Author Topic: Many Musics, Tenth Series, Part 2  (Read 50 times)

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Offline cenacle

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Many Musics, Tenth Series, Part 2
« on: December 06, 2018, 12:04:55 PM »
Continued from here:
http://www.spiritplants.org/forums/the-library/many-musics-tenth-series-part-1/

Many Musics, Tenth Series
(Continued)

“But I’m tryin’, Ringo.
I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.”
—Quentin Tarantino, Pulp Fiction, 1994.

vii. White Shorts

Call it want or genetics.
Tap twice, call it music. Squeeze between
 smiling thighs when you can.
I’ve tried to figure between the bars,
 & come up with my own hands,
  holding tighter.

Call it music, tap twice, want to understand
 like a good dream. There’s dancing &
hard cries tonight, your thighs wide,
 your moans blow out for me, more,
I want more.

I dream, try to understand. Dance & cry,
 it all means something. What? What.

I called it want, my music’s eating fuel,
 when I chased your fine ass, & yours,
& yours. How many asses? How much music?

Want. Genetics. The psychedelic game
 flesh plays with its infinite numbers.
Watch it dance the night. Watch it
 fuck the skies. Watch it bomb &
brutalize itself. Watch the one flesh
 of the world tear & mend & re-create
itself by the countless centuries.

Call it music, tap twice, a good dream,
 a better laugh. Try to understand,
listen. Try to understand, breathe.
 Try to understand, hmmmmmm.
Try to understand, awake & dream.
 Try to understand any, better to laugh it all.

******

viii. Away (Braiding Song)

Simple. Simple. Let be. But I wanted more.
 I dreamed to understand. Sought the secret,
the one embedded in every moment,
 in every game, every shadow.
Saw a good ass, sought a kind face.
 Saw skyfulls of stars, listened for the musics.

Simple. Simple. Let be. No answers here,
 just better & worse moves, words, reactions.
Do the wars burn themselves out, truths
 in their ashes? No. Just new wars.
I wanted more. I dreamed to understand.
 Anything at all, embedded in the moment?

Simple. Simple. Let be. I read many books,
 found many hid in them like I do,
here to expand safely, gaze the earth
 within & mull what here to grow.
I wanted more. I dreamed to understand.
 How can my musics soften the hard human world?

Simple. Simple. Let be. I got high,
 I drank & ate & chewed my mind wide,
to feel more me, feel past me, learn
 how to feel we, worst hours, hardest faces,
feel we. I wanted more. Dreamed everywhere.
 Immolated pen & paper to tell.

Simple. Simple. Let be. Embraced Beauty,
 solitary star hung upon desert of night,
embraced it all, but let nothing go.
 My old pages laugh & say jingles dangle
when you jangle up. What need to dream
 or understand more? Just jangle up.

Simple. Simple. Let be. I want more.
 I dream to feel true. What the fallen tree
tells me by its quiet passing. What the old man
 worrying about bread more needs.
What blunt & subtle consummates this world
 every hour, how my musics better harmonize.

******

ix. Obscura

Simple. Simple. Let be. This dream finds me
 running, running again, I shake, I sniff,
I sniff again. Always something tight, something
 pink in the air. Always something dead too,
loaming & loaming. Arriving, departing. Still
 running, I shake, I sniff, I sniff again.

A room, half dim, sleeping torso on a bed,
 I sniff, something tight, something pink.
Loaming & loaming. These hours taste old,
 taste sweet, I touch you through this dream.
I lay near you in bed, listen for your breathing,
 I touch your shoulder, a stir. Loaming & loaming.

Is it caress here? Is it hard want?
 A bedstand now, old song on a pink radio.
I move nearer to understand, I take
 you in some dreams, take you hard,
take you softer, which this, if any?
 The song now louder, you stir, which
dead are you? Which piece of my heart?
 I reach. A soft breast. A beautiful hand.
A long unheard voice. A remembered smile.

Simple. Simple. Let be. Good advice for
 the dying & dead. I pull you atop me,
man, woman, a beloved step, a taste.
 Sniff me, nudge me, breathe heavy
through me, fill my fingers, cock, & stars
 with new, unspent rhythms, go down
on me deep, spit me, fling me in the air,
 the woods, the moonlight, the sea.

I slow my running, slow, slow & stop.
 What you are, what I am, all of this,
remains untapped, uncracked, unhad,
 unclaimed. I roll into you, finally,
& wake in my own skin. Know nothing,
 know little, know nothing, & still try.
Hard shake of the bones, I still try.

******

x. Love is Violins, Tributes, & Ghosts

“That’s how the madness of the world
tries to colonize you: from the outside in,
forcing you to live in its reality.”

—Jeff VanderMeer, Annihilation, 2014.

A breath. Resume. Close my hand-made book
 of rhythms, more pages bloodstick’d.
Wrap it thicker in leaves, green ones over
 the dried ones. Climb up to the road now.
Time to move.

From my pouch the herbs & powders set me
 into waking sleep. So to walk through the night,
seeing doubly, the visible land, the dreaming.
 Will the trees tell tonight, the stars above,
which will tell me why? Seeing doubly,
 then a push, a jerk, now singly. Ohh.

