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pomes lefty wrote.


#1

[I wish me edens of insanities, I wish me to be here,
Now, in this place of vegetation, crust of the planet chippin,
Wagered everywhere as threatening to die us off the

Globe. The brightness but a flounce,

I wish me spectacular aural plastics, still,
As way to get them out of their mask, as way
To delicately prove them more, as needing

No proof but in demise: as obsessions with
Babbling brightness, unkempt dithyramb,
Celebratory, huffed with guffaws at the crackup:

I wish me the king of my own demise once
The brain dies, and finally I lift myself into insanities
Of unforgivable brightness: let it
Not come at others’ nefarious hands, let sanity

Grovel like a pedant before me myself, right before
My gaddamn clock stops, and him to lick off
The blacking: the soul of my fuckin boot:]

#2

[Truth aint proof, truth’s thick with sultry,
A modest Spring morn turned ugly
With an afternoon heat: that’s too much

Observed to call it truth, in the purist
Kinda sense:

My hands draw flagrant pictures, pictorial
And neat as !@#$: pictures of the oval-word,
The ellipsis, the way round the planets

As they roll across the table like clicking marbles: call me able
To be made mad by the unbelievable, seeing
It everywheres: the left eye speaks,

Goes running to the right, once observed
As speaking: he can come out, sometimes, but won’t
Until by evening unseasonal chill makes ruse

Of the whole damned day, saying,
No prob, here’s a dilation too much requiem
To be, really, an expanse into more of the same,

Has no choice but to turn the day odd
And chill, by the evening: I think about, sometimes,
How the spine of predictability wraps our own

In its hunched one of prickly independence, despite,
Makes it hard to breathe, especially in
This room, humid, wet with oxygen, as if
Rainforest: the jungleheap of thoughts I have in my

Sitting shivah for dead thoughts,
Strains to eke the last item of sweatbead
In a conscious carnage, that of too much

Observation for truth, ykno, not enough precision
Of mind to move along that wire with my inwardturned
Feet, clumsy, knocking over planets, and then

I know I’ve lost my marbles, they lay in rubble as rocks
With an agate inside, representation of hot smokiness,

The curling of a plume: I am become the dilation:

I expand my circles into chilly places, just so I don’t
Recognize each atom of sweat, leave some to be forgotten,
So I can at least know that, ykno,

And sit shivah crosslegged on my bed,
Writing for the loss, more truthful for it, more truth
Unrecognized, more truth there

In the morning mourning, a sultry day for Maman

She’s dead, Camus says, puts on sunglasses
So people don’t see him not crying
. My neck is drenched, he says to my
Left eye, I gotta go before you turn this wretched
With chilly bafflement, turn it golden with it, golden
And wretched. Goodbye, peace, the letter’s written
Out of ovals, the expanse is felt,
The dram of sweatbead goes unchecked, and I am left
Rightly, to shrug my spiny shoulders

At the—jungleheap—of irrelevant DEATH.]

#3

[I had a dream about needles
They stitched me up and tore me open,
They made all the liquid in me spill out.

And I have made an obsession with rending
And I have made of this obsession
With the obsession uhm

A big wave the size of my whole life.
Tell me, is it for the liquid in you, saith Mr Frank,
Is it for this, you refuse a common blood

To stoke your mouth: to belch out the rains:

It is for this, you dry up your stitches,
Burn them off. You do not see so much,
But what’s to be pined, yearned for,

Yet the wave commits to fall. It does not desist,
Nor resist its maker. It comes a blandished opera
Like knives, twinkling in the night of soul.

A bigger needle for to help the gash

Get more gash. It’s raining outside. I am
No man besides what schisms lift like waves.
A poem’s everywhere; the meaning everywhere,

Strewn like bad confetti on my grave of knives. I do not
Have much in this life, hope for a life after to put plashing
My big, bad waves of meaning. A whistle

For to influence the decrepit stages on life’s way,
A miserere for to make hope from begging for it.

