All entries for Tuesday 12 February 2008
February 12, 2008
This is a translation of another poem. It's had about 6 stages of random additions and subtractions. I just kinda liked it.
Red roll from flaring England
Bam! His still black carcinogen
Drink and pass peaceful puce blame.
My magenta sound needs refurbishment. Thud.
I indignant, punch, call out cyan.
Magnolia is to curdle. Drip done.
I feel apathetic grey slip.
Marinade, zoom away beyond gold.
Flustered route to white gun.
Reassures that green tap heart.
Thoughts, emanated from cerebral case
Tumble onto the floor.
Some by happy chance fall into our arms.
Your eyes aren’t a window they’re a door.
They offer fruit outward to me like a laden branch,
But I can’t take it on board.
Let’s write caught thought up on a white-board!
Let’s share the experience just in case
The fruit goes rotten whilst left on the branch.
The next fall leaves all inspiration on the floor.
Fading steps are muffled by the slammed-shut door.
I let another thought grow cradled in my arms.
We spend our life in a race for emotional arms,
When the fire-power is accrued prepare to board.
I barricade the door.
“You won’t get in here, in any case!
It happened before, knocked me to the floor.”
But I soon wave the bone-hued flag hung from a branch.
Subdued and compliant I lay down my branch.
I let myself be levitated by culture’s arms.
People get carried away all the time, but do all hit the floor?
“I can’t see your mind through your eyes anymore, just the board
That you put up.” I say, “It’s in case
Someone sharp wants to enter the door.”
My mouth has become an out-swinging door.
From cynicism’s tree has grown a branch,
And its fruit is all that is all that leaves this head-case.
I won’t let any fall into your arms.
It’s too precious to waste. No, my meeting of the board
Has one voice taking the floor.
Really, I want something to make my chin press the floor
Down. I want to fling… no unhinge the door
In order for me to take another on board
Wholeheartedly. Someone with a different fruit on their branch,
A sweet fruit that I can barely reach round with my arms,
The produce of a love that absolves my case.
The thoughts are a point in case, saved from the floor.
Placed on paper from my arms, offered through an unhinged door,
On a branch that was not too heavy for Him to take on board.
Put Me Off
Tears distort perceptions
Misting over views.
Tears corrupt reflections
That are looking back at me.
Sighs are merely breathing
In order to get attention
For pain that has been held
These signifiers mystify
And prolong what often is a simple matter
SHUT UP! SHUT UP! THINK!
Then please speak your mind.
You’re putting me off my pint.
And that is very unkind.