I walk between two lovers. The one shaped
 & shaded like music, the other music herself.
My hand to caress & heat, or shape
 the hot noise to pleated rhyme?
More or less my sliding eye, lashing,
 hard-cutting, or open-fistly ear,
smile-shivering tongue?

I love you both, long serve you both.
 You kneel near a fountain’s spray,
mixturing long strands of your hair,
 I watch, I listen. You are song,
there is music. Stars above us
 worshipped because hands were meant
to hold, but not given why.   

Another breath. Another. Walk on.
 Morning’s coming to the world & Dreamland
alike. My want for you enthralled in my bones,
 my sinews, my ongoing remain. Flesh pink
in the dawn, spasm, release. Open
 the hand-made book, leaves cast aside,
sing for my very life, sing it, sing it why.

******

xi. Natural Recovery

I don’t sleep tonight. It is still dark.
 No moon for why or light either.
Me to reck alone. The faces come
 unbidden, my mind unused to sleepless
hours, no defenses for their kind.
 They come, & they come.

My mother was a scholar, I’ve tried & failed
 to talk to her by books. Her office
lined to breathless ceiling but for
 one little item. A crumpled puppet,
shaped of an astronaut, made by
 my small hands, a present. The rest lost.

My father was a singer, he sold pots
 & pans by day from a cart, but at
night he moved from fire to fire,
 hut to hut, woods to field, singing,
leading, leading, songs of the moon,
 the full, fleshy round bottomed
lush lipped moon. Sang to her as
 he wished my mother to listen,
to receive.

The first girl I loved had hair so long
 it tangled between us, like it wanted
to join me in loving her, wanting her,
 entering her too, twisting into her moans,
slow to let me go, so slow, drown
 with me, drown with me, do.

My greatest teacher, leading me in hikes
 to dangerous croppings. Made me choose
among uncertain steps, choose, leap
 a little, not know, not know even more.
Since you’ve moved on, I look for the
 uncertainties, wonder where they are.

Other faces, hard, soft laughing.
 Women loving to be bitten, needing to be
bitten, bitten, kept. Keep me. Keep me.
 Love me & keep me long after I go.

Brothers, eventually uncertain my devotion,
 less with me as I go. More rain,
less moonlight. Less moonlight, more
 obsession with men as the whole of it.
I loose you each, nor let you go,
 my hand still open for each of yours.

The night’s dark hours are spent,
 here I am, in these quiet pale woods,
alone. All of you recede, as each of you
 had, & I nod, & keep breathing.
Keep breathing, only the blood & bone
 in me to compel, remember &
keep breathing, love & keep breathing,
 love you all, detritus of words &
touches & spasms, embrace myself
 like I was still a powerful young mystery,
& keep breathing.

******

xii. Memento

I read my old book: “It was departures
 as well as absences. It was faces present,
then omnipresent, then receding, then lost.”
 No cover, no author. Keep as memory
of my bookish years, when I believed
 they could persuade fears, dissipate greeds,
give men a special hope they could feed
 their hearts with.

I am letting go, letting be. Put better,
 letting else. These Woods no more fully waking
than I am. How to push it just a little more
 between us? What memories left to
let go, let be, let else?

Burn this old book too. Uncertain sky
 above, make my argument. Trees beautiful
& mostly indifferent about me. Burn it.
 Burn it with tenderness, page by
page, no hate. I give you Woods back
 these words, songs, sparks, snaps, let else.

Now the fire begun, take my clothes,
 my cloak, shirt, everything. Too many,
empires of lies by which rags upon
 the back, is her breast harnessed
for display, work, or consumption?
 Does he feed from the gardens or
their scraps, or less than this?
 The heat closer to my skin now,
loving it so. I’ve only a sack left,
 survival took so many tools.

Burns hours & hours, I lie close,
 fry a little too. Let else. Take me,
take me, take me. Not death, not quite,
 pull me in, pull me down, into dream,
into Dreamland, pull me down, pull me in.
 Invert me, me singing for you now,
invert me, my cock hard & pulling for you now,
 invert me, my breathing inside out,
my heartbeat letting else, hmmmmmm,
 letting else, burst smilingly, arrival.

******
« Last Edit: December 06, 2018, 12:18:51 PM by cenacle »

Offline cenacle

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Re: Many Musics, Tenth Series, Part 2
« Reply #1 on: December 06, 2018, 12:19:09 PM »
Way too long since added more poems here. So here goes.

*** Many Musics, X, vii *** White Shorts ***
This about sex, or more really about desire . . . the want-but-can't-have of many of life's hours . . .

*** Many Musics, X, viii *** Away (Brading Song ***
"I dream to feel true." Still.

*** Many Musics, X, ix *** Obscura ***
"Hard shake of the bones, I still try". . .

*** Many Musics, X, x *** Love is Violins, Tributes, & Ghosts ***
"Sing for my very life, sing it, sing it why" . . .

*** Many Musics, X, xi *** Natural Recovery ***
The mythology my writing lives in, in small details of one man here . . .

*** Many Musics, X, xii *** Memento * * *
Dreamland is real.