metaphor remix [version 1]


mIEKAL aND & Amendant Hardiker and Mick

l'idealisme allemand




The White Black Man


I describe to you my dark house,

a metaphor for childhood;


crumbling ruins forgotten,

diseased and aging .


I married for love, for children,

for ammunition. Some houses


are better left un-opened; a new life

is a fragile form of vengeance.


Today, I prefer alone. When I close

my eyes, my visions are of trees, of wolves,


of falcons hunting late into the evening,

horses grazing lazy on the hills, a sea


rolling under black cliffs























((((( la mère de douleur se tenait debout ( I )

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puzzle

poem



    "The Blue Mosque"

My prayers are strangers to these skies
And rise upon the poisoned air
Like burning paper. Scanty sleep
Informs the word that darkens.

Things will plummet from these skies
With cries upon the poisoned air
And every step advanced, risks slip
And every word born broken.





Midwest Observations

Innocence is a canning jar
filled with fireflies

that are released
in the morning.

If goats eat garlic weed
their milk is soured;

feed them sweet
grain.

When salt is applied,
skinned frog legs

twitch.

A horse is like underwear.
It should be worn by

the same person.

The world is not flat;
neither is the Midwest

entirely.

Never tease a bull
or a brother who is taller

than you are.

Respect nature, admire
its beauty, but never refuse

to eat it for dinner.

Moth at My Door

Knocks twice. The first,
to announce arrival,

the second, to listen
for an answer.

Passage involves
waiting in the shadows

until the light inside
comes looking;

you cannot
drag it out

with weeping
or the knowledge

of your years-

the sweetest child
has died in darkness

thinking how
to bend its ear.

And so we try

a language
like a question,

a body like
a secret wing,

a fire built
by lovers

who rush
into the flame.

Beautiful Kitchen

Our contemporary kitchen rests in shameful mud. The shame is sublime, like a trance lightning fitted to the window with the blue sky cushioning our love of dormers. A slight possible duct of rainwater tells us of indications, and the ditch will overflow with the results. We'll need something as summer softens and autumn turns us. Our kitchen will let grandeur speak for itself. Delicious ideas of repose will end sentences, dozing will become required. Too much paint on the dormer will be proclaimed as radical and a draft in our ideas. Pressure will work the sentence, naps will lighten the moment, dreams will congest in a picture. Here, the picture wants your name. It's about time.

As The World Turned

5:30 a.m., the traffic man said they found a body
on the shoulder of the 605. Car lights wound back up
through the canyon pass like an angry boa constrictor
whose skin was on fire.

The CEO of a toy manufacturer committed
suicide last night; his company painted toys
with toxic levels of lead. A pediatric neurologist
described ensuing loss of appetite, tremors, coma

while holding up figurines of mickey mouse and barbie.

I rolled over to watch the dog's chest rise and fall
at the end of the bed, his neck hair glowing in the t.v's shine
like an alien strobe from a friendly ufo that had settled on
a crude and violent planet. We found the remote

and turned the world off.

Thripartate Thricycle

Phenol-Oedipal-logistic: 1) the study of a chemical compound that has one or more hydroxyl groups attached to a benzene ring; a poisonous caustic crystalline compound obtained from coal, wood tar, or benzene, used in the manufacture of resins, dyes, and pharmaceuticals and as an antiseptic and disinfectant. 2) Mommy-daddy-me-mommy-etc. anon and so froth.

Renal-Mailer: 1) Having a penknife colonoscopy performed by Adele Morales Lip-reading Harlot’s Ghost whilst under a local anaesthesia. 2) Ibid.

A-Stick-In-The-I-Eye: Ibid; see Phenol… (Barbie-Shalom)

Everything comes in threes; even threes.

When You Wake Up

She liked colour. Maybe because she knew

colour was life and the absence of it could only be

the other. Like the word vacancy; if filled,

it disappears.


She often thought of miracles. As if

she could conjure one up simply by overcoming

a tragic moment with a deep sense of bliss. Later,

she realized, this act in itself, was the miracle.


Sometimes at night, she would hold out her hands

in the moonlight so her skin would glow like lantern paper

and little grey moths would crawl across her fingers

until the wind whisked them away.


No one knew her, really. She liked it that way.

Like a dream you can't remember when you wake up

or a feeling that makes you smile

but you can't remember why.



dali protractor stereoview

Things that Make You Go Hmm

"Yes" and I waited for the question.

I admit, it does not appear to matter now

what you need to know. There is not enough

time left to conceal anything worth concealing.


Luckily, the grass is still soft and green

in the yard and if God had intelligent designs

for today, my barefeet on cool ground, the signals

the bright white color of magnolias send


through my heart cells are proof enough-


the suggestion, I mean, of answering

questions of meaning before they are

even devised. Things that make you go:


hmm.

Untouched Shore

On a boat that is not a boat, we travel.
From the bow of its rattling bones,
the evening star, that great shining oak
in the land of sky, points to untouched shores.

Heavy webs of star, a mournful trap
of darker holes, hinges man's thoughts
to universe like tiny specks of fly.
It is the sea we hear when we are dying

or its winded breath, the physical divinity
of blueness, the stretching tendons
of fluttering wings whose feathers rise
like thunderheads in swirling weaves.

The gulls sweep down,
not from loneliness, but greed
to touch the thing that we desire most-
such fearsome beauty.

Temple Love That

Something changed, the referee of title. Gorgeous
space-time ozone fooled region clog. A tool
reneged on towers. Later broken church doors
were sediment-related golfing partners. We struck gold,
under the minute left behind. Honest bouncing
sounds slopped further cues. A rustle of
press down, then the give in take. When the door came after,
licking the steam between zero and mood, we started a rock.
The rock backed the aimless ombudsman and bad taste
along the present road. A scour for tours read
clearly. Nose for news slid under the doormat,
only to crow later. And of all these buds, the
true language frantic for gulf, we smiled.