Oh Ridiculous Torsos!
Who says these new flowers will not find night
more pleasurable in their fancies fecunding-
undoing the certain strains of light nursing
the colors to be in season when these very
same roots find tomb in the heavy crust
of earth embalming the great talons of life?
When all that's left of a promise is a promise
and the echo happens upon a similar moment
so long engraved upon the hearty insides of mountains
and Mercury's long forgotten travel itinerary
that we cast it to the sea and leave it to the sea
to provide the gaps of pulse
the lapse of sullen beauty
the wondrous vision of writhing flesh
.the coarse reminder of the poet exhaling.
more pleasurable in their fancies fecunding-
undoing the certain strains of light nursing
the colors to be in season when these very
same roots find tomb in the heavy crust
of earth embalming the great talons of life?
When all that's left of a promise is a promise
and the echo happens upon a similar moment
so long engraved upon the hearty insides of mountains
and Mercury's long forgotten travel itinerary
that we cast it to the sea and leave it to the sea
to provide the gaps of pulse
the lapse of sullen beauty
the wondrous vision of writhing flesh
.the coarse reminder of the poet exhaling.
posted by Dusty Bottoms at 6:07 PM
1 Comments:
"that we cast it to the sea and leave it to the sea
to provide the gaps of pulse
the lapse of sullen beauty
the wondrous vision of writhing flesh
.the coarse reminder of the poet exhaling."
At the moment, this is the poem in the poem for me. What say ye, Prof. Brinkley - the silence between the sound; what is not written as opposed to what is wrought!
Still afraid of commas, Mr. Bottoms? There is a pace to the the piece unrepresented in its current form. But, perhaps that is part of the artistic conversation between poet reader. "I" create; "You" create.
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