The Writing Thread

[greyghost]

(unfortunately, ive a gazillion versions of this

silaging in my skull. eh.)

 

 

 

 

oo1.

 

i.

 

woodward— they said, was an avenue like no other & the boulevard

lined with birches, the horse-drawn

lives traipsing puddles, grime & the stench of ferment, black ale & lager, eastern europe, mexico,

and the southern states, aegean and ionian,

india and pakistan, the middle east whence immigrants

and migrants

 

families huddled into ships & steel (and eventually autos & planes)

to come and find

some kind of hope.

 

 

ii.

 

| tensions, intensify:

 

1863, bloody dawn, beaten bodies, buildings burning, 2

1943, belle isle, the democratic larceny, 34

1967, blind pig, battle of algiers, 43

 

the count, watching sweep across

the frozen

 

 

of winter rivers |

 

 

iii.

 

speramus meliora; resurget cineribus

("We hope for better things, it will rise from the ashes")

 

 

iv.

 

a trumpeter in the alleyway, the notes bellow

a kind of blue

 

eddying through the worn cobblestone,

wisps of halloumi, fried foods, garlic.

 

a phoenix—

 

fallen frames

from the burnt & scrapped fourth stori

 

window sill,

wingclipped.

 

 

v.

 

body fluids, body bags, bodies sleeping

cramped, mattressed between the old bricks

walls, link-chain fences, abandoned schools,

abandoned shops, factories

frozen

 

in time the subway tiles paints gone-over

rust & rot,

 

by nite— the shadow shift,

by dawn— early forgotten,

 

 

(the chrysler cut thru the jazz

& burrowed blight)

 

 

the junction and rich soil, deserted.

 

 

vi.

 

scattered the orchids

from their monks lair

 

stems dripping deep burgundy

ink along

 

the empty thoroughfare, weeds & spring

a cold coma, awoken

 

unearthed

wildflowers flourish

 

within the stillness & silences

breaches

 

broken bells,

broken swallows.

 

 

vii.

 

poppie's

soda-pop fountain, faygo, apothecary, scripts

 

powders, coke syrup, salves and ointment—

camphor soothes until this day

 

near vernor, overlook the overpass

& faintly hear

 

e. jones fearless freight

rhythm syncopates

 

tracks along

the grand trunk, the bottom & valley, deep.

[EastSwaggings]

im releasing a book very soon with various poems, short stories, microfiction, photos, paintings, doodles ect from primarily myself, and other artists...PM me if youre interested in getting a copy.

[wackforumname]

This is where I go to do my thinking.

I scatter my clothes and paints and books.

I spend my time looking at old photographs.

This is where I go to do my crying.

 

Here's where I go when the world hurts me.

I pull up the covers to cradle my feet.

Run the events over slowly and carefully.

Here's where I hide from you and your beauty.

 

Shut off the lights and stare at the window.

In a minute it wont matter anymore.

in an hour it will seem like a bad dream.

time is a healer, but only in here.

[greyghost]

oo2.

 

zug;

 

i am torpid where the lonely of you

moves in rusted sways, gramophone loudly

unheard songs

 

breathe old friends, silence swamp

and ferns, lives slowly leak wisteria and vines of generations

overtaken peel away the 20th century

does

 

passing fleet, amongst faded orange file cabinets, empty chairs sprawl, park at

desks green and anchored with sepia stained papers piled,

scattered lead instruments and tools for measure, notebook dates flooded

 

nautical, they are navel deep bathing in the abandon

around here everybody knows

 

the machinery parts lie, groups across the fence,

marsh tracks and spin this it's just

a long way to fall

below the place

 

burial, ground you left your love asleep in the car forgotten and you're

city, blue

 

cradled your voice, vintage and familiar, remember

darlin when the river along your toes skirtin

heaves

 

prime; flickering dissonance, tonal progression

 

nearness; accordion-like along the turn of an archipelago,

marking out endlessly to dry

others mend;

 

*

 

they will meet you where the cold sediment grows

slurry bay clay beneath the abandoned automobile,

cools us and amidst the calyx canteens

 

lay low, the tide comes in like another form

and our ablutions smudges the streets

estuaries

sometimes the-way

i want the flood of cold oblivions

i want back what the waves full moons

 

drizzle intervals of dreaming

harbors woven still enwombed and

inchoate on shapeless oceans, light strikes, waves glow

blue, jade flames striated across wavering

empyreal

sheetings of fire and foam

calculations here overwoken and deaf

 

*

 

to color ourmornings

streaking muddled

 

he, of crowns and some of the lichen

are long punctuations

of recollections

 

they carry

everything with nite coded petrol

and all valedictions, voices burning-glass

inclinations, fallen dust to dust.

 

*

 

she, of fire weaver blood veined black rivers

cups her hands catching the gems,

threading flickers of lanterns

diadems across the growing faint

 

they squint

towards the sky-roots

reaching for water and any cool life.

 

[EastSwaggings]

The Godless Pantheist

 

I wallow in the abyss of untruth,

And beckon henceforth in imperfection,

To never transcend thwart the Nous,

Challenging Hadit in his interjection.

And whilst the Logos obstructs my devour

Of Gods depicted fallacious and sour.

With judgement and Nuith kindly unfair,

Upon a timeless journey to a place Elsewhere.

[greyghost]

oh, this thread has died a tiny death

:(

[greyghost]

 

remembering rains collect

the tin-can rings

 

rick

rack

 

the ground echoes

speed and darns

 

rivers

a poultice of soft, the rain say

 

peal your palm

for few worlds, just.