All entries for Wednesday 10 February 2010

February 10, 2010

To be performed.

The eternal gibberish of a journal,
flaming words from the infernal,
the nocturnal colossal cohesion
of the heart and the head
the dialogue of an unmade bed.
A crooked hospital of prose,
this time it’s critical,
the physical deems,
the dry season of writer’s block
is over.
Let the Monsoon season of monologue fall,
penning the reasons,
the shuddering possibilities
the fragility of meaning,
the versatility of language,
the natural ability,
of the heart’s rhythmic throb, the iambic pentameter of life.

I took my time and soon I found the beat.

Beaten like a rabid dog,
mouth dripping with egg yolk,
Frothy yellow poison,
gripping my tongue,
paralysis of lungs
and I pant the words
the glorious dictionary of my silent bones,
words I have not known
illuminate my mouth.

The treacle of speech
trickles down my chops
and I stop

to lick the palette clean,
I mean words like
Langoustine,
ivory,
Jekyll,
freckle,
mosquito... mahito.

Oh I am Shakespeare, I am Marlowe,
Virgil, Milton,
the leaves of unoriginality are wilting,
Paradise found in the sound of
verbal venom,
recovering the roots,
the ancestral tongue,
the orchestral swelling,
violins in my throat, each note
spelling out the Siren’s melody,
the remedy to silence
the ecstasy to tragedy,
my vocal appetite,
greedy, needy.

Poetry spews from the pit
of my wit,
Oh and this is more than platonic,
this suicidal lust of language,
it is tectonic, it moves me,
a pandemic in every vein,
my insane blood,
this spectacular vernacular
is champagne to the brain,
soup for the soul,
a campaign raging from the hole in my face.

I devour dictionaries,
their conducive misery
elusive philosophy,
re-usage,
abusive words of spite,
forever the writers fight
to stop the intrusive
toxic language of melancholy
consume their poetry.

But this is the mere eternal gibberish of a journal,
I suffer from the incomprehensible,
the never-ending,
the never-knowing,
the ongoing,
not quite flowing,
the dribbling clock,
set by Dali’s time,
scribbling,
comma upon comma upon comma,
fearing the ruthless full-stop.