|Props to for the image and for helping me create an account . In Shanghai, expat travelling around the world.|
On the making of a Mikado and second trombonesYou tuned the radio during the time we lastOn the making of a Mikado and second trombones by reflectionsinwater
saw eye to eye, when
the frequency of anger in an uncountable Hertz
stringed itself from my bleached taut hair.
You coined this as being played like a bad first violin
in a school orchestra, when understatements were clichés,
but you wouldn’t listen to any of it. Allegro then
Andante in the most perfect doll house, you nurtured
beasts on beats, clambering their bricks.
Frozen and sent to hell,
I see millions of resisting hands.
They scream, they shout, they
panic. Soundless. I remember the student house dripping after and
I count them.
One, two, three -
O, here that
lovely four fingers
waving at me, naked.
One: I hold the world on four points as a marble Atlas
in your storm of ashes. Flashing the saxophone harbinger,
you knew how to suffocate blackbirds of their songs.
But what does a teacher know?
Two: the gossiping rain keeps on falling into my
dissolving heart. The shattering
of the little mirror is only beginning.
Why the fish-men are so many, and we, so fewKois flock like rainbows, trellis vinesWhy the fish-men are so many, and we, so few by reflectionsinwater
evolved to curl to the Moon and dine.
We are rivers, but from gold mines,
the rails align and we find birds
evolved to curl. We are rivers
given to furnish vacant land.
We are rivers, but forgot, and
evolved to curl fish to brigands.
Past canopies foresaw this dirge:
we are rivers (evolved) to curl.
Self-EulogyYour winter’s hammock has a seam of snowSelf-Eulogy by reflectionsinwater
from when your cloud-capped head weaved crystal webs.
Poetic imprints, angels inked in cold
are memories etched in your paper corpse.
You left some things, but words were not your force.
Figuring it out was the breeze. Your folds,
however, soiled your time and what is left,
your ash bed I bought, is a seal of slough.
In dreams, you draw the sewing of slain narwhals
to constellations. I console them. Have
you solved your ode that flails with paradox?
I’ve found your fields of ice, but I was lost.
In summer, you’ve stolen my voice when half
your winter’s hammock is a seal of slough.
After GraduationWhen I was nine,After Graduation by reflectionsinwater
dad used to play gamelan on radio and
he let the bronze chimes strike till ten
like chanting hammer and anvil bones
to an oracle I don’t believe in.
His father was a barrister and so was he
and he left the keys to his office
seven feet high on a kitchen rack.
I would get a broom on my hand and jump and
whip them both till the keys were brushed by a tickle of hair
running with precise pressure. Other times,
he’d lend me his pens and papers and I would fire at it like a knife.
Dad didn’t even try to discourage me. I’d give anything
to rummage natural harmonics from that smirking copper,
at least for a time.
Today, I ran off with the car at his penultimate breath.
He was now a Chrome skeleton,
done away on the dusty floor, a mp3
embedded in his shortened span
with a rib of keys missing from the rack.
It reminds me of a time I was fifteen when he vacuumed our home,
when our living reverie was lost to a space of
screaming stars and scratch
Of Snake Charmers and TreesThere are mathematiciansOf Snake Charmers and Trees by Seilf
that calculate the gravitational pull
that tethers us to one another,
teasing sense out of the fabric
of Time and Space like
wizened snake charmers.
I thought them so horribly unromantic,
searching for logic amidst wildflowers--
reasoning being reason enough
to put one foot in front
of the other each day.
True beauty lay printed
on petals and pages,
where I delved for pearls;
the patterns in the pathos
intriguing me into each
rising of the sun.
I do not remember when
it occurred to me that without fractals
there would be no trees, nor without love
would people have any reason
to calculate the distances that
separate them from their muses.
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstormcenotaph of storms by Lissomer
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
metamorphsi face each day a static-seeming world,metamorphs by deinktvis
so codified, unyielding and concrete.
but that view is with fallacies replete,
for in my mind reality unfurls.
(is it madness' song i hear a-skirl,
or chords plucked from epiphany's vast suite?)
i slip between the half-shells of my bed-sheets
to dive in search of fey and lustrous pearls.
i shall revel in this dialectic
and shred the weft and weave of sophistry;
i haste' to pop the quiff and in it reel.
as its tides revolve from blithe to hectic,
we are spray of this chimeral sea;
we are naught but spawn of the surreal.
Unbirthday Literature ContestOur beloved home-on-the-internet turns fourteen (with a special "Alice in Wonderland" theme) this week, and we all know what "fourteen" means: acne, the step-and-sway at awkward school dances, and confusing emotions.Unbirthday Literature Contest by ShadowedAcolyte
Or, it means a 14-themed, surrealist literature contest hosted by CRLiterature! This one allows both poetry and prose submissions, so there's something for everyone.
Dates NOW to Aug 19th, 2014, midnight PST (14 days long)
Tone Surrealism - blur the line between reality and the unconsciousTypes of Entries Both Poetry and ProsePoetry your entry must be a sonnet of 14 lines (for more about sonnets, check out this excellent article by futilitarian)Prose your entry must be a complete story, exactly 14 sentences longSubmission respond to this journal with a link to your submission and the words "CONTEST" and either "POETRY" or "PROSE"Also your submission must have a link to