---- And it drags its tails,
And it downs the trust that was instilled into the twig since its birth.
The lucent moment of the very first fresh breath ever taken,
During the opulence of love, ---- I beside him.
And he?? He bears the name of a god, in the name and in the spirit,
Dragon-heart-in-a-boy knocking down the stacks of wonder,
In awe one is to marvel his persistence, in awe I remained.
And there is the black sky that roasts my visions,
As the quiet weeping, from the fringes of a moral conduct,
Fastened, with a shawl around the neck that blurs the boundaries,
Of the conflagration as the labyrinth of thought brings to
The verisimilar life-tales, one unintentionally, creates along the way.
And there is the ground-zero widow, the dead bride, an apparition
From a different universe that stands atop a pyramid seemingly vincible
Yet untouchable, yet invisible, yet as vocal as bell in a chevron wave,
When I think to dare, when I am happy, and when I am cross as a bear.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
To the heroine of harrow:
I offered hard labour, ploughing my soul in an inch,
Now, days go by in my Trelleborg without feeling a pinch,
Spotlights, random hot rods, my own stigma as the mark of Cain
Released to feel a high degree of vulgarity, sole,
Whenever I want, whenever I can.
Satyriasis immortalised with impunity wrapped up in an isotope of bruised soul,
How does it feel to carry around a perforated heart?
What would you give to know? Do not stress!
How does an emotional climax end in a cosmic rapture?
It feels – empty. And it ends by a single word, or less.
I bolted like a wolf chasing a deer, gone as a seismic capture.
A throb in my temple, a tender temptation of tasteless unbounded love,
Onliest, lone, creating brooding despair, sweep off feet kind of joy
Sudden indisposition towards retribution and damnation
Have given me the chariots of lightning summits, oh boy!
Make me write it off with gratuity, simple and quick amputation.
Whereon I stand, I am insulting my fortune while solemnly swear,
That I will entertain my fatality with eminence,
I remain straight as an intention in the head of a monk,
Reluctant to give any evidence,
Far from being cool, I’m erasing this junque.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
As the odyssey in the skiff continued a more sentient being begun to appear,
At times feeling as a eunuch who was unable to change anything,
In zenith of toxicity as miasma on a cold misty morning.
What an epic feeling is to hold an axe of revelation,
In the hands of a matador - a labyrinth of madness,
Throwing at the bull of life a cape of opulent burden full of grotesque
Put me in the stealth mode to permanently avoid stupidity!
(Demanding it loudly with no shame)
Allow me an era of reverie - dark as midnight with no saboteurs
And I will feel, bloody brilliant. No publicity!
Wholesome and hale in the dominion of eye-potent fascination
Rising from the chthonian depth into civility
From the places where wuthering hurricanes cussed through
The golden locks of an exonerated anomaly
Forming in such a way a cantankerous personality craving a revenge,
Wanting to contest any bout with a bull or pallor
Decorum did not matter even if the Magi were contested on Epiphany.
Bring it on! Bring ‘em all! Indeed.
With no discrimination the true political correctness flourished,
But the soul could not find the auto-erotic mode of emotional completeness
Until that day when all the eddies stopped, and
The wrist on a chair, in monochrome, pointed the direction.
With the greatest difficulty to be just, and I wouldn’t do justice to it to say, I swear
The snapshot in time captured the universe of perfection,
Mim, prim, Osiris and Isis in the archipelago of Faros for eternity to bear.
In this dark tunnel the only ophthalmic stimulant to move forward
Is the emotional candelabrum carried on the inside like an Olympic torch.
Oh dear! This darkness looks so avant-garde like a pair of crazy coloured socks,
And the fancy thing about it is an infinite resignation
That hovers as an all ‘dernier cri’ of the highest order in the realm of lox.
Breathe it! Feed the need of this transvestised fallen world of internalised dilemma.
Yes, imitation! Yes, agitation. Yes, abdication.
He was fin de siecle born poet who opened my mind to see the poetic Gubernya,
And the contralto priestess immersed in the white magic of the written word opened everything else.
Am I going to supplant Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9 No. 2 with the blue eyes
Which release the two liquid glaciers in a free-fall of amorous ‘potentia’?
Having no desire in becoming a well-known cubist
I wish to note that Tabula Rasa of my remorse tops the list!
I want to assemble the force, summon the Armada of the night to unfold the time.
