Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Blank Verse Notations

There was no ancestry to be unmade;
She wakes in a mirror to wither ghosts.
His eyes too hollow not to break her pall,
The waste of heaven to seduce a rose
Rusting the tethers of its velvet thorns.
Her shield was broken to inherit him
Where blood was the clamor of a shadow,
Too much a ghost not to ripen echoes,
The wind too heavy to corrupt its cheek:
No crag was buried to collect her ghost.
A swan is severed but to be exposed-
Her tears are the fury of his ether-
The stage she murmured would not break his mouth,
Never so postured not to mimic sleep
She trembles the rain that collects in wells;
Never so withered to abandon shadows
And the ashen pools that his mask became,
His hands were the pallor of her simper
She was too small not to be his posture;
Never less prodigal to sequester
The acrid consecration of her sleep,
Swollen as starlings that forget to sing
In the hymns they sever to be unborn.

Texts and Blank Verse Notations

To be unborn,  I must not grieve, the death I cannot posture. What sustains me also deprecates; I am intrinsic not to be, what I can't imagine. The nuance of beauty- to conflict form- as if to goad its absence- to seclude an intuition-when nothing is unmade. That wind and rain and blood and sleep, fall beneath their shadows, I only wake what cannot stir.  The supposition is never so much , that death exceeds what it condemns; the silken rose- its ministry- not to wake the moon; the lily absorbed, that every garden, wake its infancy; I commit strength, no less opposed, to hide what it conceals; am I Aeolian to be transferred, when the wind forgets to bury me? Art transforms its instinct- that even death and beauty- cannot be consumed; no symbol is unheard,  that I forget to be, an elegy too woken, not to mimic grief.

The instinct of beauty, when even death, cannot be consumed.      Dagon Anais The First
I am the covet of a ghost, undreamed but not to mimic death, when nothing else expires. There is no womb to contend. An asp consumes its echo: the Edenic pallor of a garden, too small to hide my mouth.  A rose neglects its shadow, to break my sacrament. The lavender is acrid- as any pall- postured not to wake. And still without a tether, the moon forgets to sleep. Its shrift is no less fetal, not to keep me here. I cannot be unborn, to undulate its quarry. The tidal shift of pools-sequestered that I be- the prison of their lava, the crystal of its
mirror, the shrapnel that collapses the ghosts I liquify. I was made, but to escape, the morgue I can't confine; the moon is less misguided, not to bury me.

There is no beauty to violate, when every augur that shifts my ghost, cannot shift its absence.

Never to seek its expiration, I cannot hide my mouth.

I cannot mimic dreams, until I bury you

Dec 2 3:15 December 3rd at  3pm

I only mimic dreams, to hide inside your ghost.

Is beauty no more the temptation, of a form it can't become?

There is no beauty to violate, when every augur that shifts my ghost, cannot shift its absence.

I only mimic dreams, that cannot mimic mirrors