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The Complete
The science of sin is a sallow scheme
that causes one to feel so rot and shame---
ultimate tragedy of a frozen cosmos.
Smooth stones rotate round in a ring,
stars whose song is Ceasless Trance,
while a fit girl twirls in a skirt of sorrow
and teardrops trickle in Moonlight City
and the surface of her skin shivers tight,
illuminated also by a streetlamp,
and vibrates through to the magical core.
She journeys through Concrete Valley
to Big Bridge where she goes for calm
and dangles a pair of pretty sandals
over its endlessly shimmering silver rail
and gazes down to the dim river rush.
Blonde strands of hair curl in her vision.
V--- sits there unthinking and unblinking,
wobbling absent-minded in Winter Chill
upon the risky rail; the dangerous distance
pulsates below like a magnifying strobe.
Her heart is a punching fist from within.
The sunflower sandals finally slip off
and fall like monstrous leaves into void.
She is stirred by such subtle sensations
and snaps straight back into awareness.
V--- violently shakes her delicate brains
and all but loses her sustained balance.
She might have plummeted and died.
"This is drugs---can't be here---time to go."
She hops back onto the old cracked sidewalk
and starts to saunter her way across Big Bridge
toward what the locals coin as Haunted Island.
V--- sees no wagons roaming the foggy streets,
no people, no creatures of the night save her.
She listens to birds begin to chirp,
as the same fierce sun rises red again,
and feels serene hushes and blushes.
She visits a deserted park to rest
and sprawl in grass as soft as moss.
A squirrel scurries from off an oak,
stands upright on its friendly paws,
twitches and flicks its fluffy tail
and cradles acorns for nibbling feast.
V--- pulls a pipe from her woven purse
and packs it fat with Purplegreen Weed
(an herb she bought the other week
from a strange travelling gypsy market
who had advised V--- to be careful,
preached purgatorial consequences
and bundled the stuff with a mantra).
V--- languidly puffs ethereal clouds.
V--- is a mystery, a misled mess.
Plague whispers unknown emotion
and she will sift her imagination
to try to figure out what it's all about.
"Who am I and why must I live a lie?"
She chooses to forever surrender---
once met with a Cactus Breakthrough.
Rows of tombstones symbolize
an illusory infinity that sprouts free
by crawling from earth soil buried.
V--- shutters between altering answers.
Perhaps she's lost in extreme degree.
She curiously follows a pebble pathway
which presents her a shut garden gate,
residence of Mr. Hermit who prowls
so morosely through Devil's Trumpet
and scowls at everyone that passes.
Mr. Hermit and his fiery crimson glare,
like the vicious glare of surreal beasts,
seem to pierce the world with hot arrows
and are beautifully enhanced by blend
of a tawny tattered yellow shawl tossed
over a shaggy beige woolen coat with
a modest collar popped around his neck,
framing his supremely stern facial frown
and his bushy abysmal hair and beard.
His faded and soil-stained pair of jeans
drape past the tops of workman boots.
V--- gasps in frightful amazement.
Mr. Hermit turns his head but instead
of straining his brow and shouting
"Damn you, get your filth gone away!"
like he will always do with humans,
he is tantalized by the stunning girl.
V--- is overwhelmed; her coy eyes
reflect the Rainy Rainbow Blossoms
and vivid dance of various plants.
This Dude is like a peacock flaunting
awesome aspect painted in feathers.
She has never seen this back in city.
They both stand there still and silent,
like cobras being charmed by a flute,
separated by the elaborate black gate
wicked and terrifically Gothic and
aiming spikes or spears to Heaven
with figures carved into the metal.
A heavy rustling sound from beneath
dull orange layered leaves disturbs
the long moment of lovely discovery.
Mr. Hermit is beckoned by the noise.
He says, "Come back no sooner than
noon, when Our Sun is its brightest.
Meanwhile I have much toiling to do."
His veins surge with hope to know
what this Glowing Girl might mean.
She hesitates and then walks away.
V--- weaves through weeping willows
and comes to a lush little meadow hill.
Gleaming heather thrashes in pure day.
She climbs to the pristine peak to find
a perfect pond sparkle its calm secrets.
She exclaims, conscious of delirium,
"Oh vivid dream, I must be hallucinating!
Is this--- this Paradise the real deal?"
She breathes deeply, places her purse
gently aside, strips her pink cardigan,
lays it down to sit on and views the land.
"Plenty of time until the Sun is high...
I shall certainly stroll along the sand."
She suddenly remembers her bare feet
and grows very giddy in anticipation
for those sensual caresses she adores.
And so she joins the candy shore
and explores the waves' serenade.
Her relentlessly wandering mind
thinks, "Wait a sec, what in heck---
He looked at me; I looked at him.
Love was found but a rustling sound
became a chore---most peculiar."
Meanwhile Mr. Hermit digs right up
an oozing corpse, and he stabs
the shovel into the festering mound
of maggots and gets on his knees
and drags the body from the ditch
to see the face of eternal enemy.
His body stiffens with a grim rage.
The Undead One is mostly paralyzed
and his sky-blue eyes are wet with fear.
He tries to scream but it is only seen
as if angry sapphires hold ocean storm.
His born flesh quivers and is gory torn.
Mr. Hermit fetches a wheelbarrow
and settles it next to the Sorry Soul.
