05-01-2017, 01:35 PM
Almost Poe
Blue hand, no hands.
The fountain is France.
You wrote that insane artists
were your lovers;
it’s all heat. I’m not jealous,
half worried about the girl
who wakes in the morning
and is dead. But listen
I was the best female poet,
published “She’s mad
magic, no lie. Her fire touches.”
Graphs had more -
I’d sat and listened
on a bench by a bridge
over a river, crying.
Night wept for lovers
hurt and forgotten. I never
heard again. Suicide
would probably
be like this.
(an erasure poem made from Charles Bukowski’s An Almost Made Up Poem)
And one by a friend - let's call him Victory Gin - who did commit suicide.
A Sonnet to Suicide
A higher mind is open to the sky,
But heaven slams its gate with thunderclap:
Snotty nimbus echo the blasted cap,
And throw down lightning when the blown out eye
Offends no more. A hateful rain, like lye,
Pours from the ire: Mirrors the wrinkled flap
Of plum; mixes the scattered pit, with slap
Of wet-on-wet, before the bloating sigh...
The rain will never stop, the earth will flood,
The ground will turn into a soggy slime
Where slugs and roaches rule with putrefaction.
It seems the brilliant ones prefer the grime
To dismal skin; they find the world distracting --
BANG! -- Heads flare off a barrel: Mind in mud.
Another lost friend
Sonnet for Sandra
The halo round the half-moon splinters ice,
a gelid gleam that glints on sea-borne spume.
The howl of stray cat fight cuts through the night
as if the sea is screaming at the moon.
.
The skeletons of driftwood twist and writhe
in shadow dance, though they themselves are still
and all my dead tonight return to life
as morepork’s warning call flies from the hill.
The crumpled sheets of night festoon the floor,
they’re stained with pain and dreams of dead friends lost
and suicide’s allure slides through the door
with guilt and freedom arguing the cost.
The hardest part of night is yet to come;
in darkness to believe there can be sun.
Blue hand, no hands.
The fountain is France.
You wrote that insane artists
were your lovers;
it’s all heat. I’m not jealous,
half worried about the girl
who wakes in the morning
and is dead. But listen
I was the best female poet,
published “She’s mad
magic, no lie. Her fire touches.”
Graphs had more -
I’d sat and listened
on a bench by a bridge
over a river, crying.
Night wept for lovers
hurt and forgotten. I never
heard again. Suicide
would probably
be like this.
(an erasure poem made from Charles Bukowski’s An Almost Made Up Poem)
And one by a friend - let's call him Victory Gin - who did commit suicide.
A Sonnet to Suicide
A higher mind is open to the sky,
But heaven slams its gate with thunderclap:
Snotty nimbus echo the blasted cap,
And throw down lightning when the blown out eye
Offends no more. A hateful rain, like lye,
Pours from the ire: Mirrors the wrinkled flap
Of plum; mixes the scattered pit, with slap
Of wet-on-wet, before the bloating sigh...
The rain will never stop, the earth will flood,
The ground will turn into a soggy slime
Where slugs and roaches rule with putrefaction.
It seems the brilliant ones prefer the grime
To dismal skin; they find the world distracting --
BANG! -- Heads flare off a barrel: Mind in mud.
Another lost friend
Sonnet for Sandra
The halo round the half-moon splinters ice,
a gelid gleam that glints on sea-borne spume.
The howl of stray cat fight cuts through the night
as if the sea is screaming at the moon.
.
The skeletons of driftwood twist and writhe
in shadow dance, though they themselves are still
and all my dead tonight return to life
as morepork’s warning call flies from the hill.
The crumpled sheets of night festoon the floor,
they’re stained with pain and dreams of dead friends lost
and suicide’s allure slides through the door
with guilt and freedom arguing the cost.
The hardest part of night is yet to come;
in darkness to believe there can be sun.