Kitten's Litter

that I love kitten. I like fused & confusion in the first stanza, but ganglia ( in my mind) is a little strained.

 

bloodshot
blue blood
soaks the carpet,
old mastodons
with
their busted tusks
and rubber trunks
stretched out,
slither through
the high grass,
the bottle glass.

overdosed,
they're dreaming of
white noise, or
of a white bone nurse,
with an ivory face,
needle eyes
and powder
coating her nose,
she would fold over,
bend over backwards,
transform
and transpose
the way she's rehearsed.

show them how it's done.

 

Wow! A very visual poem, for me anyway.
This leaves me mind's eye full of Ralph Steadman type illustrations. I'm not sure if I get it as you meant it but poetry means different things to different people. You write superbly. I love this. I will read it again and again.

Peace,
Aidan

 

This is good. I like it.

 

Indeed, Hide & Seek is very visual;
stirring the senses with zen magic.

 

you are the lizard queen!

 

I've just read Hide and Seek again. It's really amazing how you work the words, make me think. I can't get this poem out of my head.

Hungrily awaiting more Kitten dropppings.

Peace,
Aidan

 

hi here again..

yes i agree very open poem here.

what moments drove such a swollen pattern
of visions... hide and seek...
again this must be one of the most creative pieces
i have read of yours...so far..
great words such energy..
lovenpeace from saff.

i love the last line : show them how its done...:

 

I know we can go on as separate atoms,
as seafaring wreckage rejecting to settle
as sediment at the bottom of bottles,
rejecting to crash at any particular coast.
Sidetracked, we're ignited by different engines,
hidden under the layers of clothes.
Each morning our bodies are stirred,
wound up, curled up into pellets
that dart back and forth,
as if from the barrels of guns,
or coughed up as phlegm
from somebody's mouth.

We run, until days become blurred and clotted,
but do I stand as a tombstone casting a shadow
upon the ground where we buried the grains,
a memory that grew into
a fruitless tree, with its roots soon to fossilize?

Do I eclipse your mind, sometimes?

And does my name leap off from your lips, sometimes,
into the heavy tobacco air,
where it soars to the ceilings just to burn its wings
and nosedive into smoke.

 

Very well written! I like the use of imagery and your use of words. The choice of wording makes this poem a very enjoyable read.

Peace and love

 

I like the way you use questions to involve the reader. The idea of eclipsing somebody's mind is a great image and the repetition of 'sometimes' seems to suggest a note of self-doubt, hoping for an answer instead of demanding.

I am a bona-fide Kitten fan and wait in earnest for more.

Peace,
A.

 

On a public bus
I was heading back to my cave,
where I could bolt shut the door,
burn idle fire in my electric hearth,
huddle and cower
in layers of textile skins,
while aching for the real human warmth.

And inside the impenetrable walls
of every white padded paper fort
lives an impeccable citizen,
like a thriving house plant,
spreading vines and wires and spilling seeds,
into the neighboring streets.

But on the other side of the glass,
I sit in my invisible,
self-combustible dome,
staring lost at the
houses like marshmallows expanding,
exploding and
oozing with their creamy froth.

And if something were to actually happen,
it would certainly shake the earth,
and the crowds would gather like crows
materialize out of thin air to be the first
to bear witness and immortalize
something delectably tragic.

Later, we’ll lick the stains off the pavements,
savoring mouth watering news,
and burning carnage into the retinas,
until we’re stuffed
and the cycle is complete.
We move on
in search of fresh bait,
in hopes of surviving the heat,
or simply existing,
whether,
embalmed on the bus or inside a glass jar.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

 

I love this.
The bus is really an experience you stare at the faces and the imaginary sepparation they put themselves in. Nobody talks to anybody, everybody is in a bad mood in a hurry, about to OD in boredom and you can see that any little thing, a bottle that fell and rolls on the floor... it becomes entertainment for the masses.

 

Great commentary on the tragedy obsessed, media generation. This poem, same as all of your others really makes me think. I really enjoy reading your work over a period of weeks and trying to make sense of the different thoughts and feelings that it evokes.

May you continue writing forever.
A.

 

Very effective imagery and message, I'm late to watching your posts and I'll go back to start reading as I can to catch up! Everything on Rescue Me was great, that is a great title btw. If I had to pick a favorite part it would be... "we’ll lick the stains off the pavements...". I had written something a couple of years ago where I was trying to capture something along this same message (mostly how we absorb it all and nothing changes the "window doesn't even rattle") but my attempt was not even close to what you captured with Rescue Me. I am impressed!

 

I'm flipping pages,
I'm winding back the clock.

Cued recall and I count all the common objects
that dispatch encoded signals,
(hand lines, playing cards, gravel,
bloody scabs and lindens)
Broken down into
nonsense,
lines, dots and angles
rushing down the neural highways
colliding, combining behind the eyelids.
They throb inside the temples,
pulsating, escaping and reverberating.

I am blind now
from headaches,
in vain grasping the ghosts,
before I am enveloped and engulfed
by the charging currents,
of forgotten people, places and events,
all meshed into knots, like wet hair tangled.
I am adrift amidst this burning shipwreck,
aimlessly swimming in the memory soup,
inside my hollow
cranium bowl.

 

though i'm really liking ur most recent stuff..."aimlessly swimming in the memory soup,/ inside my hollow/ cranium bowl." (awesome image)...i would have to say that one of my all time favorites of yours is "13"...its just so cool.

 

Memory poem is very good, this works for me best:

all meshed into knots, like wet hair tangled.
I am adrift amidst this burning shipwreck,
aimlessly swimming in the memory soup,
inside my hollow
cranium bowl.

 

the invisible threads of nature
tug and pull the cosmos,
like a puppet twitching and writhing
on the chopping block.

the universe is one fussy toddler.

today has been temperamental
and misaligned.

who stepped on whose toes?

it salivated all day,
slobbered all over
the rooftops and sweaters
and downcast heads.
strangers like blind, wet cats
recoiled from one another,
pretended to be bumper cars,
with a discrete, sinister pleasure
from the hit and run and run and run..

 

I don't have time for news,

so when there is a fire
licking the shores
and baking the earth,
or
a new story of the old squabbles
between neighbors and siblings,

I wouldn't know about it.

With my blinders on,
and looking the other way,
entirely inward,
up to my neck in different worries,
my personal stories.

I pay attention to my circadian rhythms, instead.

Currently,
my carpet smells of burned hair
and not because
I perform midnight voodoo rituals,

although perhaps I should look into that,
so that my new found explanation
will conform to the expectation.

But I don't care, really,
not everything must follow guidelines.

so if I want to be the master of a strange phenomena
and have it remain nameless, obscure,
standing by itself and for itself,
I will let it.

The same goes for the essence of feelings

of which I am the single high authority
and all of my consequent decisions
are
infallible
and require no definition or shackles of logic.