Tightness of belief out of hand
Learn the soul to complain the roses
Complain the poet doctor of fields
Camelot revolver
Knowledge knocked, aimed
Down fool side
Webbed to simple luxury
Category: Abstract Poetry
Back Falls Mist Pooling
Back falls mist pooling.
Drops down the roof. Down the road.
Back and forth. Lazy.
Back the Rain Falls Mist
Back the rain falls mist
Pooling drops down the roof
Trucks down the road
Needles back and forth
Writing your mother lazy
Purging the Soul
Ever up from the forest time wailing,
The she wolf lost further back in his head.
The guardian hides still beyond seeing
With pools to wash in when his sins are paid.
He clings and slides and steps while he grovels.
But prayers from below still lighten his breast.
Standing even in his latex envies,
Luis had eased the painting in his chest.
He brought it forward and up, heaving with
The strengthening of the wind on his back.
Hands and feet sticky with the wet clay earth,
He rests from his climb, sliding slowly back.
Panting with effort and knowing his worth.
He rests from his climb, sliding slowly back.
The Jellyroll and Sugar of Death
Doomed as we are to walk through the thin light
Of shrinking lost souls peopled in the black
Cloak of mourning with their eyes the glossy
Gleam of morning pastries. With tears like the
Sticky sweet frosting on the sides of a
Hot dipped Krispy Kreme. And pain like the smell
Of freshly fried dough. Their cake knows how the
Blue eyes take their exploration of death.
The wafting smell of fried dough is language
In the depth of pain. Only delicate,
Delight of guttural sounds can escape
Between the happy bouts of bites and buns.
Bring the pastries, the tea, or the coffee:
Everything human in the jellyroll and sugar of death.
The Modern Epic
Virgil pumps the bellows. With tiny rings
Of smoking death escaping the mouth of
Hell through the pillars of lost hope. The pit
Darkens to a glowing black heart. Our
Bodies corrupted with scale. Removed. Scraped.
Beaten. Shoved back into the furnace. Souls
Bare again to the flame. To be shaped. To
Be burned. To be beaten into rings and
Quenched in the still falling rain. To be worn
On the fingers of Sitwell and Osborn
Alike. Each ring a blast of flame black as
Coke and clinker. Coal and ash. A postwar
Deconstruction. The world, blank and godless.
The Antichrist suffering from old age.
October Poem 36: If You Don’t Remember Willie Nelson, You are Him
And while we two were left for the cleaning
Lady through a sweet chocolate parting gift
Of croutons over red wine. A job well
Done. And candied marmalade orange rind.
Willie Nelson had run off with a whipped
And runny cocoa-anything. Although
Mushrooms followed ribs and the magically
Unopened case of Bud light folded meat,
He could take the cream explosions while
Having to hear the tone deaf bursts of song.
The bursts of song that made him think that his
Womanly long hair gave him Sampson like
Strength in the musical arts. Without art.
Without strength. Without a musical ear.
October Poem 27: That Old Narrative Jive
Waiting sharp and shiny on the forked end.
To stop thinking to the next good line. The
Darkness of the trek to your car was made
Even blacker by the blinding of the
Field lights through the choke of leaves in the trees.
Take off your God goggles and succumb to
The wispy lip of Mister Five O’clock’s
Geedunk van stalking neighborhood streets in
Search of unsuspecting children mostly
Reclaimed by a belief in a Christian life.
To understand a text. To believe that
You know the world. To understand that a
Cigar is just a cigar except when
It doesn’t jive well with your narrative.
October Poem 26: Cloaked in Darkness
You flap for open water to give you
Enough speed for your low angled assent.
The fluorescing against the unexposed
Film. And the new chemical exposure
Of early childhood impaled below
You. And the hallucinations to save
Yourself and the end of the Indian
Summer. And poetry is the last thing
Going to sleep. You can blend abstracting
Imagery in an elegant poem. To
Mine out the abrasive and in-your-face.
And attempt similar tactics to hear
The dry bones clacking like old walking sticks.
The path that turned sharp into the darkness.
October Poem 20: How Political Sausage is Made: The Liberal Chainsaw Massacre
Inherent guilt and inherent bias.
Injecting Novocain to the nation.
The perpetual spinning of white blades
Pushing forward currents of air panning
Back and forth over the lying bodies.
To dry you to a rigid leather of
Submission. To hollow out and wear you
Like a butcher’s smock, a pair of boots, and
Elbow length gloves. To puppet you through the
Motions of control. To cull dissenters
Like so much chaff among the wheat. Like so
Much grist for the mill. Like so much meat for
Sausage. Spiced, cured, and smoked to be served on
A toasted roll with sauerkraut and Swiss.
therichardbraxton 