A lost canine
To make requital of all the teeth, in its

Being lost in a toothless maw, perhaps. I had a dream about
A box full of needles, stitching my heart’s
Heated wave into boxed-in beats,

Each beat counted, recognized, each wail from the heart
An expression of this sour age, an
Amalgam, delicious potpourri of waste:

And none had faces, faces of the heart,
The heart no chapped land for to bridle my heat,
The heat the deign. I am become a name,

A title. A title big as the status of great kings,
Great opiate-kings nodding off in their glitzy crowns
Of absurd greatness, an absurd
Sort of greatness. Have you ever

Done to others, really, what they have done
To you: it is impossible. The time’s past,
The pitch of the heart in the moment

Gone. That’s why I need the
Needles of my sempiturnal space, I mean my heart,
As a sense of control.

Chugging on, to prove the title. The rain beats
More. The title drowns, and I am become a name
For famished waves to glisten for the crowns,

The drawl of hearts, the kings asleep in chairs.
I tongue it forth, without a milking proper of
The shape. Begin it, and then lose it. I am

Become a rain, a reign to slight the pithy goobers
OF my land, chapped land, immense with sundered
Wealth, wealth left over, pining for

The rest. Rest yourself, saith Mr Frank.
Your heart’s too tired. It is in pain from needles,
And their ambivalence about stitching you up, to bleed

Liquidly the grace of foremost hearts for
The hearse. A grave of senseless kings,
To burn them off. For this I write

My wavy poems of the dusk,
The rainy reign of kings beside themselves,
My undone poems of catastrophe

Stitched up to drown the beat of hearts. I am
The wave of titles, burning up them as they pass,
Forgotten by the Kubla-goober-Khan, as but

More bad conceits. Tell me and invite me
To some stray beat my heart forgot. Tell the needles
No longer to stitch, forget, as well, and make like Khan

The situation of confetti for the coffins of my kings
OF waves. They thicken in the bridled space,
By me, made bridled so long from the bubble

I had been in, of knowing disgrace, of course
This makes you think something is wrong,
Worn. But I am no title for the wave. ‘Once was’

Makes a witness of something that once was
OF power, of catty dialogues between one muteness
And another. They are not my jots.

They blandish knives, then banish them to soft
Places, for to damage all that is around, my creole king
Has queens of beatitude of death, no splendid mocking,

All seriousness, all the scepters for my scribe,
For to level them back to human lands, chapped lands,
For these are bridled spaces like a bodkin

Missing its weapon. Carve of the sarcophagus
My opiate-kings, tell them,
I am down with your plaited pairs of eyes
Upon my words of self, a self of words,
I am sped upon the acknowledgement,
And hope you understand, now, what is meant,
That what is meant portends a graceless
Storm upon the windows of my soul, shorn, shorn
Soul of rectifying platitudes, against disgrace
I show my operatic blade, and leave it nodding off
In sharpness, to obliterate conceit, and tell my breath,
IT needs no beat to know itself to know it is a heart,
And needs no toothless beat to start. To start. To start.]

#4

[I am not a dull dream
I am not lifeless nor softly there, like a taste
      Of some over-subtle thought, I am
Nightly the person come to station himself

Outside of your house, on the lawn, lending
   My bent cheek to the eerie glow of a moon

Absently staring you down as if I kill some things

What is it I am then?

           Nothing, nothing at all like my present appearance. Purple-gummed, like the sneer of a bear.

… … … … …

What happened to me? Where hath the shadows filled,
That they themselves too would have made more shadows, have
          Made there more, more shadows, doubt-soulless,
And eternal requiem? I have tried to fill them,
Cannot fill them. There is in

A thing too much the hue a nullity beyond colors. That is that.
And here, I give my record of decline, a noble space,
One more, one more space for me to drive
           To miracles, and hearken seeking
           Something in the grave

That can be found alive. What happened to that man?
           What happened. The question, as if unheard,
Once heard, once heard, I thought I heard it once.
Now all that’s left: the bathos of regret

And diminishing

… … … … …

I feel like our love is like a
Rainy day. The type of day that
Throws significance on everything; when the sky takes up

All of opaque life, for now, and leaves
The World a shelter for what grey brightness left, what residual
Clarity. Wearied too much, for now,
For the sun.

