Monday, May 25, 2009

the pulchritudinous turpitude of medusa in the tub

i. to peek upon the washing is its own secret rite

the first bath of an oddly promising spring
easily births its own peppery cascading joy-
what might have speckled in the continuing winter
rushes into the copper stream and, lonely, drifts away:

the pesky mites that might have ravaged bloody roses
clamor onto crafty rafts of golden straw and, clutching, float away-
they will not burrow in the clay-skinned perfection of ageless models,
they only want to, quietly, stroke themselves and drift away.

ii. windows are made of abysmally slow liquid

reflections of a dead branch grasping,
held by green hands that will not let it drop:

these trees inside the water
that hints of other currents.

in the dry season the rooks come out to play-
it is not the dry season now:
the release of pent-up yellow on the weedy hill
has its inner sense of dignity.

the shadowy plumb of straightened lines,
in your sinking house of rotted soffits.

skinned knees on cracked concrete are a stark reward.

iii. it's hard to deny the cyclical

there is no mortared vault of berries yet,
inscribed in autumn with beaded numerology
or the angled facts of a hooded ghost:
the jeweled sconce of red and blue and green
plastered in a room that has drifted earthward.

through the years no angle stays true:
the pedestal font begs for the dirt of your ablutions
and the adulation only, if at all, reflects back at you.

there may be a green salad at the picnic next door.

5 comments:

  1. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Mister Boyd *sigh* I get so frustrated reading you, you know. Ha!
    Only because I am lazy and my brain really has to work. But sometimes I wish I could just read you and enjoy such. Do you know what I mean? Never the less I do like how you write/make me think and your words, here.....almost saying to me that life is a mirror.
    'in the dry season the rooks come out to play-
    it is not the dry season now:
    the release of pent-up yellow on the weedy hill
    has its inner sense of dignity.' My fav of the whole.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks, you. Nothing wrong with a little cranial gymnastics, heh?

    ReplyDelete
  3. Windows made of abysmally slow liquid...reminds me of an old home we used to own and how the world seemed underwater when I looked out. Makes me want to look in through many windows now, play the voyeur.

    Your language is a ride.

    ReplyDelete
  4. WIAW: On the molecular level, glass IS actually a very slow liquid. This does not necessarily diminish, but rather enhances its voyeuristic appeal. :-)

    ReplyDelete
  5. yes as my coffee hits the wall, my cranial summersault does indeed require a little gem... of a read this is my friend. I mean gym... yes, the voyeuristic appeal of a season is most eye catching. ;)

    ReplyDelete

Yes?