Friday, June 24, 2022
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In

Depression

 

I’ll pull up my feet

and wait, crouched

in the astral tower of

my polar city.

 

You’ve gone away with

your fleet, sweet-creamed

sails pulling you windward,

southern-bound.

 

Left love leaves no loneliness,

though, when one has been

love-terrified from first kiss,

a novice beginning,

biting the clenched fist-

it may be novel.

 

When the snowbirds

land for lovely introspection,

quiet air-lent thoughts

give satisfaction,

give pause.

 

Caught in their claws:

a telescope,

with which to see far

to your far awayness,

last hope.

 

In the end of the beginning

a sickness developed.

The impossible trust,

an utter lack of reality,

circulation sapping

imagination.

 

How I could vomit

out your sickness.

 

How I could light

my fever to

incinerate your misperceptions,

your ill-planned appellations.

 

Look through my lens. See:

 

Fractal love, flitting

and flipping into

shattered spinning pieces.

 

By the rainbow mind’s eye’s

production may I divide

the broken sun.

 

With mathematical fingers,

prick apart the parts

I detest:

an equation to break

the necessary way of

progression.

 

Watch me, lover, pluck

out the pains you required.

We will be partially perfect.

 

And at your blistered station,

you know.

We all love the auroral

catacombs of sadness.

 

 

What relieved resignation

to wander those morose halls

of pallor, a palace under

covers in our snow-bed.

 

I have relief

in clarity,

now you’ve gone.

 

Stay sweltered,

young lover, my

kodak bear gone

goosed.

_____________

 

Sir Gawain

 

You don’t even know,

you don’t even know-

come on, let go

of all those blowing winds,

the cattle lowing,

imaginary friends.

 

We halved our half-baked schemes in my car.

Monte trawling our semicivilized city tar.

And the jazz bands were moaning in fake old

bars,

and the tires were humming, “you liar, you

liar.”

 

The valley became a cauldron of

rainbowed rhododendrons,

snarling scraggily

‘gainst any penetration.

 

You, my tired knight,

loomed curiously at the brink,

searching for a shaft of sunlight

in which to sit and think.

 

You settled yourself sadly on a fallen frond.

Slid slickly quickly down beyond-

crashed through bowed branches,

came to rest in a pond,

at the bottom of my dale beloved.

 

How the flowers wept

at their broken arms.

I swept and I swept

piles of given harms.

 

Silken tears of every shade

fell over your muddled armor

the velveteen blanket

hiding your tarnished soul.

 

“No one will have you now!”

the flowers cry,

beat you back from their branched bowers;

their first defense gone awry.

 

I will not lift you out,

captive rider,

with my raincloud arms.

 

You will not leave,

punishment indeed,

for an absentminded adventurer.

 

The town progresses soundly,

not needing wild saving,

your historied misbehaving.

 

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