The Mandolin at Dusk

Discussion in 'Poetry' started by cannabis=freedom, Feb 9, 2009.

  1. Wrote this the other day and thought I'd try and get an opinion on it...let me know.

    Her prune-like soul had murmured down.
    The pyre bones have drunk their fill.
    He dismounts, stained with scarlet tape.
    Bands efficient choke his eyes.

    He strolls aloft, down past the town,
    Hangs the rat who’d marked the sill,
    Spits the sweet and poisoned grape.
    The cherub shrieked to drown the flies.

    The mandolin, on feathered seas,
    It washed his civil, waxen ear.
    The breath of strings—each tremor sank,
    Each crystal thrum, it tuned within.

    What Huxley strummed a soul trapeze?
    What old Rimbaud plucked forth a tear
    That called to spirits not yet rank?
    Or Blake, the high string’s next-of-kin?

    Some angel sat and played the breeze;
    Autumn leaves passed through her hair.
    She whispered to the rising tune,
    Serenely gazed at nothing full.

    He turned his head; a howling came,
    Burnished growls that rent the dusk.
    Wide mouths’ foam pissed into top hats:
    Crooked wives called prostrate roaches.

    A flicker; then, abject retreat.
    The soft chords faded past the boughs,
    The moonlit lakes where naiads danced
    And kissed the dew with pulsing feet,
    Ever present, ever lost.
    Hat pulled low, he strolled Fluorescent
    With waxen boots to shield his thighs.
  2. No one? Really?
  3. Even if nobody knows what the fuck I'm talking about, which I could understand, any sort of response would be greatly appreciated.

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