distilled sunlight across a close captioned heart

[mtmynd]

distilled sunlight across a close captioned heart

three robed rodents
rustling thru burrows
of baudelairian basements
blown open by superficialities
awaken the distant thunders
scratched by jeffersonian lightning
igniting the dreams of freedom
burned across the insipid souls
crying for release from themselves
as the turner prize glitters
in rimbaudesque phantom fires
adjusting the merciless vagabond
from taking pilgrimages across
lands lit with electric blood
oozing from quilt like patterns
in free form jazz emulations

a cock crowed and screwed
the light bulb in its last gasp
for intelligentsia awakening

forests died and lakes evaporated
while the tortoisian mirrors
refracted the multitudinal sperms
of wiley coyote in stillborn angst
seeking loves desperation in spinning
batons set afire by stolen oil...

eco-mania inflicted viruses
fostering warmth to cold spirits
engaging in tug-of-wits for prizes
captured from the gravestones of
battlefield losers gone to dust

the sunrise surprise distilling
the vacant wallets of pyromaniacs
never to see velvet darkness again
thru rogain brains unfettered in
rusty chains mimicking sacred crows

screw the poet sacraments into political lamps
adjust the intensity
to brevities short growl -
satan lives in fear of priests
ashamed to see truth
with chaliced eyes tarnished by
the three robed rodent’s scrolls.

[stilltrucking]

'The Angel Standing in the Sun is Turner demonstrating something of the terror of light: it dissolves, soaks away the specific reality, it isn't just a benign glow or a clear spotlight. Other artists do astonishing things with light, but only Turner makes it frightening like this. All the more frightening because obviously irresistible and total.'

The Angel Standing in the Sun

[mtmynd]

interesting picture, truck.. and a brave description.

curious - did this poem remind you of the picture in some way?

[stilltrucking]

curious - did this poem remind you of the picture in some way?

Great poem Cecil I had never heard of
the turner prize

as the turner prize glitters

Q Why did they call it 'The Turner Prize'?
A The Patrons wanted a name associated with great British art. They chose JMW Turner (1775-1851) partly because he had wanted to establish a prize for young artists. He also seemed appropriate because his work was controversial in his own day.
http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/turnerpr ... ry/faq.htm

so I googled it and that lead me to that painting by Turner.

And there was some bits in your poem about fear, sunlight, satan, and priests.

probably does not relate

Hello darkness my old friend

I live in a senior housing project. This place is lit up like las vegas. The little old ladies all fear the darkness I suppose. Where did all the little old men go?

and a brave description.

Not my description, I am not brave. The decription was by the Archbishop of Canterbury

[mtmynd]

ah hah, truck... one thing led to another then another. google is great!

when did you move to the new place? last i remember you lived alone near the rr tracks or some such place..? do they feed you? (i'm not talkin' spoon feeding you, you know).

btw: i know that wasn't your description. i just thought it was a brave description. it takes a certain talent to describe artworks... somethin i'm sorely lacking.

[stilltrucking]

I moved about a year ago. Ten units here like a garden apartment complex. I am even closer to the tracks now. About a hundred yards from my back door, they come barreling by ever half-hour it seems. But now I can see them. I wish I had a camera because I would like to take pictures of the interesting graffiti on the boxcars.

There are ten of us here, eight woman, one guy in a motorized wheel chair on oxygen, and me. My little one bedroom apartment has sissy bars in the bathroom and panic buttons on the walls. It gives me a fine vision of what is coming for me.

These are the last of my good old days.

If not for the trains passing like temple bells I would be crazier than I am. It gives me the illusion of motion. The same for the Internet; I sit here in my chair and feel like I am still trucking down the highway, if only a virtual one.

I am addicted to the grind.

And I like juxtapositions:





I really liked your poem a lot Cecil. I feel like I only scratched the surface of it.

[mtmynd]

truck: "It gives me a fine vision of what is coming for me.
These are the last of my good old days."

good to hear you're in a (relatively) safe place. But I am sorrowful about the ill state of your overall health, amigo. Have the doctors given your maladies a name (or more)? Prognosis..?

'the last of my good old days...' just bums me out. i once told my sister, after she had her stroke, and was feeling very, very down (which is what those things do for anyone), to spit shit in the eye of death. i'd strongly suggest that to you, truck. our body/ego life is certainly limited in comparison to its death, death being far longer than life as we view it, but if we fearlessly live life without fear of death, it enables us to accept the end of our mortality as fearlessly.

forgive me for i speak too much. when you write -

"If not for the trains passing like temple bells I would be crazier than I am. It gives me the illusion of motion. The same for the Internet; I sit here in my chair and feel like I am still trucking down the highway, if only a virtual one."

... you have a much better seat than i may ever have. i really like those lines. made me smile and assured me that you know. you yourself are quite the juxtaposition!

truck: "I really liked your poem a lot Cecil. I feel like I only scratched the surface of it."

i appreciate that and will ask after you've scratched a little deeper, if you'd kindly share your feelings..?

[stilltrucking]

of baudelairian basements

the three robed rodent’s scrolls

as to what relates to me and what you meant
I have no idea

KJV: If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he for a fish give him a serpent?

I suppose I needed a snake more than a fish
it was a funky basement beneath a trap door
There was an iron ring embedded in the trap door as a handle
I descended the stairs into the blackness and he would shut the door first removing the light bulb beneath it.
when the door was closed the darkness was total
a time of maximum fear
but in time my eyes would become accostumed to the darkness and I would notice the faint light seeping in around the edges of the trap door.

But then I would notice the smell
dead rats
putrifying
I have searched for his love
Because I know he did love me
and there was something he was trying to teach me.

awaken the distant thunders

a storm moving in
thunder almost overhead
as I write this


that is all for now.