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thought & memory (Free verse) by Bill Z Bub In thought,
eyelids shut, I can
see static
like a secret satellite
signal beam
to my bleary brain
or a prototype
video game,
my virtual life.
And memory
a laconic raven perched
amid allfather's wayworn strands;
hard, leeched,
with dusted pinion,
expiry passed,
less cogent
or material
but in lurking quietude
over endless blank lines,
the peregrine pen
invokes
the infinitesimal
and for one effulgent second
these holed
and drafty walls
drop away.
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Incidentally, you might want to look up 'Amplexus'
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Posted: July 14, 2003 1:37 PM PDT; Last modified: July 14, 2003 1:37 PM PDTWeighted score: 5.939517 Overall Rank: 1401 Comments:
[7]
Rodavlas @ 68.81.136.124
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14-Jul-03/2:38 PM
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Reply
abyss-like. (deep)
This tickles the little hampster running on a wheel in my brain's nut sack. -10-
nut sack, hind foot--it's all pink and fated, to me.
Well written piece, great talent.
BILL!! do not tickle these deities!! the are violent, and virulent.
drop the great; embrace the mundane. you will love me for it. x, z
nice fast flow and good word selection. I prefer verses 2 and three, the first uses surfaces that appear quite decadent
I have a problem with 'infinitesimal'. Otherwise perfect, especially the last stanza.
Thank you. How about "unseen"?
"invokes
the infinitesimal and for one effulgent second these holed and drafty walls drop away." I like a read with interesting wording. This was quite a poem. You remind me of some one close to me...I'll show you a sample of his work.. The July night spit and cracked in its black eye, its black iron pot; black boots rout sand on a beach whose shadows revolve, roll about like fat citrus at dawnâs red skin. Fork-split; my father died this night. In a Texas tumbleweedâtumble, was the cement, the man, the moon. I do not tote his flag, carry visions across the years as tinder into flames. Hell is too abundant. It pumps through tubes and cavities in snow-banked gullies, sweet waters of Hungarian streams. I have taken it up. I am all mouthâ he taught me this with bony spindles, contours. Off a mountainside, I recall. Forget, forget; suicides, contusions, edgesâ forget since you can not. Black boots stretch and moan on the concrete, in the black eye; I fit them tight as a casket, right as a dead manâs son. We were both published in the same zine. I admire his work as I do yours. I'm sure I messed up his structure though. ;) 303 view(s)
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