Saturday, July 13, 2013

Lakey Comess

Old Boys' Network

I mean really old boys.
(They don't make them like they used to.)

Wide-screen dreams, pillows grown large, covered in cross-stitch.
Art you can sleep on.

It was a time—you'll not be surprised to hear—that was softly beguiling.
Whoever loved a dear ghazal?


Pokered, if you ask me.

A case of mis-spent commas, wasted breath.

(When did you stop beating your wife? Remind me.)

Completely consumed by Madison Avenue, the fifties.  Birthplace of lunacy.


He did everything modestly.  Genuinely sweet guy.  Then he disappeared.
Lives of the Great Arsonists duly followed.  

Silk or cotton?  Makes a difference to folds, stitched by thin marsupial fingers.

Stick up the V's.  She always did like to change pace,
explain freshly unearthed fragments, cover increasing distance.

You had such grubby hands and clothes.  That explains everything.


The Book of Everything

is taking shape in unexpected verbosity,
close description, early morning smiling rant (brain still in neutral).  

You encourage him.  Sibling conspiracy.  Poor man's tut-Tuttle.  

Now and the foreseeable future will be railed with the nature of things,
elaborate piss-takes.  The fern has grown quite large and scary,
Ficus has doubled in size, stifled ten years of isolated existence.  

I know.   I know.   You will say that, too, is the nature of things.  
Brilliant white paint, minimalist shower.  Winter passed quickly, on the whole.

Let me ask you something.  Maybe you will write with the answer.  
Was something off-beam with your half of the correlation?



Rework the piece,

this time preferably in drawing.  
Representation should be less or a whole lot more.  

As it stands, critique pronounces it legless.  
Finely tuned abstraction was left unexplored.  

What replaced strong notional design seems to be densely snarled, twisted.  

Waking moments begin later each day.  
New Age veneer is cracking under intense strain.

A secret pool has been outed by viral transmission—water therein
is now choppy, but the audience, enraptured.

I bet you could

tell me the Latin names for all of the trees,
seemingly shaded with graphite, unctuous and restless.  

Add a vowel to the end for a building or house, roof shaped like a hemisphere.
As it is, you have distinguished him as a master.  I get it.

Great fortunes marry each other in personal pairing.  
Fresh buds and rooks take over beginnings of warmer weather,  

sufficient space for major exchanges, paper lanterns, celebrations,
suspended from newly-built temples.

Has energy grow unruly or is it only another pattern,
designed to swell and blossom in a bowlful of water?  

Fringe benefits can't alter the threat in a voice, soundless and strained.  
Infra-red hearing masters variable silence.

Lose hours

playing nurse, doctor or patient.  
Spring restores tired, sickly natures.  

Everyone is making an effort, slightly promiscuous.  
Theme, vibes, freakishly good music.  

Here is a new (old) difficulty stuck in parentheses.  
Trust issues hover over primordial account.  

Bump into a former friend, take a step back,
sort it out in contemporary context—freewheeling like hamsters.  

Withdraw from a taxi into chill summer, temperate winter.  
Say goodbye before following trails.  Parting is dreadful; glad that it's over.

What are you looking at, now you have nothing to say?  
Lack of opinion excites you to act, if not wisely.  Forgiving by nature?  

Try that with your next mixed special double and tonic.  
One up, full of spite.  Drop last letter of previous word for an honest reaction.  

Move to one side, fragrance free, harsh.  
Is it really that bad?  You tell me.  May's darling buds reveal nought.


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