(TBC)
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
In a serpentine like arabesque line entwined in her green eyes
Earful of stories engraved under the skin
Unseen, rather fairly thin!
As we prattled along that summer evening prolong
All the pleasances flanked vigorously down the spine
When it sunk into the linen I was obliged to align.
Gladly the offer to cherish stood
Firm, as a grip on her hip,
And the preparedness that stimulated tenderness
As I have been asked to be kind
With the conventional approach from behind.
Smile, and I touched the bare flesh
Averred to embrace her with discretion
As one would the finest eglantine
A finger deep into the bloodline
After which the green eyes - shine.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
Far from having a nascent thought that envelops my rabid self,
Like inside of an accurate Swiss watch that had been given -
A present to presidents and diplomats from the 70’s era,
Memories in the kaleidoscope of life, one by one,
Like crazy soldiers we used to see on TV
Who marched on red symmetric communist squares, come
And begin a very fine process of fermentation with a kick of stum
Giving it a thought, I say! Aha!
A viaduct to conciliate between a rosette and an aigrette
Of troubling cause, you little missus who are not ready to pause
You will say many wise things; Oh iconicity! One, for instance,
Awfully surprising, hardly anyone; I am selling the house!
Ha-ha! You are a cynic!
Am I a cynic? – As a bell, I loudly repeat.
Running down this cold night out of mind, not out of sight,
Throwing a tam o'shanter in the air while celebrating the moment
I am about to sky dive as a guardian of free-fall with no safety net
Daredevil of provincial extraction, not!
So, where did it begin?
*
It must have been ... Goodness Gracious!
Inside where the temperature is naturally optimal and commonly shared!
The place that is of testicular density? – a voiceover whispered.
Very well then! – a confirmation stated the origin of the establishment.
And since that moment on the wheel of life begins to pedal,
Is it to an asylum that I am going to be sent to?
Well, why not, I am not due for a medal!
I remember a gauntlet of Silver Birches, Hazels and Poplars
Like the three Musketeers crossing their little epees
To be there it felt monumental like the citadel of Persepolis in Pars
Or better, as an outcome of the Native architectonics known as Teepees.
How great is the world when one is belittled or youngling little
Or when you feel as Goethe did before he turned forty!
The desire to fecundate myself with the exquisite knowledge wasn’t brittle
Rather volatile in a perverted sense! Sit, let me pour some tea!
I’d laugh uproariously now and then,
In a satirising almost decadent style,
Reaching the moment of zenith, my personal Zen
Secreting out of itself a ‘split-load’ of bile.
In the fourth year, like Sade did, she’s been claiming promiscuity of Dionysus
But Juliette screams out of her, at least in the way of male perception
One would want to pause or at least say – Hey, you little missus,
Will you stop right there and in a single breath make an exception?
Do not throw at him a handful of grand 6-inch clitorises!
(to be continued...)
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
Oh! - Answered he, who is the sculptor of the forest's soul,
- I've lived in the songs and myths, in the hair
Of maidens who romanced me, and in my own nightmare.
There is an ellipsis right between an apotheosis
That submits the soul to a life-long worship, and a kindred mind.
Worship of what? Ex nihilio? Well, I see myself as no epigone
Of anything, in particular, but everything in general.
I am a hearer of ardent spirits that husband untouchable justice,
A pectus enkindled in thorns and brambles,
A visionary of phantasies in a hidden repository of probity,
Where I bade you to come with me onto this journey,
As I behold you, present before me, awash in
Licentious suggestions, as a well-wisher full of warmth,
And irresistible glow where no assiduity is being judged,
But conveyed when I call you to the helm.
The intricacies of silence, the ingredients of fatalism, and subordination,
Are characteristics and autonomous tendencies of certitude,
In my view, as I bestow the attributes of intuition that detect darkness,
And the darkness detects the evil you emit, and the evil is
“The thing-in-itself” according to Kant which I ruthlessly deny!
As a contrarian I advocate a different shape of intelligence,
Existent between absurdism and Quixotism, sparking my
Passion, bursting with desire to define eminence,
But leaving you to shape the soul of the forest,
Or good or evil in it, as it is your domain, your knight-errantry,
And I? I am only your occasional, lonely guest.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
Larger than life, a will, governing the soul,
With a dash of colour under the fallen rainbow,
Enjoying the beauty of randomness through
Kismet and peace,
I peel my mundo intimo off the layers of memoirs of passion,
And I tend myself with no care towards the perspective of the inner life.
