Phalanx of Wing
(After a line by Kathryn Smith)
If time crashes broken on sundial stone
a speckled fly old pallid skin seeks,
rain-dropped with summery dew
the morning sheds
from eyes of grounded poets:
then, finally to touch us, their stray
fingers of ripening windshear
like talons mired love becomes
blackening old light.
You'll fly then
over the desert's silvery sands
of lucky jackpot dollars
glistening starfish-like, far beneath
the motions of swift feet running there.
Dissolving moments dour
in heart-beating wings of starlings,
we'll alight in angelic air-pockets.
Just a distant fabric worn by infinity,
the sundial lazily exposes day's vanishing
for that avatar once divine
out of time, sunlight, clouds of flight
from fallen mankind's disbelief
now an unwinged birdman,
Street Music Outside Taco Bell
Now without listening, maybe
in the neighbourhood comes my music
for you. On the tarnished side
of my riddled psyche you implored
with fallen notes outside the Taco Bell
grayed by winter's coldness.
We must leave these suburban streets
the homeboys rant about in rap
with big mouths singing a spicy tongue.
Now without hearing you, in the wind
you hum the whistling of a banquet
cooked from that raw-hewn language
dogs will bark at, disquieting
our own once tuneful ambrosia.
Now without taste, the words
strewn bleeding over hopes of many
still form old lyrics on silent lips
the drunk nights take from us.
I want to write how monstrous
your hungry mouth makes me feel,
how the curvature of devoured bones
strikes my drum skin
for all deaf beauty
Broken Window in Winter
Does it sleep outside my window?
Whenever I imagined winter-worn desires
melted by time:
The crenellated cat blown by withering currents
fostered in natures' unfathomable air
the dogs of pollution will sour
with dire sullying & pornographic sweat.
All we cull from leaking fountains,
damned by a blind cat's eye --
until I found you, white shadow
of my drowning (inside the hallowed
nexus of little gods nestled in
warm rooms of hedonistic childhood,
where I hid from visiting predators
demanding my presence --
a darkness visible?
I waited for you that one pristine hour
to slither in, reborn through the wall
of crystal-faced pane.
Animal as any superhero was, feline-quick
with what lurked outside peripheral being:
Shooting across the glistening lawn
of memory, your icy pale vision
smothered my body of innocence
only a whiskered hand still cages.
The Alien Portrait
Do not hide your flesh
with the fabric binding you,
like a wilted leaf beneath a page
torn from your fallen bible.
The death of fake gods we worship
inside the museum of obsolete art
depicted the fall of humanity's ark
from a galaxy of burned-out colours.
Do not cover your eyes
from the pigment of lost desire
once inhabiting all celestial beauty
before a bolt of nature's wrath
vandalized our lunar dreams forever.
Take the brush from the spaceman,
whose skeletal hand decays
with a saintly relic on a ravaged briar
naked nuns still pray before,
their obscene tongues kissing
the last angel-astronaut's remains.
All sculpted by Michelangelo's spirit
free, at last, from sin in starry fastness:
an alien god's moribund face we paint
reflected anew now, in the light
of some strange heaven.
Living the Dream
When grieving for shadows in the vane
of a simpler lifetime, do you sometimes
see the wind push you in one direction?
Far from the present place, deeply
to an aura where the weather changes
its petrichor of rain weeping
on the dry dust of dead lusts,
until finding you:
the right job, the right babe,
the right wheels exulting asphalt
down the road where the destination
becomes the journey of your U-turn
forever starting over
necking near Bob's Big Boy burger joint
in the endless movie dream crossroads
going nowhere in life:
So don't look back, the highway takes us
to Lover's Lane in a streaming letterbox
where you're brushing long blonde hair
in fragrant city twilight,
smelling of toxic exhaust, funky crap
moldering into a wasteland of found art
my Chevy motor idles crankily in
while inhaling toxic carbon monoxide
we laughed overdosing
on waking pills
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada. His latest poetry book is Particle Acceleration on Judgement Day from Impspired press.
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