aDarkerMind

From Hell to Boot of Mandolin



from hell to boot of mandolin

the towered child with shackled son of rock

cocks' weary eye to daylights' splintered wind

as rose of hyacinth

breaks bread with scarlet wings

as tortured mothers pray as midnight sings

of days' end when the mourning so begins;

 

how still each day has slept two decades long

the seeping blood of moon of sun on soldiers' limping flesh

from mud hatch to asylum to the manned wards

the dead dream thumbs her nose

prints his footsteps on the cyclone of the sleep

as strong as I am weak

am just a servant to the terrors of the street;

 

am just a snake in withered grass of manuscript

my name on bullets' eye of vegetable

that eyes the ticking time-bomb on my marrowed root

still as yellow as the schoolboy in my brain

as I horse my shoes seeking shelter from the virgin rain

picking petals from the apples of my heart

like a dumpling pimping flowers dressed as art;

 

there is no art in cowardice

the pantry maid still flakes my gunshot womb

in my room of colours distant as her colours near

my evergreen desire of the safe walk

to talk of animals inside the ark to timbuktu

as two beside the graves' incontinence

picking wisdom from the flowers of my sperm;

 

how drunk must be the vineyard snail

to cross my palm with her dark brown ale?

it is through the blood of the jesus-whale

I must swim as victim, village priest and quail;

 

goodnight my midnight venice

the true love of my midnight serenade

my deserted halls of memory in the lighted shade

still picking flowers from the apples of my heart

it is now the grieving starts

when hell stops so the heavens start

god always sleeps on sunday!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments4

  • Teddy.15

    brilliant

    how drunk must be the vineyard snail

    to cross my palm with her dark brown ale?

    Have you been on a pub. Real? Last lines as ever so well executed. Love this.

  • aDarkerMind

    thank you so much Teddy...
    a slightly feeble attempt to love and houour those who lost their lives in 9/11;

    I know my words mean nothing for those that grieve...
    but if my life could bring back those who died and make this world a safer place,
    I would die a happy man x

  • Teddy.15

    I see. X

  • L. B. Mek

    'as rose of hyacinth
    breaks bread with scarlet wings
    as tortured mothers pray as midnight sings
    of days' end when the mourning so begins;'

    'am just a snake in withered grass of manuscript
    my name on bullets' eye of vegetable
    that eyes the ticking time-bomb on my marrowed root
    still as yellow as the schoolboy in my brain'

    'goodnight my midnight venice
    the true love of my midnight serenade
    my deserted halls of memory in the lighted shade
    still picking flowers from the apples of my heart
    it is now the grieving starts
    when hell stops so the heavens start'..
    What a Triumph of wordsmith Artistry!
    What a Dedication!
    What a Supremely Talented Poet!!!
    (I humbly, read and learn
    ever-grateful, cherishing my luck
    for having you grace, my poetic path
    in life.
    Thank you! for choosing to share your masterful talent, dear Poet!)



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