Archive for the ‘Twitchful Nights of Bitchful Dreams’ Category

As She Was Lost

by His Nibs (j)

Dreams as dark as happiness in hearts that can not sing
A knife, a book, a compass fob beside a well-worn ring
Days that look much longer when viewed from far above
And warlike cries with tear-filled eyes sing transcendental love

As mist then clears to show the way to bourns as yet not tramped
And those deep eyes remain morose while hope within is damped
The way is thin and blessings scant the trail all ’round him cold
The sparrows quest so worthless here as love itself grows old

Tapestry

Place a dab of luxuriance upon the palette we use.
 The one from which I draw the hues.
 These with which to force our need upon the fabric 
             that will be the tapestry we live.
 A touch,  the artist's brush, into that  puddle.
 A wanton sweep over the work in progress.
 You, in variant hues and shades imbue, coruscate, bedazzle.
 Limning that which he so deeply...feels. What else?
 Thy will,
        my will
              it's will
                      be done                     
                                and not yet over.

Awakening

 

I sat with you and spoke of dreams

of fields and trees and smoke and seas

The lonely rocks stood by us there

Beneath that bare sky’s stoic gleam

 

I reached for more before it left

And gave you all I had to give

You smiled but looked as if bereft

That  heart would not be held captive

 

As moons have risen overhead

To cast their fascination’s pall

Hopeless landscape filled with dread

Stands there artless in their thrall

 

 

Seas and trees and fields and smoke

Make this  place for loves extremes

And  lift the senses cursed yoke

To binds two hearts in different dreams

 

William Shakespeare – Love

Tell me where is Fancy bred, 
Or in the heart or in the head! 
How begot, how nourished? 
Reply, reply. 
It is engender'd in the eyes, 
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 
Let us all ring Fancy's knell; 
I'll begin it, - Ding, dong, bell. 
 
All.  Ding, dong, bell.

And Even Angrier

Ad Astra Per Cunnus

Thursday, July 02, 2009

15:44

Sensuality’s passionless idiocy

Sick-sweet perspiration of intertwined bodies

Locked in the fetid writhings of decaying usefullness

Bio-medicine’s panaceal portent of longevity

The electronic conquest of time over the primeval workload

Throbbing pulsations of oozing, bitter numbness

A brief interlude to the poly-production of over producing  productivity

Nuisancing itself upon the creativity of the creative, the idleness of the idle,

And the clamor of the clamant.

Ab initio the seminal virus oozed from the primordial soup to deliver itself a birth in the continuum

A coign of vantage and shouting place from which, perhaps, that Matriarch could hear it’s

Lugubrious whimpering  plaint:

   “Throw open your sweaty thighs Mother Universe and I will crawl back to my conception!”

Eyes Have It

A new mirror slices deep into my darkened soul

down the streaming vision of my reflecting eyes

Lovers hide beneath the sanctity of their pride

To abjure  against  recant’s reckless wiles

Of Tunes And Runes

I hear the song (it makes me smile) no time for words and nascent guile

I may be wrong (but that’s no crime) that little tune is just in time

As I listen (and yes I must) the world about inculcates trust

And oh the joy (still with me now) as love plays me the muses vow

Meaning in Me(taphore)

 

In thinking about the ways a poet can develop meaning and conveyance one must first study the poet. One must “be one” with the forces of hir (sic) life, times and currency. For me the word poet is always the bodacious, artful (with words, meaning, emotions, verity and candor) flexible and heartful bohemian. The word “song” always represents the poet’s “soul”, the inner presence, temper and essence that each of us “builds” and “sings” alone to each other and the cosmos.

 

I am in love with Edna St Vincent Milay (she, an icon for women broadly like that). I do not know her, but I love the dark, smoky, wanton, fearful, bold…her expression provokes a kind of lust (maybe actual) based entirely upon intellectual expression and its provocative blending with my (offbeat) taste.

 

That all said, this poem is an attempt to capture all of those facts and purvey them in a manner that plays peek-a-boo with various impressions that can be had from the value of the actual words.

 

(SEE THE TRILOGY AT http://www.jerryconnelly.com )

 

Remember a poet is metaphor…

 

 

Is this a surreptitious meeting between two lovers or a metaphor for a first meeting

between two people where there is an immediate recognition of deep connection?

I meet you in the shadows

We walk into the sun

 

Now connected and advancing the connection (in mind)?

then talk and laugh and kiss a bit

Our time is so soon done

 

He looses the idea that they are (this is) daydreaming?

And then as all our senses

Do reverie entreat

Dreaming on – as heat’s contagious ripple leapt and kept their fires alive?

There is no bliss denied us there

In love’s surrounding heat

 

He picks up thinking of the dream spent and that wonderful sense that

humans often feel; in awful acceptance and away with an intellectual

fillip, with their own artificial morality?

There may be things in heaven

That even angels fear

And sometimes even paths to hell

A mortal can hold dear

 

boldly advancing beyond and back to dreams aftermath?

But I’m in fear of nothing

With your beauty in my eyes

Your smell and taste upon my lips

From loving enterprise

 

And days not all over when they’re done.

Back to the mortal and consequences thereto?

For now within this living web

These memories ere belong

And so if it is actually a reverie then nothing changes except the induced

knowledge and concomitant memories?

Of undiminished passions and

A poet and her song

 

Or…this is a tryst with the dreams of mortals merging with the sensual realities

of passions heat and it’s intellectual legacy?

 

A kind of blending of “oh the joy of winning were she won” with sweet recollections

of moments past and dreams so real I taste them.

 

And there you sit, looking bold dreams into my classic face

Dreaming art into our love…

 

 

Or…just a big, juicy slice of life; out loud.

 

 

Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now?

I like to think that she would like, as much as I, to kiss – to touch and hold; lingering lips and tongues alive with a frission’s illicit spark. As ardor inspires,  the continuous drool, the large, single, blacked tooth all seem somehow to enhance her allure in the grey-black smoke from the Harley’s exhaust.

Another unfinished vignette…

Now there is a song deep within my head, ringing softly ,sweetly as I go about my daily toil. It is the song of decades past and the warm glow of dump fires casting red-orange reflections in the eyes of my partner and forcing me, in a most profound way, to the brink of, at once, revulsion and arousal.

© 2017 What's That On the Road – A Head
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