Showing posts from August 30, 2009

THE PANTRY - The 26th September Song

The mobile pantry slopes along, smiling food upon the icy residue of winter, thrusting the mourning further down the road, away from the waiting mouths and stiffening lips of death.

O! Quicken the pantry’s pace, speed it along with imagery like those fast motion dreams where familiarity is blurred, voices are jumbled in fullness, children dance, and laughter pulls us happily awake.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Shrouded Machinery (Head-Line Poetry, 9/5/09)

Why AP used photo of dying Marine
Next year the tombstones will be a skyscraper. We die there, we should not, waging, "we must win", against an unkind backdrop while icy winged nymphs shroud our eyes.

Afghan anger after scores die in NATO air strike
The fireball made dust of human flesh turned hearts inward. O death, what is your reason? Shame on you, death! Pitiful, steadfast claws scraping the inside of life with your machinery, bringing demise like maggots to rotten meat the weapon of powerful art used as murderer with a single stroke of the brush.

Panel Rules Against Ashcroft in Detention Case
Have we forgotten that all of the goodness was slain, as if love itself had been sucked out by the lips of hell and arrogant and depraved men grinned at the thought? Somewhere out there, a beast mumbles their names.

A Swine Flu Germ Factory
It is best we heed the call of the virus. Remain alert to its sway. We mustn't forget a thing. Make a list. Have we remembered everything? Vig…

The 27th September Song (poems for the hungry)

And they are nothing to our plight, they are only a nuisance wound around our shattered bravery, pounding low our gnarled nerves. Whatever keeps them from splintering open like the spiraling tin teeth twisting over and over, again and again, exposing an empty can, an unfilled wish or unanswered prayer is beyond our grasp.

Their skin, more ashen than a dying ghost, most ready to fall away into the milieu; we keep forgetting that each barren appetite soaks up our dispirited objection, stores it for our own wail, our own unfilled craving. And this suffering shall be like vagueness, as alien to us as our first howls of silence.

(Artwork by Marcin Bondarowicz)
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
Read all the September Songs
Help support Feeding America's Hunger Action Month

The 28th September Song

And here in the glom of light, the beam of failure, it is known that worms and maggots eat more than the starved, they’re alone, except when accompanied by growling. Any rumble will soon be gone when the onsets of silence crawl over their breasts and mouths and bellies like worms or maggots feasting on gruesome delight.

They might be standing still like bland road signs marking off a cautionary through-way or indicating grave danger ahead when the worms make their way in like a marching band and emptiness bows, hunger commencing a final dance. Or they might be lying down upon one another’s screams while the eager maggots dig in like ill-mannered guests.

And here in the glom of light, the beam of failure, it is known.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

SOMETHING COLD - 29th September Song

Have you ever touched something cold? I mean cold, not as ice, but as bitter as oblivion?

Have you ever touched something, something as cold as the universe leaking nightfall, frigid as an unopened hand frosted with shame?

Our numbness embarks upon this, our private voyage traversing over a glacial truth buried under stars, beneath our frostbitten souls and veined throbbing fetching bones for the scabby mongrels of cosmic machinery.

There’s no flight, no escape from such famished consent, if there were, the final thing we’d touch would be warm.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

THE END - The 30th September Song

I think today is the end of all things conventional, whatever had been predictable yesterday, is no more.

Forks and spoons are too rusted to use, jutting out of us like some perished nightmare. Dining room tables are being used for makeshift mausoleums, (Leave the dead, don’t waste precious energy). Electricity went out this morning, water this afternoon.

It reaches everywhere, the world reeks of a decomposing. There’s a deafening silence ticking down like a giant clock, nothing can be heard, save the monstrous, shrieking echo of silence that swims over our heads like crop-dusters spitting flesh.

We are so damn frightened! Is this the end of the world? Has our greed and apathy finally made its way back to us? Have our closed hands and open mouths at last climbed inside our minds? Where are all the loud children skipping home from school? What day is this? What time is it? What has happened?

At night there will be fireflies and the moon to feebly reassure us. Everything we’ve ever been…