I hear it through the sound of a guitar, a gitano from Andalusia
strings soothingly together,
I hear the clandestine serpent of guilt howling rebellion
Inside of my labyrinth,
As if it were the home of the Minotaur, or a hellion.
Beating drums of sorrow foretell of desires hanging on boughs,
Before me, the solemn temple of will wrapped in its grandeur,
And I am idle, and I cannot move, and I do not want it!
It’s the silent whirlpool boiling time. Peace. Peace and quiet.
The horizons with no boundaries. Clarity everywhere.
In love –truth. In truth – fidelity. In life –direction.
But there was a concern lest the love becomes real,
What then? What to peel? How to peel?
Shall I be born, again? Shall I be born?
Let it play out, in time as the life marches on!
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
You - amaranthine temptress!
Pay attention for a sec.
Let's give it a hap,
Ad-lib like vagabonds on the road,
Rambling to dusk in a single step,
Just before the first stars
Appear in our eyes,
With Jupiter for you under the Moon, or
Ganging up with me to outlaw the routine,
Fortuitously not to isolate for more,
Not to exclude the beauty of the scene
But to boldly intervene,
In this chronicle of life
Coalesce in the shadows
Tumble down a hill,
Fall to our lot of feelings, emotions and ideas
Celebrate avocation of joy,
Incumbency of passion to become dear metier
Weaving between our fingerprints
As an all evening event,
Under the sky or an Arab tent.
Perhaps a symphony of sound at night
No matter how small or how big
But be honest and straight
Be quick on the uptake,
Through the sound of your voice
Through a singing retort
Of any sort,
At a gig, in a debate, or in bed,
While using a thread, a cord or a string
No, not a fling!
But a romance,
Craving for a glimpse,
From behind to see the Universe,
Or just a verse,
Between the skin of yours or mine.
Thank-you note in the eyes,
Not in the words!
Create our little worlds,
Unique, versatile just slick.
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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Hound Of Poetry Poem
The hypnotic sleep-walk will diagnose this flaccid imp in me
All the recantations will die there where selfishness butchers the prophetic shields
As If I were to go through the film of yesteryears...
The sandy beach anchored in the Port Phillip Bay was dressed in a bodysuit,
The secluded and frothy waves battered the rocks,
And the sunset on a pier in Noosa that evening never looked better!
The colours of gold, copper, purple and pink – the epitome of beauty,
The embodiment of the Sun. The second coming of Hathor.
These days I soliloquy often as if I am rehearsing for a conversation with someone.
It seems like a dialogue between Vladimir and Estragon with incantations
Which come from an inner fierce force of destruction and corrosion,
Carnal and flesh eating, - parasitic and unsustainable. Endemic!
The turbulence creates mental glittering, and
Then the moments of insanity come, so noble and balanced, my perfect pandemonium.
*
In this salon of orderly mortality I devour volatility of emotions
Like an opportunist who can demonstrate to a matron the origin of sincerity
How idealistic!
Sometimes it seems to me that my life role is a part of a museum diorama,
Where my epicardium is examined and sampled
Or, on occasion, it resembles the role of an emulator of hallucination
Allegorised in the images of poetic wrath, all worried,
Standing on the platform of despotic witticism as the last romantic connoisseur
Hand to hand, relentless in the rhetoric that does not need an aegis of virtuality
Nor en passant on the distribution of love!
That bullet may blow the brain but it won’t deny the fact!
As a Roman raconteur who used a bon mot on a little stool to attract attention,
I often feel the same but would climb a stool for a different reason,
Though, even then, my mummery would rather miss the beat.
What a perverse poetic autobiography this is!
Is becoming a corpse a process of decadence, or lunacy incorporated?
My secret life flickered with the prohibition of conscience, exquisite and ripe
It created an identity of departure, finalised and declared,
An absurd affinity towards sensual and tolerant, bold and blunt
Almost as the doctrine of Gray towards the painting,
A pure invention of aggression as the shield of the ultimate protection
A primal animalism of wounded devotion,
A proclamation of celibacy from falsity in the name of Orpheus
I bow before all not bedizened but bare, untangled and restored,
My armour is my open palm, my demeanour masculine but calm.
(TBC)
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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