Monday, 10 November 2014

Alma Mater

the salt bath: residue
on drying skin
     a tasty pain      reminders buzzing

Sick with familial myth
     oneiric lulling tattoo

Stumbling here/ there
drunk         stuffing
                  my face

That face all over: a jumpered boy
a dole fed schmuck a married man

Fixatives reek

Dark room steadily closing
in to bleak
      insider uterine density

What to make of this
now creased monkey mask

in the mirror with
curious (read frightened) eyes

Would you let everything go
for a song?         Sing
(you're forever
getting the words wrong)


  1. The lure of a tune will mercifully lead a troubled soul away from the world's woe at least a bit.

    Having erred into this sensitivity at an early stage, and this mind you back in the day when a tune had a rhyme and all the other now disused components, it became ingrained to respond and remember, to not forget a rhyme, and not to overlook its reappearance after long parting, much as an old, indeed totally forgotten friend.

    In any case, and disregarding the massively unmatching "contexts", it was a fine reminder to reconsider the strange fact that rhyme pairs are in fact wee poems in themselves, and the best, by giving birth to other instant poems in the idle mind, often turn out to have several lives (as no one will remember their previous use, they will seem forever new).

    (I believe this phenomenon goes a long way toward explaining the continuing usefulness of rhyming dictionaries for "old fashioned" song writers, as the permission to be boring in songwriting is nothing like so grand as currently in poesy -- where, one assumes, rhyming could not even manage to be considered boring, as it would likely not even be noticed, the pattern recognition function of the brain having long since ceded its rôle to whoever currently writes the codes for the gadgetry.)

    One among a number of good examples for this particular pregnant rhyme:
    song / wrong

  2. Thank you, gentlemen all.

    Wesley was my introduction to rhyme. Even in my present state of apostasy they figure as sacral echoes.

    And, yes, how much have we ceded to the machines?

    I loved the link.