Posts Tagged ‘BR’

8
May

Poems by BR

   Posted by: sye   in 茅境

dreams


Untitled
I’ve seen mists wash over mountain pass
Plunging headlong where no man can follow
Ice caps tiptoe across cliffs at malicious angles
Fear death on broken rocks.

Where were you when I needed you
Massive and interminable
A jagged permanence of snowy peaks
Carving the sky with grim purpose
Morose without the singing birds
Forgotten of the spring.

The lichen doesn’t miss that holy spring of life
Perched rocks can transcend days of loneliness
An icicle stands watch against the cold
Timeless, indifferent.

No vigil shall I keep in the frozen waste
No callous monolith am I
But to adore thee with all my past.


❤ Dreams of the mechanical man

Do you know
Of Weatherspring Mill?
That foul mill,
That denigrated hive,
Behind the diseased edifice,
The lampblack centuries?

Buzzing with automated activity
Bolts and brackets and belching black smoke
Fresh from the furnace into the bath
The bath, the quenching bath,
Which squeals and panics and throws billowing steam
Parts meets parts
Amidst showering sparks
As the welders blast joints
And the odious,
Dripping,
Vapor coating.
All those poisons seeping
Down drains where sagging
Knots of toxic effluvium pour from the outspout,
Infecting the groundwater.
Dead trees rest the stunted crows
They wait, their cracked cawing grinds
Like the gnashing of teeth
Their vacant eyes study
A parched and weary and broken little girl
As she, in desperation,
Drinks the black pitch from the lake.

Do you know the workers at Weatherspring Mill?
A creaking mass
A hooded procession
Born into soot nightmares
They are marching in a narrow hallway
A door at either end
Built for workers bent
Over conveyor belts
Jostling belts
While the relentless pounding of the second hand
Echoes
Louder than any machine in the deafening mill.

Some say,
They were human once.
No longer, thank God.

Do you know the mechanical man?
The mechanical man who works the lathe
The lathe in the Weatherspring Mill?
He does not even know what is made at the mill.
Is anything made at the mill?

Of course, he’s never left the mill
The rumors of workers who’ve escaped the mill
The rumors swirl
Like sulfurous eddies in the Weatherspring Lake.

There is rust in the blood
And blood in the rust
The cancer the red red pieces
From the drowsing mechanical man
The golden-dreaming Mechanical Man.

Clank, whirr, clank, whirr
Clank, whirr, clank, whirr
Kajunk Kajunk Kajunk
Clank, whirr, clank, whirr

Mechanical man dreams, he dreams of a girl:
She has no rust, no coils, no cogs
A sunshine girl on summer hills of clover.
Her upturned face, soft and mischevious
With loving eyes
Framed by dark hair sweeping her breasts
Her soft breasts tucked neatly in a white shirt
Riding a little above the hem of her
Blue
Skirt;
Her light blue skirt, from which
Her ankles and bare pink feet
Dance softly over clover.
Petals float from a cherry tree
The girl hangs the linens on the line
Where a snail crawls, unnoticed.
And the linens
The linens are sheets that swell like a sail
As she reaches to affix another plain wooden clothespin
To the unruly sheet
Her shirt climbs past her waist
Exposing a scant pink frame.
And birds- sparrows
Arguing sweetly
As the girl hangs linens in the sun.

Clank, whirr, clank, whirr

Mechnical man also dreams of a man:
A man he knows to be himself
He does not think he looks
The way
He knows himself to look
This man has no rust, no springs, no hinges
But skin and joints of flesh and bone
His eyes, no condensed resin eyes
His eyes are an optical green, a living green
An iris, a pupil, in a white orb
His face is scarred, but whole.
Clothed shabbily in a dirty white shirt
Carpenter’s pants and work boots,
Clutching an ax
A bundle of wood
Musclular, hungry,
He lets go of the ax
And catches the flesh of the girl’s perky ass
Tenderly sheltered in a blue
Skirt.

The miracle
Shatters
When the steam whistle screams its bloodthirsty scream
Murdering respite,
Murdering vague recollections of dreams of golden afternoons
Of passion and love and a life outside Weatherspring Mill.

Mechanical man with an oily cough
Cracks his polymer eyes open,
Brushes the shimmering flecks off his chest.

Untitled
With silence sure the creeping vine
Took root and climbed
Along your spine
In darkened morn
At sleepless hour
Ignoring it
You let it flower

Crescendoing in fever dream
Gently at first
Then roiling scream
When angels’ wings
Turned demon thorns
And golden rings
Lament and scorn

Grind and scrape with mortar, pestle,
Chemicals
Poured in a vessel
Antidote
Or sensitizer?
Herbicide
Or fertilizer?

Harvested from its sanctuary
You ground the vine,
Apothecary
Grind and scrape
And scrape and grind
Elixer for
Disquiet mind

But artfully was aid deferred
No medicine
Administered
With treatment
Left upon the shelf
Apothecary,
Heal thyself.

