Trickstah!
phishgod
Posts: 133
Trickstah!
Trickstah dancin’
on the rim.
edge of moon,
edge of sand,
symbols ancients,
sedimentary repose,
sparkled Zuni Suni chic,
fellaheen, Jeffers:
“Blue”—sea
washed the
womyn of
Point Sur
free their
original sin
complacency
to pure;
Neruda “white”,
free-form,
space defined
by no
space, symbolic,
and pure
and free.
Trickstah turns
all colors
upside down,
light to
dark, blue
to white,
sea washing
through us—
C’hi—Life,
entwined a
grain of
sand, sedimentary
repose, no
more, the
unentrenched
unleashed
upon the
Gas Light,
throws pebbles
on screens.
Trickstah on
the rim,
edges behind,
and before,
layer after
layer, brushed
by Gold,
speck by
speck,
revealing
form
and
no form,
as
a
blue
sea
awash
a
sandy
shore.
Trickstah
smiles,
reforms
herself
subtle
little
ways,
takes
magic
oils and
potions,
a pot of
tea,
a gingerale,
all bubbly,
a champagne
sun on
sparkled hair.
eyes, deep
seagreen,
scans
the rim,
before,
after,
now:
and in
some airy
far Yokahoma
life giving
sun sizzles,
sizzles.
sizzles
into
a soulsea.
Trickstah,
shiny gold,
reforms
velvet
mist
of
thigh,
sun
sizzles
on shimmery
shore as
all cries
sing songs
to its
return.
(Otis, on
docks, the
Bay, awaiting—
waiting for:
the burn.)
No! This
is not
a
slimshady
tune!
This is:
art, color;
fabric, tapestry;
clay
and
potter’s
wheel;
palette
and
painter’s knife,
life
and Art
entwined.
Portraits by
Cezanne, Matisse,
out in
old Tahiti
old masters
smile, beckoning
to the
minotaur.
Theseus burning
in the
flame, balloons
of life
pop, and
Trickstah listens
to it
all, smiling,
all knowing,
basks in
the reflection
of questions—
not answered.
Trickstah
unfolds
the golden
hair, musing,
musing, musing—
(yet,
somehow,
forgets
conditioner?)
sun-streaked
staind cake
creed—a
new dawn,
and crows,
not counted
nor incubated,
smiles softly,
glowing.
It is,
high noon,
an apex
awaits.
And Trickstah,
selects the blue
with wide
eyes white-gold,
hot,
with the
possibilities
of another
day.
--November 23, 2001
@pth
Trickstah dancin’
on the rim.
edge of moon,
edge of sand,
symbols ancients,
sedimentary repose,
sparkled Zuni Suni chic,
fellaheen, Jeffers:
“Blue”—sea
washed the
womyn of
Point Sur
free their
original sin
complacency
to pure;
Neruda “white”,
free-form,
space defined
by no
space, symbolic,
and pure
and free.
Trickstah turns
all colors
upside down,
light to
dark, blue
to white,
sea washing
through us—
C’hi—Life,
entwined a
grain of
sand, sedimentary
repose, no
more, the
unentrenched
unleashed
upon the
Gas Light,
throws pebbles
on screens.
Trickstah on
the rim,
edges behind,
and before,
layer after
layer, brushed
by Gold,
speck by
speck,
revealing
form
and
no form,
as
a
blue
sea
awash
a
sandy
shore.
Trickstah
smiles,
reforms
herself
subtle
little
ways,
takes
magic
oils and
potions,
a pot of
tea,
a gingerale,
all bubbly,
a champagne
sun on
sparkled hair.
eyes, deep
seagreen,
scans
the rim,
before,
after,
now:
and in
some airy
far Yokahoma
life giving
sun sizzles,
sizzles.
sizzles
into
a soulsea.
Trickstah,
shiny gold,
reforms
velvet
mist
of
thigh,
sun
sizzles
on shimmery
shore as
all cries
sing songs
to its
return.
(Otis, on
docks, the
Bay, awaiting—
waiting for:
the burn.)
No! This
is not
a
slimshady
tune!
This is:
art, color;
fabric, tapestry;
clay
and
potter’s
wheel;
palette
and
painter’s knife,
life
and Art
entwined.
Portraits by
Cezanne, Matisse,
out in
old Tahiti
old masters
smile, beckoning
to the
minotaur.
Theseus burning
in the
flame, balloons
of life
pop, and
Trickstah listens
to it
all, smiling,
all knowing,
basks in
the reflection
of questions—
not answered.
Trickstah
unfolds
the golden
hair, musing,
musing, musing—
(yet,
somehow,
forgets
conditioner?)
sun-streaked
staind cake
creed—a
new dawn,
and crows,
not counted
nor incubated,
smiles softly,
glowing.
It is,
high noon,
an apex
awaits.
And Trickstah,
selects the blue
with wide
eyes white-gold,
hot,
with the
possibilities
of another
day.
--November 23, 2001
@pth
rockon,
phishgod
phishgod
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
Fucking excellent.
Thank you.
I keep going back and fixing typos in this one. I ,must have either been wasted, in love or both when I originally typed it.....but this was one of my earliest poems for C., based in part on an extended conversation thread, somewhere sometime on a board somewhere like this, so that must explain some of it....:)
phishgod
thanks for the read,
phishgod
You and your C.(sea) are absolutely beautiful!
golden
phishgod
But it feels good, doesn't it?
I'm just basking in it!
And you know what?
I kinda feel kinda like a golden sun on the rise, so, thank you!