February 2nd, 2010
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Maybe she is an angel
maybe she is not
I’m just not sure
I’ve seen her now and then
walking through that slender passage
that exits out of the train station
the one where no one usually goes
because it’s fetid and smells foul
and is too dark,
the one where the water drips from the ceiling
drip drop, drip drop;
she’s always there with her little sheep
the one that has a face identical to her own –
skinless, bony, and hollow.
Moving downwards
toward a dream
that has lured me through a door
cozy and cream colored
enveloping me in softness and warmth
flesh pleasurably disintegrating
until there’s nothing left
but my own bones
deep, deep, down.
An audience of skeletons
that clap their hands and make
a scraping sound
like fingernails on a chalk board
ten times over;
and all the while
the clattering of their teeth
like a fly
buzzing around
in my left ear.
Why would you want
to be a skeleton, he said
that’s just stupid,
after all
who feels sorry for skeletons?
– matt at shadow of iris
skeletonsii
January 18th, 2010
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In the town
at the edge of the barrens
rich goat herders
pay rotund town criers
to shout from their rooftops
the war has come
the war has come.
Four lazy angels
rest by the shore
and care nothing for the war;
two snuggle close
to a goat
with long horns
and black cloven feet
it bays
at the encroaching night;
the faces of these two angels
are like young children
playing hooky from school
or a man
who skips the vote;
the third angel
wades into the water
and glances coyly
at someone on the shore
while she playfully grabs
a long necked crane by the tail
and catlike yanks it down;
the fourth angel
with her feet wading into the sea water
hugs a rock
and nestles her head against
a resting owl
with mischievous eyes
she smiles knowingly
as it is she
who has beguiled the others
into their own desertions;
the long necked crane
now lies sprawled on its back
and to the surprise of the third angel
it jerks spasmodically
and begins to die –
as it looks up it sees
the last shimmering glimmers
of the fading sun
as they highlight
dark foreboding clouds
with a fading silver halo.
Permanent members
of the peace council
argue without cease
and issue communiques
full of nothing
but static
and murmurings.
I thought it was
a horseman’s pick
but on closer examination
I saw it was made of bone;
skulls and teeth
elongated and woven together
into a fabric spread across
a cubic surface
and sealed
with bolts and wire;
the contrite outsides
of a growing and gurgling
deviant machine
resting
at the heart of it all.
– matt at shadow of iris
[The second verse was inspired by a work of Esao Andrews.]
January 17th, 2010
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A giant white skull
lies at the bottom
of an ancient courtyard
cracked and fading
unmolested
for a thousand years.
At an academy for priests
acolytes argue over claims
made by the great leader
as threats
in the form of barbed arrows
rain down;
political stability crumbles.
Before the war
male angels
were said to be
beautiful beyond compare
perfect faces of serenity
and radiant wisdom
gentle oceanic eyes
and with sweeping
expansive
white feathered wings
now
they wear necklaces
of skulls
and their eyes
bulge out
grey masses that see little;
their wings are tattered things
moth-like
and within their smokey patterns
you’ll find the faces
of each mortal
they have slaughtered.
Mounting tensions exist
on the border
between this world
and the next
tunnels are being used
to circumvent death
as souls travel directly
from here to there
a blockade
has left more than one
existence
totally annihilated.
A deep hole
a sheer drop
down
winched up on a hook
down you go
down
hundreds of passages
a lost labyrinth
soul smugglers
running hither tither
screaming wildly
in the blackness;
in the small moments
between the screams
if you listen closely
you’ll hear
the sounds of machinery.
– matt at shadow of iris
January 16th, 2010
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If a stranger walks into your life
with an uncertain role to play
don’t leave the stranger in left field.
A wingless angel
stark naked
and running into battle
with nothing
but spooks at her side
three bodiless spooks
with strangely oblong
old faces
one with a lolling tongue
the other with a pensive look
and one that lectures the enemy
even as it flies forward to meet them
a fourth little spook has a body
and runs forward with unfathomable terror
written across its small face
– he is the smart one
for he knows what enemy
he is the going forward to meet
and he would dash away
if given half a chance –
the angel bonds him
with a thin metallic rope
and her hand is right there
at the nape of his neck
keeping him in place;
she’s a mean looking angel
with burning eyes, twisted lips
and a briar of thick tangled hair
hollering as she strides forward
to greet the encroaching armies of evil
she’s just skin and bones
and her halo
makes her an easy target.
The father of modern analysis
is at odds with
the mother of all chance.
– matt at shadow of iris
[Middle verse inspired by a work of Zdzislaw Beksinski.]
January 7th, 2010
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Soft pale loveliness
close yet far
life’s chances
balanced on a pin
and ready to tip
all you have to do is blow
yet who has the courage.
