Describing Brautigan

I tried to describe you,
but I ended up describing them all. Sideways on, face glances: my cheek's then the ceiling’s, reiterating the stars of your tongue.

Eye’s, lips- somehow all those colours and shapes can sound exactly the same. Individuality lies only in my memory, the inn keeper to your reflection. You couldn’t be more wrong, you couldn’t be more dealt with, yet it’s your’s I think of when I read this poem
that has no meaning to me at all.

____________________________________


This poem is inspired by another by Brautigan called "I tried to describe you to someone" ( http://www.flickr.com/photos/emilyw_tbs/2193909590/ ).


I'll leave it at that- quite a few people have said they want to know more about what or where my poetry has come from before, so, it's not much maybe but I guess it gives more of an insight if you  want to read Brautigan as well, also just because he is another poet and might be worth a read :)

SM x

Inside Closed Palms

Combs for paint pots or syringes for bulbs,
Somewhere mingled cuts
recover infection,
drinking air-
the liveable side.


Anger-


will.


Inside closed palms,

My day,

My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.

Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.

Little

All I find are windows.
Little person, little life, see's little of everything.
There is no gold
just spun faerie tales.

Said the Bambi

If we have to be young before we get old, lets be beautiful & cliched, then if our brains melt into a chaos of memories-it will be as spectacular as it is now

Nicely Norman

Que the mirage of the mirage gone extinct.

Arms that cradled my mind.
Fingertips that pressed blood like book flowers,
a smiling demon
and our entwined drowning.

Cursing she coursed my brain
if hell has mercy she will be further gone;
I kept her so close,
but we let go of our childish hand-locks;
and when I must ignore the tapping at the window
I know she is not the same.

Uprooted and talent drained
muscles weak, skin slim.
Normal, normal
the paint picked out

normal.

Starry Eyed Patchwork

My stars awake,
gas and bubble over tides
far distant
upon a time.
Beg my core
no more separation

and for eyes beyond the blind
aging glass.
We are Narnia without return;
live stock playing
the blackest stage perfection,
glimmering audience and ultimate canvas,
the world to meet the universe.
Burning, growing
long after
my stars and I have fallen
asleep.

The Underground

This vacuum
of empty face,
trickles condensation
of empty smiles,
foreign tongue points
and at last a happy mouth
on aluminium stairs,
as the light descends
my reflection.

Goodnight

Foot to leaf
toward the ivy

my hidden garden.

Goodnight howls and wind,

my pool awaits.

The moon alone knows.

My hair trailing my dance,
swimming amongst the oranges
that bob along the waves.

The book

Phantom days
are split colours of rain-
seeing vales;

but roses keep their beds,

smelling the same every summer.

So wilt
under my skin,
autumnal whispers
of the inextinguishable debris.

I will wake tomorrow
and thereafter till I wake no more.

The Fox

Here is one of my nightmares, I found it quite hard to describe but here it is.

Forest dew kisses my cheek,
I balance my eye,

but her ears alert themselves
to more than my painted skin.
Run, she's begging.
the fox!

"You've seen the Dow"

velvet purple suit to match each Iris,
smiling breathe of fire and ice,
she appears, human

He whispers feathers down her neck.

SCREAMING AND SCORCHING
and he LAUGHS
and the birds sound like fire-
each ripple dribbles
to plasticine-
she is a pig!
shedding each layer of blood and vessels
SCREAMING AND SCROCHING

and he LAUGHS
"HELP, HELP, WHY DON'T YOU HELP"

how can I help her?

Blood down my body,

I pull on the blue dress.

Porcupine

If all I see
are rolling amber clouds
licking the babes
whilst their breathe
coughs Alice tails.

Then I would be at home,

wearing death
like the rich wear their kills.

mortale forma

Writing Relief

Let the pain drip down
my irregular boned fingers
slip into her octopus beak
down through the eye
of my pens physique,
let the paper bind.

Sweet Goodmorning's

Along your body's side
I lay in peace
and when the sun did arise
I merely pretended I had helped you to sleep.

Here's a very short, short for Bluebell Books this week, and a little poem for Dverse- hope you enjoy it :)

From flowers to vines

They'll measure me Braille
tip by tip
absorb these freckles-
leave the olive eyes grey,
gazing on a stormy sky
trickling skin to sand
and let the rest curl
from my scalp to the sunset.

They'll measure my Braille
and leave the cold slab,
my visions an autobiography of
skin within.

Little Riding

It niggles the gelatine bit,

tilted lids and slightly bit lower lip.
If I were to-
it would never end,
one moment delirium
is my larger,
the next I can't handle

a half.
Leave/ stay
I daren't.
So long distilled solitude
and your unrefined path,
I cannot care
but you pump the liquid so neatly
it's best to stick to the levelled cement,
ride out the wolfy.

Child

For something a bit more light hearted...

Xylophone player I wanted tin
drums, triangle, piano piece not
glockenspiel mahogany.

ma-harmony two
possibilities,
brown or red sauce?
Penny feat jaws
everyone stay in doors
till it thaws
but its your heavy footed
mouth-

ing lips,
I got up to.
Hard little cupids
gently pull me out the snow,
making angels till my hair drips
from the exhaustion
of loving in the living
flesh, they say-
bringing out the smile-
r.

Student shopping list

Remember you're well skint
but treat yourself to a pint
then a pill
and a designer duvet,
as long as I'm going
I'll keep buying till I feel comfortable enough to
not look so dodgey in your shop,
even though I've been here 10 times before
walking the floor
for the non-brand noodles.
Stash the rest for tonight,

have a glass of pinot
and just a drag
get yourself some crisps-
maybe a large glass.
I'll have a shot but I hate them
I'll do a line but it does nothing for me
I'll buy this now because I can't quite remember if I have it in this colour,
and by the way I'll have another
whiskey and coke,
make it a double and diet-
3 times lucky as long as you don't get stuck in the hole
Don't eat- get a donnar
don't eat- don't eat- don't eat.
And a pen-
make it a nice one and a plastic one,
you'll only break one up for the shoot.
Remember we've got to be quiet,
SCREAM and laugh
and laugh and scream
and go and see these doctors about those recurring dreams,
get twelve extensions
and 1 with every meal,
slice them nice
ring your fella
go back and grin
you're nice and thin
and fat and fat and fatten you up
we're better-
never gone, just another

and another
and keep smiling
Itch it now it'll be like chicken pox,
just keep laughing

and you'll be dandy.

The bible and the babble

Dear father
who art in my veins,
voices of vice
birthed in the contrite lice
running the apocalypse down
my suspicious lanes.
Dear mother
who laid the sacred nill,
your intoxified vanity
spread nails to my will
but could not kill
the sanity
I let spike my facial
heritage.

Good girls listen and work
whilst they obey
they never feel dismay
they know what they are
and who they can't.
Stay my shephard
crying from wolves bitter
comfort,
I will carry sins
of my nothings,
your hushing,
on my imploding muse.

But not whisper at all
so not to hurt you.

The letter to Oz

Fear is love
and there is nothing more ferocious than the creature herself.
Listening quietly and glazing politely
wishing crooked smiles on the windowsill,
enraptured fingers hovering over your desolate skin.
You loose your mind
it'll never come back,
not without the rats and worms.
Living with new memory
speaking, running, understanding
loneliness and fear.
Fear the affair that casts your endless sleep,
how I wish the kitten would lick my wounds once more.
The empty pit of conciousness
forbidding.
I know that of wrong
but I wish it right anyway.

This is my poem for poetry picnic week 23 http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/2012/01/poetry-picnic-week-23-new-york-times.html