Micky
Disaster area
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2010
- Messages
- 101
- Location
- No man's land.
Catching the Plague: A Cycle of Poems by Micky F****
Salford Rent Boy
Bright as the streets are dark
He bows his head.
February whispers in his ear,
Clings to his side like a leech.
At six in the morning his soul surrendered -
Now February thoughts have closed his eyes.
God, who is busy feeling sparrows,
Has forgotten him.
Episode in an Unhealthy Season
They buried the dead boy
Close to where he was found -
Returned him down to the earth.
That night Orion rose above Los Angeles,
His jewelled skeleton garbed in clouds.
Pain knotted root-deep
Made the city groan aloud;
Noises beneath the earth
Troubled the murderer while he slept,
Pillow muffling his ears.
In the worst minute of the morning
Soil stopped the killer's eyes
And he lay with the boy.
Paranoia
Collar up, cap down,
Shoulders hunched against the rain,
I trudge the endless streets
From nowhere into nowhere.
The way I hold myself repels approach
And my face is grey and cold.
I am proof against the casual friendliness
Of men with winking eyes.
My faithful dog trots at my heels.
"Ya vas lyublyu, my bonny lad,
I'll follow you to Hell."
You see that man with the funny frown?
There he stands,
Looking at me -
He gets me down.
In Therapy
The shards and flakes of memory,
Parings from the murdered boy's fingernails,
Form mounds that bury
What I used to be.
So much I lost
I am nothing now.
Here I am less than a dog!
I who played the whore,
Making my lost father weep,
I have embraced calumny
To no purpose.
Time brings the hyena,
His murderous appetite.
Here, thwarted in a proper hunger,
He scavenges on the dead.
Three Poems for B****
1: Love
This child, my song
Has fled into the jungle like a bird,
Like a bird has gone.
Upon the river
Floats a green tree-wreck, my heart
To follow her.
Leaf-tongued Indian
In mournful answer to the birds
Calls low and long.
His child, his song
Where lie the mossy skulls in mounds
Echoes on.
Birds, oh birds,
The fluting jungle like a glass
Distorts his words!
2: Dreams
Above the Amazon are butterflies,
Their yellow leaves all written on
With silver pictograms like diamonds.
A flayed man I, from whose miraculous skin
These dreams have sprung.
Myself is that I look upon.
The river is obsidian
Where green and black flow on and on -
All this I am.
3: Escape
You and me, we belonged to the Panare.
We drank the silent water
Where the alligators are
And shouted through the jungle
Yiha! Yiha!
When the great trees rose to greet the morning.
The pair of us had nothing to do all day
But be, be,
Two brown day-flowers
Under the green leaves.
Rebirth
Give like a word
Your presence,
Into this silence
Wing like a bird.
Break like a stone
The distance,
Into this stillness
Swing like a sword.
Take like a cup
This body.
Here is existence.
Drink
Salford Rent Boy
Bright as the streets are dark
He bows his head.
February whispers in his ear,
Clings to his side like a leech.
At six in the morning his soul surrendered -
Now February thoughts have closed his eyes.
God, who is busy feeling sparrows,
Has forgotten him.
Episode in an Unhealthy Season
They buried the dead boy
Close to where he was found -
Returned him down to the earth.
That night Orion rose above Los Angeles,
His jewelled skeleton garbed in clouds.
Pain knotted root-deep
Made the city groan aloud;
Noises beneath the earth
Troubled the murderer while he slept,
Pillow muffling his ears.
In the worst minute of the morning
Soil stopped the killer's eyes
And he lay with the boy.
Paranoia
Collar up, cap down,
Shoulders hunched against the rain,
I trudge the endless streets
From nowhere into nowhere.
The way I hold myself repels approach
And my face is grey and cold.
I am proof against the casual friendliness
Of men with winking eyes.
My faithful dog trots at my heels.
"Ya vas lyublyu, my bonny lad,
I'll follow you to Hell."
You see that man with the funny frown?
There he stands,
Looking at me -
He gets me down.
In Therapy
The shards and flakes of memory,
Parings from the murdered boy's fingernails,
Form mounds that bury
What I used to be.
So much I lost
I am nothing now.
Here I am less than a dog!
I who played the whore,
Making my lost father weep,
I have embraced calumny
To no purpose.
Time brings the hyena,
His murderous appetite.
Here, thwarted in a proper hunger,
He scavenges on the dead.
Three Poems for B****
1: Love
This child, my song
Has fled into the jungle like a bird,
Like a bird has gone.
Upon the river
Floats a green tree-wreck, my heart
To follow her.
Leaf-tongued Indian
In mournful answer to the birds
Calls low and long.
His child, his song
Where lie the mossy skulls in mounds
Echoes on.
Birds, oh birds,
The fluting jungle like a glass
Distorts his words!
2: Dreams
Above the Amazon are butterflies,
Their yellow leaves all written on
With silver pictograms like diamonds.
A flayed man I, from whose miraculous skin
These dreams have sprung.
Myself is that I look upon.
The river is obsidian
Where green and black flow on and on -
All this I am.
3: Escape
You and me, we belonged to the Panare.
We drank the silent water
Where the alligators are
And shouted through the jungle
Yiha! Yiha!
When the great trees rose to greet the morning.
The pair of us had nothing to do all day
But be, be,
Two brown day-flowers
Under the green leaves.
Rebirth
Give like a word
Your presence,
Into this silence
Wing like a bird.
Break like a stone
The distance,
Into this stillness
Swing like a sword.
Take like a cup
This body.
Here is existence.
Drink
