Monthly Archives: January 2010
if I could
If I could
I would write a poem
that paints a picture
that says a thousand words
in less than that.
– matt at shadow of iris
faces
We don’t understand faces any longer
we don’t understand attraction
back then, time was
when life was harsh
physically
it took a toll
you were out there in it
meshing with it
and the cold hurt
two much smoothness frightened us
but a rough, worn face
a face that could take it all in
and keep it
then still move on
that was a face that reassured
so back then
everyone wanted a face like that
yet now the biggest concern
is knowing when and how to smile
to show you’re not so dumb
and that older face
has gone out of style
everyone’s afraid
they don’t quite fit in
and it shows in their faces.
– matt at shadow of iris
speak in dreams
Speak in dreams
every word a picture
iconography
a visual collage
that tells you a secret
you can never quite
hear.
– matt at shadow of iris
gears and time
Rotating machines
with cut teeth meshing
going round and round
inside my head.
Time moving;
some say it’s a river
flowing endlessly to the sea
but I think it moves diagonally
across corners catty
and in and out of cul-de-sacs.
Two gears working in tandem
creating a transmission
that yields a mechanical advantage,
a simple machine.
Time is a funny thing;
sitting alone in my own reveries
I’m certain it has reversed,
I’m growing younger by the minute
until I am a small child in my room
scared of the dark
and too afraid to scream.
The teeth move
each one falling
into the next
a perfect harmony;
this is the meshing,
each gear
feeding off the other.
Entropy works against all things,
we are unwinding
like a curled spring bouncing out
in slow motion
a twirl in the dust creating
an infinity of forms
here one moment
gone the next
insubstantial mirages
fading fast.
A simple disk
teeth projecting radially,
the edge of each tooth
straight and aligned;
I’m flying away from
the axis of rotation
and I can’t get back.
Enthralled by
the movement of time;
watching the hand on a clock
as it clicks off each second
and trying to fathom
what happens
in between each tick.
A refinement,
the leading edges of the teeth
no longer parallel
to the axis of rotation;
instead, set at an angle
making a crossed orientation
possible, but only
if you can hold on.
Time is different
when you’ve no watch or clock
to tell you how to count
each passing moment;
time is different
when you stand out
in the forest
at the break of dawn
and watch
as the sun streams
through the wildlife
highlighting the fresh dew
on each spreading leaf,
the sound of birds
suddenly going aflutter
and sonorously crying
at the coming light.
A rack is a toothed bar,
a sector gear
with an infinitely large radius
of curvature;
meshed with a pinion
rotation is converted
into left and right
motion yielding direction.
A tiny bud on a tree
sprouting out
a small curled stem
unfurling into a large
flapping leaf
covered crisscross
in an intricate pattern
of circuits and passages
taking in energy
and feeding its mother
all summer long
under a hot sun
and then as the air cools
gradually wilting
first red, next brown
then gently letting go
fluttering to the ground
and waiting under ice and snow
until again when the heat comes
to be taken by a bird
slightly torn, but back into the tree
part of a nest
holding eggs that give way
to small feathering birds
that finally fly off
leaving you to slowly fade
back into the dust
from which you came.
– matt at shadow of iris
better to be
Better to be
a fly in the ointment
than
a cog in the machine.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel xxiv
In the center of a clearing
in a place where no one dares go
you’ll find a tall tower of stone brick
nestled among large contorted rocks
that hug its foundation
from where it rises up
a cloud buster
with a crowning cone roof
made of small welded fragments
of brass and copper
a narrow sedge hat
gently resting on a tall silo
from which almost unobtrusively
a drain pipe juts out at the top
and softly pours a thin stream
of thick, viscous, black oil
that falls straight down
and lands squarely on the head
of a bald Rapunzel;
she is a sad, pathetic thing
hiding her eyes
while holding up her face with her hands
high up in the tower’s only window;
the oil hits her head, dead center
and pours away to either side
again falling straight down
and giving Rapunzel
long thick strands of hair
that no prince will ever climb
and no witch will ever cut.
Lace front wigs growing coarse and dull
on sheiks who don’t need them;
heady days are ahead, an oil rush
over rocky planes, olive oil will make
their hair silky and shiny
even wavy, and full of
elastic truth.
– matt at shadow of iris
[This poem was inspired by the work of Esao Andrews]
murmurs and shrapnel xxiii
When the trees
begin to clear
and the leaves fall away
you’ll find a city
built up into the mountains
old ancient buildings piled
one on top of the other
a haphazard jumble
each building falling
into the the rest.
The question unimaginable;
call on time to stop
abandon a career and sell your life
leave yourself with virtually nothing
and from this set out to find
a thriving nexus between
this world
and the next.
Out in the barrens
deep below the earth
down where the ground
is still cool and dank
there is a sealed chamber
where hangs suspended from coarse strings
under dust covered interwoven spider webs
a small curled desiccated package,
a lost womb;
its contents have gestated for a thousand years,
inside, something once human
only now, disproportionate, twisted;
yesterday this package began to glow
a very faint shimmering citrine
that washes the walls of the ancient chamber
in dim shades of amber;
long-legged spiders scurried to escape
when it started and now
on either side of of the package
from the walls
arms upon arms have begun to slowly emerge,
out of synch they waver;
skin and bone arms, wrinkled hands
each decrepit finger
hanging loose
a means of worship
for the small form above
as it begins to take shape;
among all the undulating arms
a single one near the top holds
between thumb and forefinger
a chain from which dangles
a medallion of purgation,
it will purify an old and forgotten body;
a second arm of note has fallen to the floor
only to turn up the palm of its hand, revealing
a ring of transmutation,
this ring will reanimate the form that hangs above
when moments from now
it falls from the ceiling to the floor
and shakily places the ring
upon its own aged finger;
a seam in the wall
directly behind the ring
has appeared
it reveals a short stone sealed aperture;
soon it will be opened.
No new injections in sight
but bad omens are not
a particularly pleasant
dose of medicine.
– matt at shadow of iris
[This poem has been inspired by the work of Zdzislaw Beksinski]
helicoid
A mirror in space
a minimal surface
every point a helix
contained in infinity
twice over
dark and light spirals
drilling through me.
– matt at shadow of iris
fading into you
A gentle serene face
softly sleeping
curled up like a baby
utterly harmless
no danger to me
and while you were awake
and near me
I feared you so
yet now how tenderly
I wish I could hold you
and snuggle in there close
lay my head upon your chest
and rest
imperceptibly
fading into you.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel xxii
An old brass bathtub
an oblong reddish-brown bowl
on four short black legs
gently curved piping
that winds like tree vines
from the floor
all the way to the spigot
which curves bird-like over the tub
enough extra piping leftover
to twist, root-like, above
where it supports
a small withered potted houseplant
a cactus without needles;
viscous and the color
of midnight
black oil
pours from the spigot
into the tub
which is nearly full now;
a woman with long wavy hair
and eyes
the same shade of black
as the oil
sits in the center of the tub
in the flesh
arms curled loosely round her legs
her firm round breasts unhidden;
she stares out
in your direction
staring right through you
right through the entire universe
into the soft nothingness
that surrounds us all.
The minister of energy supports
the takeover and endorses a process
that will create a permanent submission.
– matt at shadow of iris
[This poem was inspired by the work of Esao Andrews.]
