Sunday, January 18, 2009

Tromped (trumped) once around the block (as if a defining) by JKD

After Down to the Felt by Sean S, Simple Neighboring by Barbara Beck, my December reword Wing-Clipped, & Amanda Oak’s poem lost petition: for an endangered species from her Pretty Fnmess blog and book dreams that would drown most men (Rose of Sharon Press).

Could recognize as her, a dwindling to a crumple in expansion, your explaining.

Mussed nearly together Sunday's carnival of bare limbs, musings being
lashed in parallel of couples everywhere bluegray constant and distractible.

On her skin it is the same as always, the other person rounded by curbs or glass
she forbiddenly pins her hopes on gambler Icarus, sulking down to the green felt
about space kicking him in, says it’s less the onslaught than wearing the traitor.

Simple neighboring where are you on the brink of brutish upholding,
a close upkeep, of what she does half beside the sacred grace, the angle
uncavernous, a little pleasing enclave or uncaving old bones, to swell
deeper than you, double pleasured in the aimless morning of this aimless self.

Stay therefore unknotted, done, burnt bride of this praised columbine
who visits your dreams, a reminder crossed towards that shallow sacred
river, seven times seventy, says it is an old man, a hag’s ancient messaging
to be silent crackle hear the wax melted tumbling Icarus goaded into
the have-known abstinence of a pretty, but metal, feather exhaling him.

Open, she is sown to, thrice-stitched as a down feather on fire,
glacial to touch fingers quickening lips cementing into caged missives:
what to telegram from our amassed carnival of tender alembics? To
meet in the mid-haze mire of streetlamps frothed fog as oceans broil
means to be a stone’s throw, to roll around in our rusty double skin,
ghost guided, wolves met halfway speaking, shouting thunder.

Don't tell spitting lightning, of golden silence wild in your pockets
cupping bodies cropped in the nudity of dawn’s loose change, lost buttons
in the middle of snow, the world still sleeping, ounces of collection seeping out
what it means to be shouldered, given alike as planes strapped to her knotted
burnt hideous kinky abstinent pout, why does she feel like she’s strongest
just before the tumble, Icarus?
Death split over featherless thousands, dice
thrown down stripped through an atmosphere slicker than this crackling species.

1 comment:

Jennifer K Dick said...

The idea was to take all the language, much of it similar, from these other poems and make a long-lined poem of 7 stanzas each with an increasing number of lines per stanza, so 1 line in stanza 1, 2 in stanza 2 and so forth. However, the lines don't fit easily on the blog, so this final stanza bleeds one word over into an 8th line--imagine it stuck on the end of the 7th please!!!!

FYI: As I went, I altered and added increasingly to the supplied language, instead of just rearranging it, so that some of the original langauge gives way to new words but which share sound or image with those in the source texts.