of wintered limbs
of wet tongues
against craggy bones
from the rubbery floor
smell it hear it feel it fuck it
through the membrane
on unstaunched walls
lilting crimson script
across the beam
despite our thirst for kindling
we dwell mostly in the dark,
squatting in the ashen embers
of yesterday’s blaze,
for the spark
done with desperate days
running clamorous corridors,
preferring now the balm
of a quiet twilight,
waiting for Eos
to truckle voile,
or simply sitting with silence,
awaiting the hushed glow
of a naked wick
~This piece is dedicated to you, for if you’re reading it you’re part of the tribe.
late night study time,
creep to bed,
Scooped up by the online tribe, electronic vibe coursing the veins, mainlining trains; thoughts full throttle from the full frontal lobe, traversing the globe. Busy stations, new locations, shared vocations, eloquence, elation. Enveloped by talent, consumed, exhumed, lifted by the gifted and allowed to bloom. Sisters, brothers, birthed in verse, kindred lovers blessed with the curse. Pilgrims prepared to take truth to the brink, bound not by blood but by ink.
‘Venusian only’ can tongue-tie;
grit much preferred to sugared dross
that wreaks decay. Pink candy floss;
a sacch’rine sickly-sweet spun lie
is even worse – give me barbed verse;
a jagged word fish-hooks the eye,
shrink-wraps synaptic gaps to cross.
‘Venusian only’ can tongue-tie.
This is written in Octain form.
Eight lines as two tercets and a couplet, eight syllables per line with the first line repeated (as much as possible) as the last. Meter is iambic tetrameter or trochaic tetrameter, but fine to just count eight syllables per line for people who prefer that. Rhyme scheme –
(A=repeated refrain line. c/c refers to line 5 having midline (internal) rhyme that is different to the a- and b-rhymes. Any extra midline rhyme is a bonus).
No-one in our real lives gives a shit that we write,
that our raison d’être is to drag definitions
from the depths of our guts
and needle scratch them into our skin.
I wonder if,
when the words that ink us,
that silkscreenprint us,
have dried and cracked
and not an inch of skin remains,
they will gather around our naked corpses
and read the story of our lives.
For Marty who turned me on to Billy Collins and for Billy for getting me back on track in the tropics
Most days heat welds words to the page
making it impossible to lift them
and savour their subtleties
exhausted from my daily game
of dodgeball with the sun;
the swaying fronds of palm trees my only friends.
But this morning, after the rain,
laying on my still damp, blue and white stripey sun lounger
with only a pretty pink bikini separating us
Billy’s words dance from the page
with the rhythm of the soft calypso music
drifting up from the beach
and as they drench my parched senses I realise
that their deliciousness is matched only
by the cool coconut milk sliding down my chin.
Filed under Poetry, Tercets