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Thursday, September 18, 2008

"archive poetry 2" by Dennis Hammerschlag





FOUNTAIN PEN

 

 

THERE LIVED A PEN

WITHOUT A TOP FOR

SHE WAS NOT AT HOME

 

AND EVERY WHERE

THE PEN DID FLY

IT CALLED HER NAME

UNTIL IT RAN DRY

 

AND THEN DISCARDED

FOR YOU SEE

THAT PEN

WAS NOT

MUCH USE

TO ME





*     *     *     *     *






 

EXHIBITION

 

 

 

Pose for future references

In clearly painted ink

The dynamics of nature

Or the subtlety of stink

 

The subject closer

Closer still

Until it is touched

In blatant thrill

 

Immortality in fleshy ways

That distant maze of death

Becomes more real

More obstinate to seal




*     *     *     *     *





Echo

Echo

 

Echo

 

 

Echo

 

 

 

Echo

 

 

 

 

Echo

 

 

 

 

 

Echo

 

 

 

WHO DID SHOUT  ?





*     *     *     *     *





 

THE MISER

 

 

Because I do not worry about you

I cannot love you

 

Because I worry about you

Enough not to worry about you

 

I am trying to love you

 

Because I worry about you

I love you

 

Worry

Worry

Worry

Worry

Worry

Worry

Worry





*     *     *     *     *




 

SPACE

SPACE

MOVES

MOVES

 

SPACE

MOVES

SPACE

MOVES

 

SPACE

MOVES

MOVES

SPACE

 

MOVES

SPACE

SPACE

MOVES

 

MOVES

SPACE

MOVES

SPACE

 

MOVES

MOVES

SPACE

SPACE




*     *     *     *     *






 

SHRINE

 

 

A company of strangers

Marched slowly through

Deathly silent trouble

Formed to cure the few

 

Remaining strong holds

Deep individual desire

Energy in with fantasy

Belief before the fire

 

Drowning in the custom

Careful while the game

Fierce anagram of time

Learns to call my name







*     *     *     *     *







If all the sky

Were painted red

 

And people lived

Without a head

 

Would you still

Be mine in bed







*     *     *     *     *





Colours . . . . .

Perfection

Of the image

To us

Adorned with Light

expecting And revealing it.

 

 _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Containing And sealing it

As our reality







*     *     *     *     *






 

 

 nuclear  waste

 

 

Nothing for

This life of wishing to be

In something different

Every time the hurt

Strikes up the past

To last as long as

It endures

The cures

Make vicious

The kind

 







*     *     *     *     *





 

 

Hors-d’ oeuvre

 

 

Grave

Gravy

Compost

Composite

The curfew

Of abundance

Like the gift

Without a name

Eclipses the social

Enterprise revising

The codes unloading

Procedure

To establish

Its metabolism





*     *     *     *     *



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