Longtime players
step down
in an uphill struggle
contentious issues arise.
He said,
Every man needs an angel
a man don’t know who he is
and it takes faith
the faith of an angel
to teach him that.
She said,
But what of the angel?
He said,
What about her?
More pain lies ahead
says the great leader
reforms are vital
out of your pocket
and by the sweat of your brow
we will get them.
Books upon books
falling into each other
important books
pretentious books
forgotten books
hard to find books
books here
and books there
sweet books
and sour books
cold books
and hot books
so many books
you’re swimming in them
and falling asleep in them
until you don’t want to wake up
you’re dreaming books.
A long history of poor health
chronic congestive heart failure
a sad and tragic end –
psychiatric evaluations
and a post-mortem
reveal
a tendency towards
supremacism and shooting.
I miss you
I miss you in a way you can’t know
it’s not the way
you always touched me
so gently
and with such care
it’s not that beautiful look
you always had
outside on a cold day
with your cheeks flushed
and your hair just slightly falling
over your cool eyes
it’s not that at all
nor all those other things
it’s all that I should have been to you
and wasn’t
that’s what I miss.
– matt at shadow of iris
December 18th, 2009
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Trying to stay positive
in world like this
can be hard
even for angels
that is why so many
have gone into hiding.
Beautiful colors
soft green fading into yellow and orange
I see her standing there
and I know nothing about her
but there is something there
something so alluring and so mysterious
that I’m convinced I’ve got to speak with her
at any cost
yet as I near her
she fades away
not quickly but ever so slowly
so that I’m sure
she was an angel.
Angels
winged creatures
birthed out of human imagination
solely for religious observance
they are a cultural conception
symbolic and mythical
so you thought
until today
when you saw her
floating outside your window
open up
pull her in
save her.
Out there in the grassy meadow
in the big tree that lights up every morning
when the sun shines through
when each wavering branch
is a silver silhouette against the dawning day
that’s where you’ll find her
right there in the lower branches;
after the storm
like so many others
her wings were broken
so she sits there day after day
and yet you’ve never seen her
because you were never looking;
silver and sparkles
how brilliantly she shines
a coy angel
who says not a word
yet gazes down at you fondly
every time you pass by.
Former angel stabbed,
second-hand reports say
it was the left arm
but there is no official report
of the incident
nor will they be
as angels
have fallen out of favor.
In a place where hot molten metal
is poured into a mold
and sparks fly madly
and the smell of sulfur
is powerful and overwhelming
she hides
right there in the corner
in that small cool blue space within a space
where she is immune to everything;
she hides because she’s lost her feathers
every last one of them has been taken
by the red eyed one
who even now searches for her;
she drapes a silk green cloth around her
and it blends with her green tattooed skin
intricate, geometrical organic forms
reflect her nature;
she will need long feathers
to string together a makeshift wing
if she is to rise again
if she is to get back into the battle
you must believe in her
because this battle
is for you.
A law banning winged creatures
larger than a bird
violates an angel’s right to be
so a judge ruled last Thursday
but Society for a Safer World (SSW)
plans an appeal saying
angels are a bad influence on children
who might try to duplicate their feats of flying
and hurt themselves.
Sh, be quiet,
look over there
another coy little angel
she has shrunken down
into the crooks and crannies;
she’s down there with the mites
and you’d need an electron microscope
just to see her, but even then
if your heart were too small
she’d elude you just the same;
she holds the thin red line
the one that can take her back
but only if she can hold on
long enough –
only if she can will herself
not to let go;
she is sad, so sad
because once she had wings
massive and gorgeous
but they’ve been transformed
into branches
that fan out from her
and get tangled with her hair
how it hurts
in more ways than one
her lower half is slowly
turning to stone
but she holds on
not for herself
but for me
and you.
The police laid a total of 128 charges
against three angels
that were rounded up last night
having found them singing in a grove;
it was a pre-dawn strike
the angels quickly huddling together
and surrendering in fear,
among the charges were
flying without a license
public gathering without prior approval
and public indecency –
the angels being but scantily clad;
the angels are being held without bail
until a hearing can be set.
In that shadow over there
yet another angel hides
she’s huddled up
a broken marionette
knees to chest
one wing a make shift thing
the other a broken pole
she’s covered almost entirely
in masking tattoos
that ancient, intricate pattern again
geometric and organic
soft and delicate;
a shawl is thrown over her cold naked body;
she is the saddest angel of them all,
her face is dark and covered in smears
tear blurred;
her eyes are so long
and so dark
and so sad
that they drip with a melancholia
so intense they evoke an attractive force
strong enough
to draw into it
anything that nears them;
what will it take to fix her?
[Inspired by the work of Mark A. Nelson and recent stories of angels in the news.]
