I’m going to go to Scotland for six days. I will be back by late Friday. I might not have the internet there. In fact, I very probably will not have the internet there. I wish you all the best of luck on your perilous journeys, and I will be back with a panoply of poems about the Scotting of the land to make up for my inactivity. I am afraid I must depart.
By water and feather,
I swear on the ether
That stitching the country together
The needle might sting,
But, like mirrors in spring-
You have such the courage to sing
Like a bird.
Her eyes welled with moonlight
And echoed the midnight
With hollow cascades of the endsight,
Knew not of her rivers
But shivered and shivered,
For she was the delicate giver
Aye, infinite flowers;
The gulls to the tower;
The girl with the unwanted power
Her eyes slowly smeared
Down the thought. Pioneer-
She took the first boat out of here-
Out of needles and dirt.
And I light the ether for the twentieth time.
Time Travel Road
My sister’s ancient history;
Each metre back one year.
She made the car a time machine
Despite my mother’s fears.
And now we fly and stumble in
The wayward thoughts of time.
It must have been my sister’s fault
That I cannot define
(Not even with my dictionary)
Back where we always go.
My sister smiles alongside blurs
And vortex steps aglow.
My mother keeps on driving
For fear that we’ll explode,
But we can breathe the era dust
Here, on Time Travel Road.
A poem about the hours shortly before sleep, when one’s mind functions not in the normal fashion
The drunk men will wail below my window
They regurgitate the distortions deep within them, but i will sit in silence.
Casting my long shadow on the wall
It is past ten and i should be sleeping oblivious
But instead i am resting on the soft wood of my chair
Dreaming the dreams i should be in bed with
In my dreams i am I and I am great and mighty
In my dream I am i and i am meek and humble
Only in daylight will i balance - but as this hour is so, i find a tangent.
A jester, a dreamer, a candlestick maker
In these incandescent hours
These hours are mine
Tucked in their halogen and in their titanium
But they are the daylight hours only of the owl
They are the dark hours of the regurgitating man
Soon i will sleep, but now i must dream
The world is my oyster
I like oysters
Sink like a wallow
Back into these incandescent hours
The digits of the moon, sleepy aurora!
The opalescent eve of dewy thread!
You are the one, I know, the one that speaks
Through freefall cosmos! Gravity is dead!
To overthrow, my dearest paler moon:
My equal in your valor. And your light
Can rival all and mill the Cam’s convey.
I barely can remain beside the night.
The rhyme scheme is a way to hang within
And not detach the soul from order’s word.
O, Ashes mathematical can make
The green for walking cities, heavy birds!
We are a perfect circle and exist
On planes that are a lullaby to you.
The river is just moonbeams and thought’s mist,
Parabola and ether’s chilling dew.
One day, she picked the stars and took their shine
And put them in a pretty little box
With shells and shivered seas and whiter time-
But time would never matter to a girl
Who did not live in universal lines!
She sat on Saturn’s rings and made the clocks
And smiled at the ether’s hidden sign.
My father was the earth for wounded birds
With wings that cannot touch the bleeding sun.
He stared at startled starlings: beating worlds
In tiny hearts that could not travel on.
My father watched the wounded walk away,
My friend did not reply, the land was cold.
And mist supported birds with subtle birds
To hold their feathers skyward, just to hold.
A soul is heavier than air, and thus, they fell
From wind as living stones with fractured wings.
Their bones weighed more than paper souls, and, well
My father was the earth for broken things.
If anyone can speak of louring rain,
It must be nobody, for nobody can know
The emptiness of fragile remains.
With memory and melody adust
The river spoke of bells and rang insane
I listened not to streaming thoughts below,
Pretending with my heart to well arcane.
My eyes were seas themselves, but darker still.
I held my hands, surrendering my soul
To tears and coals and evanescent chills
That opened hands to talk to hawthorn’s flower,
The hawthorn pierced my blood, and blood it filled
With rue and little little stinging holes.
I dropped my keys and cried my silver will
With hope that golden Hills would never hear
The way that iridescent poetry
Could bend me to her paradox desire.
I do not know if I was made of flame;
I melted in the day, forgotten seer
With fleeting and fragmented memory.
Of hawthorn and remorse raise me a pyre.
My sun was prevalent in sevens, flower cups
Of nectar, light, and gale on the bridge.
Humanity and time, they must go up
To linger on the windows, quite inscribed
With navy-sleeved potential, the ash
Is lighter than the heavens, and alive.
Survived the break of mist and flamed upon
The void and the girl that would convey-
The vessel vase of alabaster dawn.