Thursday, January 22, 2015

Canto 14 - Nash (of course)


It breaks me gently over your spun wheel,
bleeding black tears, on each inch I can feel.
yet for more blood, the hour finds you hungry.
Yet black is a colour just as the same. 

In those stolen moments of light gleaming,
roll'd on road bed parched of inhabitation,
alone, at least in ecstatsy teaming.
Until turning hour passes temptation.

A precious reward, left years close behind,
the horse and the rider fixed like a reel,
a product of ounces weigh'd on the mind,
rifl'd at corners, moment balance to steel.

It is nothing short of condition of craving
left to others for ranting and raving,
the solitude it sought this cabin sublime
dwell in degrees, and compress into time

This a merriment morning combustion,
wit willing whirr, avoiding congestion.


I take my leave from my senses,
and find becalmed at wicked speed,
that river solid made of other tenses,
than past, present, and future ever heed.

Bright the open darkness of the ripe sky,
flies above the roof transparent wind made.
A peace the motion furious does deny,
the floating light that is of days deepest shade.

And wishing for wings is long forgotten,
and floating is no longer a mythic dream.
This, a road above untrammeled by gap or seam,
has made me drunk and with prosody besotten.

The poem of the motor whirring runs,
Lit by threshold of the myriad distant suns.


After all the is no regret
Before the hush came upon the town
Cats were out of hand
Dogs took wings
Exit to the floor
Fate is to quick

All is well, to well
But there is the rubbed
Climb up the pole
Decline, ever stream on time
Each rob of all the other needles
Fright, in flight.

All in all
After all
It's not a play thing
But an illusion.
And it come to one and all
One and all.


If the leaves the are, then let then eat brioche.
Then they are withhold i-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-i-o-n
is that what I want to say?
I think not, but I do not know if it is.
What do I want to say to him?
B-r-i-o-c-h-e is what I want say,
brioche, not cake.

A poem (Nash of couse) 5

"Some people achieve temporary a fame"
While others lust after it,
Wondering for does it flutter adrift never touch

Are they not good enough?
Or is a scheme they don't undertand?
Wrote down on paper that is  on watery brook?
It makes no sense, but it is as plain as can be.

What is as fleeting,  fixed,
as what is
eternal day.
From on side to an other

And the some blazing fast quick
Of cousre

"The Only Good Indian Is a Dead Public Relations Counsellor"

The Sight of sound captures 
Of this I am sure, no words good back and forth between
Some silmarillion eddies in the brook
collected poems page by page
leaves of grass until they every were
the primrose path ever were
welcome witness to the young republic
a history or truth contain with a yankee's journal
1828 through 1870, as set down in Disraeli hand.


Intermission in a search for pleasantries
Lightly resting like Haiku writ in lucid kanji
On the verses of unfocused fragile ecstasies -
Viewed from to close a distance, too soon a day.
Even divided distance of the hours sharpens the reverie.
Yesterday and today converse at every tempo
Odes adagio, epodes presto, but whispered within
Under all, above, betwixt, between, an affect marked: “senza measura”.


In dreams I laid awake in slumber
too many times thinking how right is
and wishing that many times I could chatter
and dreaming what dreams may come to me thus

but instead I reach the plane that I am on,
busy in the brain, while the cool ice cold air blows
is not quite go to sleep nor stay awake upon
this coil that I feel trapped as if by crows.

They coil above my eyes as if to say
that everything else is an illusion,
and only they are real, vibrant
with hours stretched beyond any confusion.

Only then I know what is to and ought to be
on mystery to those that are truly free.