To Close the Mouth of a Wound

A Boy With Roses

grey lights and shadows murmur gramophone static                                                  

carelessly placed in slipshod manner                                                                              

I gravitate towards dangerous grounds, pulsating                                                        

marble stones left by the window sill

 

I wipe myself from the furniture and wake up statues                                              

slumbering eyes, burrow and grow                                                                          

words placed effortlessly on the candlelit walls                                                                      

sing songs of freedom and glorious rapture 

 

in disbelief as I look around, wondering how I came to be here                                              

it is not simple to close the mouth of a wound                                                                    

the puerile leaves flounder through storms of ignorance                                                      

anxious when I see a bulb of moths in unison                                                                          

I keep to myself on train rides to the outer city limit                                                        

the countryside I pour my heart into                                                                                

when I'm in hotel rooms, I smell the coffee lingering                                                                                                                  

I hear the voices of loved ones sewn into time                                                                      

a little cluster of dancing bodies come alive in the rain                                                                                                                              

worship the muscle of a man in war, eyes bloodshot and open                                                      

torn from the shelter of primitive being                                                                            

I speak to you in a language only we can understand                                                

soft petal fragrance on my hands                                                                                        

I look to the stars for guidance, the graceless nights of vomit                                            

I buried my darkest secrets with the blood of a poet                                                        

and from the ashes my cold hands grow vines, ruined lullaby                                        

study the decay of mind                                                                                              

when something appears out of nowhere                                                                          

it's a strange thing to think I've lived my lives in many oceans                                                      

looking through mirrors, through souls                                                                      

through hallways of momentous embrace and opium 

 

the flowers in my mouth bleed drifting oceans                                                                    

a tapestry of silence like a train running through my head                                                  

when I was young and reverent                                                                                          

my limbs were on fire, but the light was rare. 

  • Author: Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: April 22nd, 2022 18:31
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 28
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Comments1

  • Distant View

    A highly inventive poem, full of interesting imagery! I love the line, "I hear the voices of loved ones sewn into time." Reading this poem is almost like being thrown into a Salvador Dali painting, and everything within it coming alive with unexpected qualities! A richly rewarding poem!

    • A Boy With Roses

      thank you for your kind words!!
      funnily enough I\'m a great proponent of the Surrealism movement. A couple years back I actually composed a conceptual industrial composition inspired by The Persistence of Memory, ambient drones, trains, field recordings, belugas and Glasgow called Mind Vacation. I sampled Anne Sexton on one of the songs here: https://audiomack.com/idlepoet/song/pleasure-in-pain
      This poem in itself, whilst rooted in confessionalism and my own thoughts/experiences, heavily borrows and relies on imagery from The Blood of a Poet (a surrealist art movie which I directly mention, and where the title comes from). There\'s also an allusion to \"Lemon\" by Hollis Frampton in one of my recent poems.



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