Brim Black in Blue
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Brim black in blue, your eyes, storm shadow skies
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
bar locals with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of mountain life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
bar locals with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of mountain life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.
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Sand. Silver shine. Black shovel. Leather boot,
push the shovel down. Scratch, spray
silver shining sand, dig in, down, root
in, deep down through granule brown, black soil,
around red rounds of brickpipe, down and down
through layers of a dead man's thankless toil:
a man from Mayo in an English town,
a man who came to work and find a wife,
a man of lodging houses and of cold
lonely predawn risings to a life
of shovelling, burnt dinners and the old
weakness, staying out in Mooney's late.
Dig up a nothinglife, become its hate.
Suddenly I realised the Pogue was my old classmate James. I called him over. He immediately forgot about his adversary and put his arm around my shoulder. "Richardeeeeen, oooooop the wesht and fugh the resht, ha?"
"James," I asked. "Why are you talking with your father's accent? Up the west, yes, but we were born in Cambridge, on Mill Road."
"Oi'm no Plastic Paddy. Oooop the wesht and fugh the resht. Have shome whiskey. The foinesht."
"James, your accent sounds more like Topol's in 'Fiddler on the Roof'."
"Was he from the weshttttt????????"
Going through a bit of an identity crisis, Fins?
No shame in that, methinks. Ducets must come from somewhere.
wow..you're right...hadn't taken note of the way that poem sounds out loud...snapping fingers and calling each other 'cool cat's...I'm a much bigger fan of the poem now for having thought of it that way...
Brim black in blue, your eyes, storm shadow skies
of corncrake-whirling dusk. Your heavy gaze
cuts through soul window smoke conspiracies
ensnaring rooms of dust. You stare, you faze
red sun hope with your eyes. Grim blue in grey.
Eyes, dead black rock ocean pools, slime shine
shimmering upon a flimsy fey
stranded face, sand grey in tide decline.
Brim black in red, your tongue, foam of earth
boiling from the lips of mountain man,
the years of plodding in the brimblack dearth
of western life toward these walls. Grim span
of muck brown thrown down life. Your words, your gaze,
turn black beneath the window's dusking haze.
Fifth line of first stanza reads a lot easier now, methinks.
might be even better with 'faze' at the end of line 4.
Hang on, I'll improvise a beat poem...
Dharma tomatoes
surf jive hipstah motorcycle lions
angels of jeep star visions
of electric night
and Venus
flicks cigarettes at an asteroid
to dazzles of Thelonius Monk
bebop a dang floy floy a boogie mon
and in my zuit suit and my flute
and my cute toot toot
on mah john the conquereror root
my Dharma feet
Pat a beachbum beat
down Venice beach with Corso
and Ferlinghetti even more so
uhhhh rooawwwrrrgghhh howl howl howl
shantih shantih shantih
Cheers, ETE
I understand. Beat poetry can make a man lose his mind.
I maintain a soft spot for the stuff because it was very in vogue during my formative teenage years (I'm not as old as that sounds...I'm talking about the early nineties); that's just what we were all reading and what was cool, so I still hold on to it as mine, in a way.
Most of it is crap, of course.
Your secret is safe with me. I swear.
Hey everyone! Guess what...
fronds spiraling high in a dance of the wind?
Who's the girl leading me up on the stair
of a magical spiralling palace of mind?
It's you, meee joooolieeeee jewel!
Just you, my jewel.
Ha! That fifth line is rather out there! I repeat: Ha!
Congrats on the 5000th post!
...and awating tonight at the top of the stairway 5000 kisses for a brilliant magic man.