I traced it's tail, and failed. one swoop
bridged lands for soft scooped oil on towers tall but lame
the sea-scope miles from the dutchess breathing mink
her hair awash. tame but stone
eels form. light as old as his dead thighs
her land-fill hips. as pregnant as the cold sun in the Friday eye.
her ovaries. alert but dull. now a skull for the hiding of her thirst worm
her heaving skunk
as drunk as vintage wine that drills her fingers pale.
through aisles of swans where once a short tail grew
as tall as the tower. tall but lame
coiling with the twisting of the last son's kill.
flesh form on the god-bone
pilgrim peas on dates as red as crows
all eyes aboard the snow plough. proud but shy.
the sycamore bride. her pelvic groom
taps coded for the west man in his dungarees
a shortened crawl. the purple vein now shrunk.
a thirst dance for the last month's dry lagoon
we have yet to chalk the surface of the moon
still wet between the fears
as saturn rings it's playground bell
Zimbabwe hell!
where swells and dies the flies on infant child
I traced it's tail, and failed. one swoop.
I traced it's tail
and failed
one swoop;
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 9th, 2021 12:53
- Category: Children
- Views: 32
Offline)
Comments1
'through aisles of swans, where once
a short tail grew
as tall as the tower. tall but lame, coiling
with the twisting of the last son's kill.
flesh form on the god-bone
pilgrim peas on dates, as red as crows
all eyes aboard the snow plough.
proud but shy.'
Poetry, has so many layers
in one sense you word, atrocity
with such fervour and stark animosity
that most squirm, if asked to relate
and commentate;
then, on another layer
by choosing this story
from the hundreds, you've heard and ignored
yourself
a thread, is unveiled
where if we were to painstakingly, trace
we would be sure to find
that sting in the story, which pricked
your empathetic artistry
into that zest, of purposed activism
where, no grey lines exist
because you related, to this suffering
far too closely, for its impact
to be marginalised
as merely surreal: inspiration...
(a laudable write
on so, so - many levels;
its a privilege to share in your poetic genius
thank you, for choosing to share)
am always grateful for such comments L B Mek.
always;
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