He wraps a grasp about limp limbs,
like he is trying to hug a lifeless doll,
puts the person in the rusty barrow
and rolls thru the arched doorframe
to lock the zombie in a dark cellar
so it will make no disturbance when
V--- comes along to visit him again.
As he makes his way out the house,
he notices in a mirror that his garments
are tainted with nasty puss and blood.
Simultaneously he hears V--- humming
a little lullaby, signifying her arrival.
He pounces upstairs to change clothes.
He puts on a hooded lavender cloak
to make a fine impression on the girl.
They meet eagerly back at the Gate,
not necessarily knowing what will occur,
but excited to pursue these fresh hints.
It's unnatural to trash new opportunity,
tired of meandering thru mundane mist
of a reality diminishing into emptiness.
But V--- has a fragile, vulnerable youth,
whether she cares to accept it or not,
and fails to consider the Consequences
though the Gypsies foretold of this.
Contrary, Mr. Hermit is yet confident.
He glides into sight in his costume
with arms outstretched into wings.
V--- giggles cutely and comments,
"You look absolutely ridiculous man,
like a Crazy Clown in some Circus!"
"Humph, I am majesty personified
and delighted that you have come."
He then unlatches the Black Gate,
swings it open, and gestures her in
like a gentleman who holds a door.
"We should share tea in my Garden
and chat among relaxing activity."
V--- nervously steps thru the portal.
V--- sips her tea, which the lunatic
has spiked with a sedative potion.
She lounges on white wicker pillows
and sinks into a pool of confusion.
She hears her mind a-frantic chant,
"I don't feel that good... I'm dying."
The Madman paces back and forth
and flails his limbs like a jellyfish.
His spree of soliloquy echoes thus:
"This marvelous frequency found!
Shortly she will be on the ground."
The roses panic, stirred by a wind.
V--- loses complete function of herself
and droops steadily forward in her chair
to then tumble face first onto the floor.
It takes a big effort for her to turn over.
Her nose has been broken by impact
on the tiled patio and is gushing blood
that mixes with subtle bronze lipstick.
She tries to cry out desperately for help.
There is no one who could anyways.
Her eyeballs roll up and search her skull.
She blacks out and forgets the world.
Mr. Hermit crouches to pull off her skirt.
"This is what happens to those who flirts.
You deserve nothing but the worst."
V--- awakens among dim lanterns
adorning the cobblestone walls of
a chamber dank with putrid smell.
Naked and bloody with much pain,
her head shocked and throbbing,
she looks down at her hands and
fails to recognize them, tightly tied
and trembling in scratchy ropes.
The foreboding flickers of flames
taunts tremendous terror insane.
And then from within the darkness
comes a hidden and harsh whisper:
"Cardamax done got you now, eh?"
"What? Cardamax? Who are you?"
she says sobbing and gasping breath
as her voice shakes like her so cold,
badly battered and bruised nudeness.
"Where am I? What is this place?
What the fuck is happening to me?"
A gross, horrid man slowly crawls
into a better lit section of their cell.
He looks like he has been dead for
at least a few months but instead is
still functioning as a living entity.
He croaks, "Please remain calm ok?
My name is Damien... The villain
that has done this to ye is strange.
He is a warlock and believes you
have been summoned here today
as a vessel for his experiments...
which I have sadly succumbed to
also, long ago, and I have been
kept here and tortured by his, ack,
his amateur spells. It is very bad."
They hear footsteps come down
stone stairs with omnipotent echo.
They turn their necks and await.
Momentarily Cardamax, in purple
gown, appears beyond iron bars
with a sinister smile of sharp teeth.
He brings his prisoners some food,
a few figs each garnished with nice
white roses, thorny stems and all.
"Keep your sweet dreams away and
save them for another life... You
and you," he said pointing to them,
"no longer have a choice or strife.
Relinquish your will, Girl, to me...
Tis the single thing that shall be."
This extended version, or
This extended version, or compliation, is very powerful. Its almost relentless drive forward insists on a full reading; no pause points appear as we move through the supple lines and amazing descriptions toward that final stanza. This is also a poem that encourages---even demands---more than a first reading. It reminds me of a ghost story film I have recently been watching, entitled "Shutter." I watched the film, first, for its gripping, and somewhat disturbing, narrative. I watched it a second time to pay especial attention to the artistry with which it was made. I watched it again last night to listen to the music that accompanies it, especially the ghost's theme. And I am still not done with it. I have written all that in order to write this: your poem is like "Shutter"; it operates the same way. There is the narrative it provides; there is the artistry of your composition, as you deploy lines and stanzas; there is the musicality of your word combinations. All of this cannot be taken in all at once. Other readings must follow; and other poetic delights and satisfactions will reward those readings.
Starward
Can Always Count On Ya
Thank you from the bottom of my heart, the depths of my soul.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes
Thank you for the kind reply,
Thank you for the kind reply, and yes, you can always count on me. And I can always count on your poetry. I once said to Patriciajj, and now I will say to you, that, during my undergrad studies back in the days of the dinosaurs, I used to study great poets (Vergil, Eliot, Stevens) and wonder what it would have been like to watch them assemble their great collections. Alas, I could not see this happening in real time; only in the past. I often felt frustrated until I realized, in 2020 and again, this year, that I have been blessed to live long enough to watch to magnificent Poets, living Poets in real time, putting their great works together right before my eyes---Patriciajj and you. This has been, is, and will continue to be one of the great experiences of my usually mundane life, and I am very, very grateful for this privilege.
Starward