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Elliott Lyngreen Poem
Ohh I could have sat with my heart
--elevated with dribbled echoes--
ahhhhhh until it yet exhaled the tarnished seams
capturing only the quiet current lapping
and soaking dirty steel embankment
along the river’s edge beneath the elevators
and rusted railway overpass.. listening
as if the very markings and where they were;
was the point we reached.
But the difference in the stories we want to tell
and the ones we hear ourselves tell to others
or even the stories we tell to ourselves
are not the ones that actually happen
but the ones we hope get told about ourselves.
And from the dragged busy avenues
Elliott’s is lingering, scorching,
scrapping placed black glances
at the difference which came in-between
looks all around; when his body was found;
so the driving but squeezed remains
that forms the murky waste, leaking out,
resituates away from that easy smack-like
wake from motors fishtailed in two sets
slipped through to the ends of the river
not only smaller than we were
before or within the mainstream surrounding,
but finer in every such note
and so much more perfectly
in slow-mo oddity than the overgrowth
of foliage, and into that which will be told.
Has ever found thee exact sounds
so singly in the noises as that whispering...
and where it goes when pulled without hesitating,
you know in the rifts against echoes
dribbling up to the suspended girders
crossing the murky rivers
to where the old muffling coursing veins,
ripped off in visions and the
anticipations and expectations in your head…
ever even came so close to
so close to the conclusions?
Yet in the swift side-vanished sky like wet pavement
but wet against the embankment, it dries
on in an afternoon of no humidity…. finally evaporates,
over and over lapping different intervals,
the ceaseless figuring where the world,
where every second instantly goes, dried
turning distorted there in the levels
marvelously skimmed amidst memory;
stones worth plucking and thrown
just over the very edge
and almost displaying the wavery stain
the rotten that seems brilliantly with near looks
at the river, as the thin air carved upon it,
and the little slick gleams of algae
and smooth enormous stacks billowing
so repetitively with sad-shaped exhausting…
and tough cracks and windshields
of broken cars, cranked glares near hard looks;
as if the science ever inside of them literatures
of our fantastic drag towards them
knew with impossible expectations
that gets pulled away from
oh how I suppose this sort of thing
is supposed to go;
and into the very real dream the poet
could have reasoned, to go…
Songsmith sung that ever-longing undone;
for an explanation,–
finds that long lost answer
and with that fled so so long
so so long ago to thee ends of so so far away…
and unravels there … over and over;
at the metal corners of the enormous sections
of the state of the proverbial peaceful
miniature edges running beside themselves;
that enormous scraping, listening to him
around the uneven like dark shadows
at the weed cut-up back shoulders
that fall apart further in the seams above;
sitting where split beams violate visions
through these white streams careening any which way
upon an invisibly shaping formation
and coloring the ever-bending
turned like a spoon round into a bowl of water;
that ruptured crooked, flowing impression.
Copyright © Elliott Lyngreen | Year Posted 2017
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Details |
Elliott Lyngreen Poem
Through the initial magnified eye of vital dawn,
Pierced that long powderkeg wick underneath;
Mercilessly flammable, the combustible dusts candle flamed,
Ran anguish on path with every tongue,
With passages & persuasions, actions & consequences, diametric forces,
Everything that remained beyond all decisions charred,
Engulfed bigger, grander flames slid along
The gnarled braid of fates’ twisting sinuosity
Together as the firelight slowly ripped along that circuitous length
With every intention to reach the street of dreams,
To extend through, & erupt that tremendous crystal ball;
Exploded the real separation-
A dynamite exasperation of Time
As another had become still again,
Entwines of needling curves in visual form unraveled;
Then, among that glittering,
Then among the breaking or popping vanished into thin air
In silent ineffable stillness,
Among the breaking or cracking release
Like gazing at embers in italic jet ruptures,
Totally stealing that look, that awaking little look,
That stealing look, that stealing look in your eye
When embers break or pop, cracked open his eyes
Stealing little looks in other eyes now; here,
Splattered in euphoria, in glee;
Without a pause there, the firelight sifted beyond where
All had come over and foretasted the mark,
The gentle blasted scar of the glass just in pieces,
The bright street of dreams all over
Crinkled off the pavement in them quiet glitters
Copyright © Elliott Lyngreen | Year Posted 2017
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