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Marcus Bailey Poem
Pardoned through the postmortem black
The green air like gas driving through
The dense flakes laid on my head.
My body lay heavy with the sunken Red Sea.
My clearness clear all eyes, I feel nothing now,
Not the vivacious flashes of a Summer Lady
Nor the rowdy screams of children at funerals.
My body lay cold, cold as a ferret’s nose,
I could hear it scream through pale October.
And all I remember in the weary twilight:
The seat belt clamped against my silent heart
My body threw itself from the vigor of metals,
Your hell widens to the flush of my form
And I felt my psyche evaporate in the clear air
Flashes of red and blue tango perfumery against the senseless black.
And all I remember in the weary twilight
Was a slim light calling my concealed name… I answered.
The red and blue steadily vanished in the blackness.
I watch my numb body lay flat on silver
Piecing together the weary twilight of red and blue
And shutting doors, though dead stiff, it was nothing new.
Copyright © Marcus Bailey | Year Posted 2016
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Marcus Bailey Poem
A fountain of dryness
Deserts flow cloud belly to the arid brown.
Inside the fountain, the bottom of zest,
The penny lay await, eye wide, no dreams died.
Here comes the mistress
In garments to her knees
Duchess of Fountain: the town of keys,
An elegance of pinkness, woman of sun.
Inside the high fountain
Between a thousand coins, pennies
Sits three
peaceful keys.
One with a tooth lodged hinged.
The mistress, Queen of bees. hands on
Oval mouth falls
with teeth shedding from wingless bees.
The second key lay tangled in green weeds
The head weld with an iced crown.
Alas, she is the mistress of bees. She is crowned.
The bees are helpless, they must bow down.
And largely to the left of her gold dress,
Like a morgue sleeper, is the biggest key -
Rough as a murder, it sleeps
With a heart on its head, jailed constrictor.
The town bees open wide as the moon.
Their hearts gears murmur softly.
The mistress has control.
She stares at the sun.
Smile heavy
Dust off her keys
Teeth all gone but hearts lay flat
Declaring her crown.
The fountain is flowing
The bees are working
They hear the keys
They are rattling.
Copyright © Marcus Bailey | Year Posted 2016
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Marcus Bailey Poem
I stood from the foot sole of your eyes
And gleamed in secretly.
Your maned hair moves in the painted breeze:
Quietly, quietly, I hear you scream through your smile.
My eyes shadows your tumult.
The river behind you collects your tears
And down they stamp in your cloudiness.
In your eyes I forage your soothing distress.
Gracefully, as the first cry of child,
I enter the clear colors of your element.
Perpetually, I flicker and gasp at your stillness
And find myself separated in the interior of your mind.
Your cold heart bleeds densely,
The trees behind you bend its branches
To level the inferiority of their voices.
Oh Mona, with your loud mute smile
I plummet at your dark red feet beneath the
Drenched frame that weakly held your darkness
And watch your giant sham brightens.
Clear as a picture, you're chained dupe
Welcomes me and easily I went,
Planting myself in the holes of your skin
And transform in a lovingly pinkness
Adding the papery entice of your wile.
A man reach in and touches your smile.
(May 7, 2016)
Mona Lisa (by Leonardo da Vinci)
Copyright © Marcus Bailey | Year Posted 2016
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Marcus Bailey Poem
The vague patrolling recollection
sits like a fat white swan on her nest,
cuddling the unborn nakedness, fragile, soundless!
He caresses her wings,
she beats them frantically
as his cold old lips meshes and folds.
Dragging, he goes, she crackles
to the red-stained woods, painted
lovingly with millions that entered before.
His touch blackens and grips
She feeds on youths she hid in her thoughts,
Their time winding down, seconds after seconds.
And with the rage of Moses’s staff,
the loud shed quivers and her incantation feathered gown
sweeps in the red wind. Done, revelation!
The decapitated fowl runs in the eye of a God.
The red man ascends like Lazarus
coming, coming for the next victim of his plague.
Inside my coldness, I feel warmness,
I feel restfulness, I am papery and ready
for his touch of death. Thanks giving to clouds.
Copyright © Marcus Bailey | Year Posted 2016
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