Shireroth

Young, Weepy, and Pornographic Eight New Poems‘It is sad merriment…’ It stood defiantly for any and all, one graffito on the wall of a crummy, ammoniad bathroom stall, a scrawled out deviancy. Some two bit poet’s angsty call; that single graffito there alone. Against the dull, sickly peach, a manifesto of bulletproof youth. From Sharpie’s felt was inked the truth, accentuated with a hail of word uncivil, uncouth, exciting senses like sweet vermouth.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Walls’ve got ears and also mouths that speak curses and jeers painted by the meek, raging and furying in each blackenblue streak. For an audience to preach their blueeyed demagoguery they hunt and seek. That graffito, that manifesto, the teard cry, resting under tile moons and fluorescent suns, and in the wreaked hearts where Sunday’s fury forever flows and runs. Hail that thesis, primal, sitting there for one and all, in a crummy bathroom stall.A Tribute to Stephen CraneAt the simian soiree’s endThe general, proven and gladCrossed over rivers, red and sad,Past cheering blocks of patriotsWho had blue eyes under yellow locks,And upon an ashen soldier astray from the flock.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Why are you weeping?&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Your fallen comrades&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Are but sleeping.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp They wait for you&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp In Elysian planes of splendor,&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp In Valhalla’s pillared halls, and&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp In verdant gardens like that before the Fall.”His voice leaden as a storm’s vanguard clouds,The soldier said:&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “For my brothers my tears do not roll,&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp They are now winged and merry souls,&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Departed from this world and happy to be so.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp I weep instead for that one, over there.”And he motioned to the drummer boy Whose yellow locks tumbled ‘roundHis eyes, so big and blue and gladAgainst red rivers, so big and red and sad.Remain free and fit, Good Lord Dionysus!The good lord Dionysus, merrily drunkStumbled through fields littered with huesTo lie amidst the flowers under sky’s blue.The good lord Dionysus, merrily drunkWas visited unexpectedly by a celestial beingBut he stared in disbelief at what he was seeing.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Good lord Dionysus, you’re merrily drunk&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Shake off your stupor, stand up tall&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp And to the soil let your wine fall!”The good lord Dionysus, merrily drunkLaughed heartily at the bold suggestionThen took a swig of his maroon obsession.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “I’m good lord Dionysus, merrily drunk&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp You, oh white angel from the above st’rs&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Cast off your wings and live like my sat’rs.”&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Good lord Dionysus, you’re merrily drunk&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Have you nothing to do in the world divine&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Besides lay, drink, and eat from the vine?”&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “I’m good lord Dionysus, merrily drunk&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Why should I work and study, train and rush&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp When I can listen to nature’s golden hush?”&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Good lord Dionysus, you’re merrily drunk&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Have you no ambition, no goals for the day?&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Have you no prayers, no wisdoms to say?&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “I’m good lord Dionysus, merrily drunk&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp My aspiration? It lies at the bottom of this cup,&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp My prayer? That with a maid’n I shall tonight sup.”The good lord Dionysus, merrily drunkChuckled deeply as the angel did sighWith a ruffle of wings away he did fly.The good lord Dionysus, merrily drunkRested on his back and at the clouds stared.And to the heavens, love and glee he declared.But excluding, of course, lifeSimian, homoerotic jeers laced with the thoughts of blooming hips, they slip from lips.Some dripping with sweat and others dripping withthe sweet jewels of joy flowing like grooving, Shaking waterfalls down faces of slack jawed boys.Some creased carpel-tunnelite, POed smoking upwhite clouds, howling over them and over the static blur.Who thought up f.ing fries laced with Valium, sir?Buttoned up and shaved up and moosed up,Noosed up and charming five times a week.Who knows? And who can just ask Godwhen a million million stars and somersaulting earths all reflect a universe rife with cosmic neglect?