That is the type of day when the world can be seen
In each drop on green petals, and dripping branches with it,
Telling us the marker
Of a crepitate Spring on the path.

… … … … …

This pale skrittering madonna of the rain
Whom, feigning the lofty chord
As she sings of things like drops, pretends
         To speak a loftier grammar than
Her own head will give her in the going-on.
Those handsome spaces between her head
However, drip delicately on hair black
—As pitch. And, more eloquently, then,
She harps the nameless fare of
Nothing gotten, or gained ill, and

Relishes the pretty darkness that is between
Her ears. More of this pride, and that

—And everything else, comes later,
Comes everlasting and abnormal
And hormonal: like an eking out
Of nice waste: so that what is left is
Parable, a story made out of words
Illumined: and the words they
Speak, and feel not, but do.
Something, something in

The hankering hymnal for
A chaste enough party of thoughts, her friends
           And her affinities assigned
By the speaking of her words
To hurtles, beyond the seeming
Of the sun and of her dress

—And of the frank stature of her heels, and
The reconnoiter with her friends here is,
       Is termination, an ending foggier
To make it perjury,
         And distill

Vehemence from the talk of whole towns. YES.

And so, the seeming summer haunts
—Her frame of sunny bones. Her green
Frame…still bending with the wind
And stiffening against townish accusations:

She reels, drunkenly, tho accurately
In the variable paradoxi of limited life: and in
—The ancient cove of a speech from which
All words deny their meaning, she becomes

The spacious nonsense of too little space.

… … … … …

Predictable in viciousness, irregular
in magnanimity. Surprising, since

what is offered has no chance to
           be seen as positive before you

crush the sensitive side. You,
I am speaking of you, to you,

who? Disorganized. Where have
I gone? To the place in you that

tries to deny favors given already,
to me: favorable favors,
disproving your disproportionate evil.]

#5

[I was working on my dumb walls . it was as blank
        An afternoon, the heat a throb to warp
These planks of mind, when I noticed, the great
Acidic blankness—there—in the miserable eye . oft it was
       Strangled to blight, and
To maketh blindness: in me: I had been
           Stuck in that flame: in the
           Embranglements of meaning and
      Pitch—truth, verity, truth—before it came: and for the sake
Of stormy gusts of truth, these to have fed the dear fear
           Of many a dinning windbag I’d
           Wager, yes . give me rather
           The formless, give me whiningly contrite begging for form
Despite continually no form, give me
           Desperation as to the approaching
           Of something
While simultaneously being there already: but
           Forever, forever approaching
Tragedy, the need to approach something, anything, the only
          Prerequisite, the adventure of something
Sinking in with anxious time . the big blankness
           Came as if leech-gatherer
On the wet moors to drink up all those very
          Needles, might have pierced
           An irksome perimeter, my walls, my
Walls . it broke shagged light through, a
           Preventative measure, lived
           Awkwardly possible

      Like as black

           Milk, an attack

On circumference, leaving me only .

Stoke me, Will it, said the GOD of my lies, designed of lies .
          And that blankness of the sun so long in recession, not unlike
           A good cancer that grows
Better in the pain . desiderata for the wrecked fool, for me always
           The need to channel something
First, at the time clocks tell you, the moment you look
           At them you know . It was
In the corner of my desk riddled with
       Paperclips and paperwords . and up
           To catch me straight in my somnambulism,
Again the bowels of what I thought were me were changed . I
           Became a kick in the guts to save my needles
And walls, and still the weltering of the debris
           From the inevitable pity and naufrage
           Telling in screams, You are
           No wreck . some forgotten thing there
       I said from the frothy crotch of my mouth, Let me greet this anomaly
           And I like dog to grinning master
           With handle of leash in mouth
Ask the great sphere of blankness, Please me for a walk for my stiff eyes
     And which can barely see, having been forever made counterpart

