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speaks of the flight of speech and of sound
of the sea
and of rivers
when the waters soak pearls and bullions and spread
across tides
persimmons
and dried apricots
that rend life off the lives of trees.
It speaks of faces.
It speaks of the honey that sweetens your lips
of spices delightful and of flesh.
Of the sound of books at night
with page corners folded, torn
by violent souls and cries
in rapture of martyrdom and hate.
It speaks of Euripides,
of cold chromium-plated handcuffs.
It speaks of signs of fire that rip the skies
that the skies light up that light up
the atom that the atom incinerates
and of art and of fire and of ash
of flowers and corpses underneath crystal towers,
of the slow craft of Lotus-Eaters, of prophecies.
It speaks of oracles.
I let the days crumble all the picture frames
with their deformed faces and their naked bodies
in messages ablaze of silk and shadow
and I climbed to the mountaintops, and on crosses
rested weary birds, traveller white crows
of memories, their wings spread
pointing east to the last character of the last page.
It speaks of synecdoche in the space of a desert.
It speaks of the horrifying scream of the shattering roots of trees,
of the wind howling and of the pages of the book
of never-ending legends.
It speaks of syntax.
In its margins shimmer small handwritten signs
of nocturnal frights and their reflections.
And their images as flames.
I think this would read far better without the paragraph "I let the days crumble." You had a neat symmetry going and then you ruined it. (the tense change in the middle of that paragraph doesn't help much) Also, why the hokey title? The poem isn't fucking up anything, it's just a mismash of ideas, some evocative, some pretty silly (e.g. the persimmons)
Your poems speak to something inside me that sometimes makes me sad. But not in a terrible way; in a bittersweet, longing way. You write lovely, Lauren. Thank you for sharing your talent.
Honey
to have you as a tour guide.....but worth the risk....always new and well observed...refreshing and energizing...just wonder how you find these places.
It's that good.
That was possibly one of the more visceral reactions I've had to words on a page.
You know me, and I'll confess, braving vivisection; I tend to think of poetry as a cop-out from dealing with all the hard parts of prose, a cheap excuse to skip to the tangible punches you have to work for in literature.
Thank sombody's god you always manage to prove me dead wrong. I love you for that.
Insidious, insightful, insinuating...
Committing my cardinal sin of alliteration, breathless, in your name....
>;.D
I don't understand poetry to begin with else I would surely be messed up now :)
-Colly
Lovely, as always. You make purty words - Snerts like 'em. Brava!
it is exactly like dreams we dream all the time,,,, a set of kaleidoscopic images moving through our subconscious mind,,,, vivid as dandelions in a hot afternoon sun, with bees buzzing around,,, yet fleeting as the fluttering of quarks and its other friends in a world of their own, of their own making, beyond the reach or understanding of man the naked ape who dares to dream,,,