Two love birds
Were singing a song The only song they knew.
Singing the song they knew
Because
That was the song they knew
This moored fishing ship
With an iron bench on its port side
That faces out over the shimmering blue
And the sloops leaning against their sails
Beyond the sloping rocks and tarred port timbers
With the sun teasing diamonds from the sea.

She cried when I told her
We could never be friends.
There is a farm and a chamber
Where I keep
tokens
Of our time together.

Daisies were her favorite.

A crack that started years ago
Propagates.
Like the crenelations of a scallop
Or a demilitarized zone
Or a loose thread on the sweater
Quietly destroying the only thing left
Because I couldn’t bear to mend it.

Sing to me
One song, my love,
One song I have always known.
The words are the words I have always known
The tune I have always known
The song is a song I have always known,
The song I have always known.
Lord, give my hate a name.

- june 2008

Wind-up Toy
With these grim mechanics
Came a little wind-up toy.
Walking his little bicycle
Tears of frustration
Littering the towpath with rain

Forsake me, Injustice!
As shapely toys
Glide past on bicycles
He howls, appeals to Heaven
To liberate the wind-up toy
From his steel burden.

But the wind-up toy can see New Hope
Across the mighty Delaware
On the ruddy shores
Where so many acts of will
And where, he learned in wind-up school,
Perseverence blessed wind-up toys before.

Pivots and rotations

His little tin jaw set
The wind-up toy finds an incline
Winds himself up
Puts one foot on a pedal.

Ave Maria
At the marsh citadel on a late afternoon
Nestled in a wall of sand
While playfully the tiny waves
Recede with tide, raised hand

Upon cemented ballustrade
A lady’s love grows deeper
While down below her, anxiously
Paces a secret-keeper.

Ave, Maria!
Glittering sea, the ball of golden fire
Writing heiroglyphs on her eyes, as if
reflected from the mire.

Up toward her weather-beaten throne
The secret-keeper glances
And observes the beloved halo
Which around her body dances.

The familiar scent of salty brine
The seagrass’ sympathetic curl
The secret-keeper prepares the words
For his secret to unfurl.

At length, the priestess gathers herself.
But the secret-keeper kneels
He halts her retreat from the weathered wall
And to her, his heart reveals.

Ode to grand Shirley
When lying, calm, beside the sea
One thinks fondly of Grand-Shir-Ley!
How joyful, and so full of glory
And quick to tell a funny story.

Admired, oft, in several nations
For her great skill at public relations
Prodigious is her aptitude
For keeping Pop-pop’s sins subdued

To love grand Shirley, it’s easy to get so
unless, of course, you are a pretzo
If one would search through all the land
One could not find a Shirley as grand!

- Eric D. Laird
June 2010
coincidently, today marks the 200th anniversary of the birthday of the great classical-romantic composer Robert Schumann


Mementos from the Oubliette

A beast walks in the night
A beast of fur and claws and teeth
With gangrene breath of rotting meat
Wearing a handsome top hat and a dinner jacket
Under which his cock dangles like a rude knife
A beast of hunger and sloping gait.

I remember the worst day of my life:
The day I saw the emerald throne.
Set against black velvet, illuminated, brilliant green.
That day when I learned to be desirous
Oh God! How I wanted to sit in an emerald throne.
And though it was unbearable
I could not be turned away
And I looked for a merchant to sell me the chance
And I would kill my loved ones for the chance.
Wrapped in a cocoon
The butterfly metamorphosed into a brown grub
The day I found the center of the labyrinth
And forgot the way home
forever.

This night is manic like a child.

Of all those who stole treasures from the gods
Prometheus—
Must have been the most reviled.
When all he can do is wait for the eagle to come
It must be great satisfaction
When it finally arrives to peck out his liver.

Lurching with insanity
Goes a mental patient in a straight jacket
Like groping in the dark
Tearing at the veil of night;
The panic
The revulsion
Of stumbling through the spider’s silk
Full of victims, waiting to be drained.

Let the beast finally come!
Bring severed limbs in sacrifice
In the spring of blooming white-hot petals
As it tears into the guilty ribcage
Let blinding light burst through my chest
Burst through this forever-night
When the beast comes to prowl with teeth and claws,
Come, beast! Devour this guilty flesh
Haunt the guiltless no more.



Naked Lunch

In peat where the bodies are.
Well I’ve said too much already
Hyperfine structures and soft-made-damp;
Lifeless, legless, a cozy nest of maggots
And begging for that loamy bank
On golden light of morning.

Some quivering slime that forever stains all it touches
Asked if it could follow me around for a while.
But how could I say no to that?

Hoary goat
With patches of matted fur
Is back to stay a spell
At the foot of my bed
The shedding and the foul aroma
And biting visitors with its mouth of sores
Sticking his hooves in the dessert
Leering with dead eyes
Upsetting the atmosphere, his hideous
bleating
And rubbing his balls on the carpet.
(He was only gone one week.)

I’m so sorry I ate the crustaceans
so now which is the fly and which is the human

My only companions decay in the pit;
Those are the only companions I want
Because I am the False Holy – the dead ringers

yet i found thee at last
A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
Quietly laid on wave & air
- 2007
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