(alone at dusk when two eyes reflect a millionmillion stars and somersaulting earths but not her two eyes.)They didn’t say we’d say what did they say? (eh you know in that class on one of those days.)when with perfume and the pop (ov a cork)Which equation can equal up to lace and skin?(snow&December against browned&late August) Find the hardcover that’ll truly tell youseeverything and nothing that you’ve got to lose.Or that there are things oh so much faster than light(cut to summer days, summertime, summer heat)Thoughts jazzing to the skittering stop-go beat.Yeah, but he tells better lessons, spins more artful stories,mythopoetic voyages, chaptered pantastic gloriesin that biggun that rests against French existential angst,below a Cummings on the old sunken shelf, old bookcasewhile some life floats about it but it’s pretty still.Ode to Scraped Knees, Take 2With scraped knees and spirits free,Minds not shackled by ‘what will be?’Wide eyes and dirty nails, under the golden sunSlipping and gliding, through fantasies we run.Amongst green apple trees we sport and we play, Listening to what the furious star has to say.When we are young.With cloudy wills and nostalgic souls,With hearts color’d night by life’s coals,We watch silently as gray blossoms fall,Their rosy youth we’re hard press’d to recall.Through ashen fields we march ahead,‘To what end?’ our most fearsome dread. When we are old.A Pantheistic DigressionBeauty dwells where the wind’s chatterings hush,Between its toes burst blossoms, dewy and lushHead adorned with a crown, floral and greenSmiling face anointed with rainwater clean.Good swims peacefully twixt two sandy banks,With careless fish swimming amongst its shanks.Unseen hands filled with smooth rocks,Murky eyes a-gaze through all Man’s epochs.Truth exists somewhere beyond Earth’s clouds,It’s elusive face the dancing galaxies enshroud.Feet amidst suns and earths, its light touches allTo it our searches lead, from it our knowledge falls.A Cliché Speculation on the Nature of Tree’s Inner Monologue Alone on a broken path in winter’s depths I walkedMy mind in contemplation, to myself I talked.I looked upon some high-up skeletal boughsHeart wishing for distant spring to come to now.Pitied, I did, that ice and snow laden, naked treeBound by nature’s iron will to be never free,Forced by fate or by a higher One, perhaps,To stand mutely alone and let its time elapse,Doomed to fall unnoticed by some axe or sawOr to whither and crack from a belated thaw.Beside an aged trail I’ve passed the seasons,Content with life, not temples’ fickle reasons.Once there passed by a man bundled in woolWhose dappled soul was troubled and full.I mourned for the melancholy and slight oneWho would know not the touch of the giving sun.Damned to roam the world’s stretching girthDeaf to winds’ songs and bored by flowers’ mirth.A stab of sorrow I felt for the gray, grasping vineWho would glimmer so briefly in space and time.Twilight’s SighWhat will happen when the sun diesAnd the earth eclipses to naught?Then where will our dreams lie,The glories for which we fought?What when all is empty, nothing moves,And life’s pulse is fully still?Who will cry the songs that sootheAnd color the stretching nil?When forever’s curtain fallsFrom what thrones will kings rule?And when the end comes to callWho then will prophets fool?On whose lips will love restWhen hearts do beat no more?And who will to the heavens attestThat of their passion they are sure?What of the days long pastAnd the faces turned to dust?What of the shapes destiny castBack when Man did still lust?Who will watch the last star fade,Hear farewell quietly resound?Who will see the last wish made,And the final god uncrowned?--P. Locke Locke.
Can humans do what prophets say?

Seen most of 'em before, of course, but still a good collection. I hadn't come across the graffiti one previously and I think it's one of your best. Your vocab is really incredible...do you just naturally write like that or do you have to spend a while groping for words?Perhaps sometime soon we should hold a big poetry festival here; 'twould build activity. Sort of like the Eisteddfod Tymaria never got around to having. I know Shireroth and Babkha both have a number of people who are into poetry. Edited by: Scott Siskind  at: 10/9/03 2:58 pm

Thankee. Locke.
Can humans do what prophets say?

I'll give you that recording when I see you, Philip. ZirandorthelThe Golden DarknessNiirus Tinenetuwar"In order to find his equal, an Irishman is forced to talk to God."-Stephen Braveheart