By RC Davis
A single candle burns upon its stand
The flame flickers bold in its singularity
Contents of corners remain a mystery
Sitting motionless in wingback comfort
I try not to breath too robust
For I wish to hear my thoughts
I want to catch the echoes in the abyss
Of a mind where there are no right angles
No place for them to stick, they bounce
From my lips they may escape, peculiar in the silence
I am alone in the presence of piano and sideboard
The lyre table remains silent in its deception
Furniture, does not good company make
Yet I am not truly alone
For now the moon is at the window
He presses his face against the glass and seeks me out
A voyeuristic orb, framed by jacquard and gold braid
I cannot look away, his pallor captivates
Finding me, he stabs with a radiant blade
But there is no pain, only the sensation of a gentle curiosity
I seem to bleed, a phosphorous stain expands and saturates
Spreading now, it flows out into the grass of the garden
Lighting the leaves of sentinel trees, making glowworms dance
A feathered spirit glides past in the brilliance
Its silence an example; be still
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Exquiste Corpse poems 4/27/11
Written by R.C. Davis, Russell Jaffe, Eric Roalson, and Justine Retz at Sanctuary Pub. Punctuation has been added because, well, some lines were punctuated and some weren't that needed to be...
Special thanks to Ravel's Bolero and special apologies to Justine Retz for cutting the street corner on which the pool hall in the second poem appears, and which was beyond legible.
-Russell Jaffe
How the stones are thrown like musical notes
Geography becomes a landscape orchestra
of horns and horns alone. The way you
blow yours turns me on.
The sockets beneath your eyes
are ripe for fishing
as were your simple stockings, a condition.
It was the run that disturbed me,
it was the song that exhilarated me
but the tempo moved me
like a tree. The river. The branches and the way
I was incapable of reading the prior line.
My laundry calls me instead
of the pretty boy next door
whose windowed body was the silhouette of my god.
A candle burns my ass.
The heat is well contained,
but the frigid air is uncontrolled.
I count myself among the unthawed kind
dripping only on warm days.
The harvest is waiting in line
but Fall will come soon enough
when your laces are untied. Remember:
It's a lack of short term memory
the elephant dances down the lane
a soft so exact thump
so microtonal, so hold your keyboard hands
but I have no keyboard hands. You must
lend me yours in case I
lose my pearls at the pool hall.
Here's my life story I'm ready to admit:
I wouldn't admit too much.
The borders between two worlds
are sewn by invisible thread
made visible. It tells the truth by day but
in the oncoming dusk it will lie.
The purple reproduction machine
is Prince singing "Kiss" in falsetto?
Well? Are you afraid to count the lines on the face
face of time and be
the portrait of obtuse fantasy in the
mind of Asimov, whirling
computer chip dust. Feel the grain of
my dog, do you feel the imperfections?
I pant with a tongue of compassion.
Fire flickers, in dim candles
I pull spark plugs from my rustic imposition
and they light up the morning sky.
The eyes of the chipmunks
daft black in furry furtiveness
ye squirrels:
In their language it is "hear ye."
My eyes cannot perceive the subtitles
but my heart speaks many languages
but I can't translate any. Hello? I'll tell you why:
please do, so I can turn a deaf ear
on a dime to the rhyme with
the Miami sound machine blasting
a kind of youth. You're sweat. I'm
dry like a horned lizard in the sun.
Special thanks to Ravel's Bolero and special apologies to Justine Retz for cutting the street corner on which the pool hall in the second poem appears, and which was beyond legible.
-Russell Jaffe
How the stones are thrown like musical notes
Geography becomes a landscape orchestra
of horns and horns alone. The way you
blow yours turns me on.
The sockets beneath your eyes
are ripe for fishing
as were your simple stockings, a condition.
It was the run that disturbed me,
it was the song that exhilarated me
but the tempo moved me
like a tree. The river. The branches and the way
I was incapable of reading the prior line.
My laundry calls me instead
of the pretty boy next door
whose windowed body was the silhouette of my god.
A candle burns my ass.
The heat is well contained,
but the frigid air is uncontrolled.
I count myself among the unthawed kind
dripping only on warm days.
The harvest is waiting in line
but Fall will come soon enough
when your laces are untied. Remember:
It's a lack of short term memory
the elephant dances down the lane
a soft so exact thump
so microtonal, so hold your keyboard hands
but I have no keyboard hands. You must
lend me yours in case I
lose my pearls at the pool hall.
Here's my life story I'm ready to admit:
I wouldn't admit too much.
The borders between two worlds
are sewn by invisible thread
made visible. It tells the truth by day but
in the oncoming dusk it will lie.
The purple reproduction machine
is Prince singing "Kiss" in falsetto?
Well? Are you afraid to count the lines on the face
face of time and be
the portrait of obtuse fantasy in the
mind of Asimov, whirling
computer chip dust. Feel the grain of
my dog, do you feel the imperfections?
I pant with a tongue of compassion.
Fire flickers, in dim candles
I pull spark plugs from my rustic imposition
and they light up the morning sky.
The eyes of the chipmunks
daft black in furry furtiveness
ye squirrels:
In their language it is "hear ye."
My eyes cannot perceive the subtitles
but my heart speaks many languages
but I can't translate any. Hello? I'll tell you why:
please do, so I can turn a deaf ear
on a dime to the rhyme with
the Miami sound machine blasting
a kind of youth. You're sweat. I'm
dry like a horned lizard in the sun.
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