When The Dad closed the car door,
The Toy opened up,
mechanically beating the drum –
with monkey hands.
The stomach stirs with the doughnut-doorbell’s melody –
When The Hat arrived and entered the room,
He was shot with an arrow,
ran disguised as a closed door,
and lay quietly
on the floor like a Persian cat,
impervious to the chanted signs
of greedy secrets.
Will he go out?
He saw a hand pointing upward – a breathless voice said, “ Look at that! What is she doing there now !?”
Like the hands of a mad clock, The Woman twisted, her legs danced on the rug – she wore no stockings, her legs were thin wires of weary hope – sliding, sliding, sliding. A bundle of dry twigs swayed and twitched to the beat of a toy monkey’s drum – clap, clap, clap.
There was popcorn in the bowl on the low table in front of them –
a big, dirty, straw yellow embroidered hand bag – filled with regrets and stinging rebuttals spilled out torn snapshots and movie magazine pages –
The shape of the face and neck
is not enough for the neck –
No one found a way
because of the song
he composed.
He sent a song of justice
sliding across the floor,
a Silly-Putty ball,
with stretched
comic-strip faces.
A recent moment of his romance, sits like a cigarette ember on a foil-ball ~ his general vision feels fictive, hugged by the edges of a faded snapshot, a monochrome moment of the mundane wistfully becoming a blurred shadow – He opens that venting heart to the door, has a kiss compromised by the chafing light etching loss on his dry paper lips.
Before going to bed,
7 Hidden Swans,
like a man’s backpack,
carry the weary burden
upward.
I have a picture of my father
Blown off the wire I made –
ice is tied to a rope
that rises in the smoke.
That day is cool for me –
The Photo is broken now,
keeps the smoke swirling
in front of the curtain.
It is said that the skin is exposed –
I(t) cried and brought the birdhouses
I(t) had collected to my room.
Lying next to the landline,
Eye was surrounded by light –
tracks appears
in a vibrating scene.
It smells at night –
Weaving threads
And the trees’ limbs
rooted in the empty sky.
Not because eyes are red
after kissing her –
her neck finally felt the light –
the headlights in her ears, sticking like a thumb to the sugared doughnut, on which her portrait/his painting was standing.
While working in Paisley, I paint both the floor and the water, under a watch full of eyes. I have hands, but it’s oil-paint, like melted butter turning into rue. Oil for me and my favouritism car can be turned on at any time –
I Keep it in Good Condition – like a song that keeps repeating at the mention of a name in a photograph.
Maybe it’s that person, but not me,
a singer who doesn’t like singing –
A photo of a curtain trying to escape on the sand –
A bird that smokes like a kiss,
She closes her eyes and hugs me,
as I stand in the Camera Obscura that is her heart.
I’m a liar, probably;
stork stands in low waters
twists head catches frog –
eyes catch headlights’ gaze,
I can no longer trust a woman to stare at me
and sing an unfamiliar song.
This collage poem is my response (derived/inspired by) to sweet burn of fire.
This Dadaist mix combined other pieces of text from various sources, including a random word generator, Project Gutenberg , some of my other compositions, as well as other online archival text. It went through multiple translations & reassembling before coming back to English for final rearrangement and word-phrasing modification. The final form became a surreal stream of consciousness hardboiled narrative.
Implied Spaces 