           For a long time unused

To the commanding game of unusual sight

          And I sigh like a lecher at the fractures
           Left pictures of our like you know big sun
           And have in that ilk like hot-pronged loins
Gadding for their homeward pain
           In making voids like product
           Of the devil Make it said he

From some patch of sultry earth in the office round it right
Turning folds upon its folds for to break its own insatiate light
And each a cue to stretch that strength more in glitchy spears
           I took it the sun to my unbelievable desk
For forever it tottered under weight of it before the desk broke

Turning everything unbelievable

           Even the light not spread,

And which dead left a corner or two in the drear of spontaneous
Waiting and receiving and denying . I was working when

The fomenting of some unbelievable chord in my mind

           Made dismissal unanimously
           Of that curse and state
And drew a picture of the sun on it sprung from breathing
    And made for myself a needless needle-gatherer
For to breach the attitude of these unwilling walls
      And still I know not, shame, shame, shame,
Whether that great brink was fallen over into blankness
Or whether the blankness always there will rid me
           Of needles, much as the haunches of my desk,
And I to forever unknowingly gather that good cancer

And maketh pain .]

#6

[cherishing the lost thrall as that always
the best sort of poetic truth

not for a rasp of sense for the continuum
to know, assumptions packed full
with too much of what i find the best in kind

in finishing the phrase in accursed
logictantrums when we all
the people in this head of mine
the thoughts there the imagination
the specificities the careful wording

it is all of no blame
no blame for being who one is
who one really, really is
giving justice to the source
and the source nothing negative]
Jul/7/2013, 11:31 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
 
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Re: pomes lefty wrote.



[I wish me edens of insanities, I wish me to be here,
Now, in this place of vegetation, crust of the planet chippin,
Wagered everywhere as threatening to die us off the

This room, humid, wet with oxygen, as if
Rainforest: the jungleheap of thoughts I have in my

Sitting shivah for dead thoughts,
Strains to eke the last item of sweatbead
In a conscious carnage, that of too much

Observation for truth, ykno, not enough precision
Of mind to move along that wire with my inwardturned

And sit shivah crosslegged on my bed,
Writing for the loss, more truthful for it, more truth
Unrecognized, more truth there

In the morning mourning, a sultry day for Maman

She’s dead, Camus says, puts on sunglasses
So people don’t see him not crying
. My neck is drenched, he says to my
Left eye, I gotta go before you turn this wretched
With chilly bafflement, turn it golden with it, golden
And wretched. Goodbye, peace, the letter’s written
Out of ovals, the expanse is felt,
The dram of sweatbead goes unchecked, and I am left
Rightly, to shrug my spiny shoulders

At the—jungleheap—of irrelevant DEATH.]



you know what doc. i read this as an elegy. a wild ride but an elegy nevertheless. i have copy pasted some lines overhaead which i think are places where i could really resonate w/ the poem (sec I) i enjoyd all the repetitions each one coming abck w/ some slight difference. almost like a chant.
Aug/13/2013, 12:03 pm Link to this post Send Email to arkava   Send PM to arkava Blog
 
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Re: pomes lefty wrote.


Thank you so much! I'm thankful you took the time to respond, and yes, it is somewhat of an elegy, for thoughts gone, thoughts absorbed but forgotten, thoughts given to oblivion, never returning. Lefty's my left eye, btw, though it doesn't come up much, why I called that the poem. I see better with my left eye, it causes me less problems. My right eye is irascible and fidgety mostly. I'm pleased with how this poem turned out and it's pretty cool that you call it an elegy, I hadn't really looked at it that way but I suppose you're right! Thanks for the new view emoticon satdoc
Aug/13/2013, 1:56 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
 


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