Death Breathes Quick
(in memory of Jean-Michele Basquiat)
Warhol dreamed a tender corpse disciple
in the silhouette of his fingers flailing;
did we ever really know his name?
did we ever really know the prince's
face whose crown we heard?
Samo slept in boxes,
leaves in pigtail dreads.
He painted tires for the
shredded minds of soldier foot fools.
Can you taste his frustration
like our ignorance sat bitter
on his tongue?
Does it taste like heroin death,
like cocaine distraction,
like graffiti to an insane god?
stop signs are out of place
on a street that's not yet
finished. and paint cans
run thin when death breathes quick.
Don't smile anymore, Jean-Michele;
just run with your robe
wide open to the wind,
and we will know your name,
and our tears shall stain your
canvas with the knowing
you so desparately wanted to share.
Death breathes quick
when shredded minds
empty paintcans
with fingers flailing thin
as basement dreams.
death breathes quick.
______________________________________
PORCELAIN ANGELS
trembling,
absence absorbed
in tender seduction,
severed abstraction,
careless resurrection,
breathes
a random gesture,
a casual echo,
a dusty yawn
embracing devotion.
prophets
feed empty stomachs
with fragmented hope,
vacant eyes
with an uncertain passage of
gathering time,
intoxicated minds
with the elixir of eternal life,
leaving
no elements to drown
in a brittle lagoon of
porcelain angels
bleeding sacrifice
to a broken god.
sacred voices linger
like blind, perfumed child
wearing
glassy, haunted trust
in a cold fever
dark cloud
of steel belly
desire;
and the prophets
breathe
tender seduction
to a newborn,
empty stomach
alchemist
intent on
sustaining the
motion of Truth's
brittle resurrection.
_______________________________
LET THE STALE BREAD BUDDHAS
LIE DOWN AND REST
Have you seen velvet teeth
in the mouth of Madness,
purple satin pupils in a
poet's eyes,
lace nipples
on the future's fragrant breast?
Have you played hopscotch
in a sparrow's nest,
bled desire in an unfettered
boat breathing patience,
sipped silence
from a silk-strawed
glass of hope?
Stale bread Buddhas rest
on the woodpile
as poets
carry water
to the masses;
forget everything,
drink deep,
and
be
free.....
_______________________________________
STALE GUM WISDOM
old man on street corner,
west side
of town...
he breathes
uncertainty
with each
step...
at his feet,
crushed can,
memorial
to a young boy's
anger...
memories
of sadness
whisper heavy-foot
on concrete
steps
to the
wilderness,
and self-righteous tilt
to his gait,
the old man
stumbles
briskly,
whistle balancing
on salt-shaker edge
of sidewalk dreams...
he chews
wisdom
like stale gum...
old man
fingers
coffee-stained beard,
pausing
somewhere between
walls of Faith
and Madman fantasies
of luxury...
old man
whispers
white walled night,
he chews wisdom
like stale gum,
and he hides
his wings
from our fear...
________________________________
AND BESIDES
red velvet curtains are drawn
tight over your eyes,
hiding well the tears,
but not the passion.
and besides, I am blind
and need not look into
your eyes to see your love.....
(...behind red velvet curtains...)
iron shackles bind your lips together,
holding in the words,
but not the moans.
and besides, I am deaf
and need not words or moans
to hear your love.....
(...bound in iron shackles...)
gloves of thorns adorn your hands
keeping in their softness,
but not their warmth.
and besides, I am clothed
and need not flesh against mine
to feel your love.....
(...gloved in thorns...)
sound-proof walls surround your ears
deflecting my words of affection,
but not the longing voices
of your own soul.
and besides, I am mute
and need not speak
to tell you of my love.....
(...behind sound-proof walls...)
you - bound in iron shackles,
hands gloved in thorns,
behind sound-proof walls
and red velvet curtains.....
me - blind, deaf, mute, and clothed
and yet....still,
we make love...
all text copyright 1997, Christopher Pond
chris@coffeenet.net
_______________________________
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