"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

When it is even off the spectrum . . . . . . . . . . .

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

 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

*     *     *     *     *

"archive poetry" by Dennis Hammerschlag

no matter........hard
what care........soft


they give........mirror
the waste.......street


its energy.......illusion
evaporates.....complete









* * * * *







ANTICIPATION



down
up
swing
drop
catch
swing
grey
green
dip
blurred
slurred
squeak
rattle
loose
free
swing

maybe
the slide

no
still the swing

effortlessly
rhythmical

they are all stuck
except me
flying

time for

not yet
still
working

giddy
with
sky









* * * * *







exquisitely lost
all found
free enterprise
embossed with words
my love for you
human zoo
and bait
candid curtains
and wait
if you will
until exercise
in open throated ease
does its duty well
and we can relate

but now I don't know
try another picture.








* * * * *








Selective breeding
interbreeding
leading
to collective
motion receding
in favour of speciality
automatically without the tribe
losing their mention in books

remember this one
and how it looks
feeding
with those
hooks believing
and voting number one
its common strength violated only
by itself at length saturated

how they discarded
what now is known
as
precious
time immortal period
where we may be happy
loving every other person
as often as we live unguarenteed

and so limited they
must have been
hey !
here comes
the queen, me first

making love to heirachy
can we get any higher or lower now
that we are all the same company.









* * * * *








London



Down by the river turps
just before the Tate
it led me quietly
to the order

then in through
late afternoon
to fete the gate

adjust the colour
muller the coarse
to force the finite

measure of this moist
malignance

flirts the canvass
abstract as childhood
enrapt while it should
bevy its potential
to succumb

would the main
but lift its maul
every drawl
would have its turn.







* * * * *

poetry by dennis hammerschlag

Eat the rich

 

Rape the bitch

 

This is the land for which

We fought with

Common suffering

 

Fruit of Africa

Brute breeding

Brought to this

Feeding

Whole

In a suit

 

Intent to disguise

This is the ruling party

 

Prized from the ranks

 

Giving

 

Thanks.

* * * * *

THOUGHT

Make-up of the sky

Wry conjecture
Forms in a function

Once alive
Once dead
Perhaps the head
Or some substance
Along the way

Lay abstract
Found
Or still undiscovered
Of which we are not
Even the smallest part


Beloved
The dream in life
Without living
In a dream

* * * * *

used

Stay near the plug

Let it shine through

Let it all

Get through to you.

Listen well

The force dictates

Relax those keen

And heavy gates

Ravage

Your brain

Again

And again

Untouched

It dies

Just the same

* * * * *

january

Black back grounded Prado

Misty in the winter streets.

Nanny goated Goya silent

Happy once

Happy still

But silent.

Violent once

Violent still

But happy

Entombed beneath Madrid.

Released upon the pavements

Copies wait

To tempt the maddened eye.

Caught painters jest and shy

At reality and tourists

Morality and jurists

From behind closed window panes

Siesta’d in the midday rush

Swords lie quietly

Purses empty

Stuffed bulls don’t make a sound

Just the rhythm

Of the traffic

And the cold

Deep red streams of life

Conducted

Quickly to their mould

With computers soon

Not satan

To feed upon the fold.

* * * * *

HOPELESS

HOMELESS

DESPERATE

DEGENERATE

CLOTHES WHICH LACK

HOPE

FRAYED

BLACKENED ROPE

AND ALL THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S

FINERY HAS CAUGHT YOU

THUS

UNARMED

IN A LIFE OF PLENTY

SUN AND WIND AND RAIN

AND ALL THE BRAIN

MANKIND DESERVES

BESTOWED ON YOU

TO WATCH

THROUGH THE WRONG END

OF A CAMERA

* * * * *

if

IF ALL THE SKY

WERE PAINTED RED

AND PEOPLE LIVED

WITHOUT A HEAD

WOULD YOU STILL BE

THE SAME IN BED ?

* * * * *

patience

Needed offer

Proffered to sufficiency

Inhumed

Assumed

Sucking

Clinging

With the strength of death

In her relaxing

Vibrant

Coloured

Tender

Taxing

No distance

No defeat

Milking every thought

Chewing each desire

Conceding until the meat

The waste

Lies still.

* * * * *

nhlangano

Sucked to sleep

Rank and file

Beguiled bile

Fit to reap

The poison of pleasure

Muted measure

Lost treasure

Even as I wrong

Guide the song

Develop through the muster

Classify the cluster

In the rain

Gorge the fantasy of hunger

Monger until the calm

Pervades the pain

And reason grades

The future

Formally

* * * * *

ZOOLAKE

WILLOW TREE

Oozing gently

Mattered

Golden

Light

Twilight

Of the seasons

Heralding the night

Blinding me with sight

* * * * *

SMILE. . .

I LOVE YOU

WHEN YOU SMILE

THAT DEEP MELANCHOLY

NOT SHATTERED BY LAUGHTER

BUT CARVED IN A SMILE

CROWDS AND LOUDS

AND WASTED WORDS

LIGHTS AND BRIGHTS

AND SWERVING THOUGHT

HOPELESS TANGLES

ROTATING ON LUST

BUST WIDE OPEN

AND REJECTED

BY YOUR SMILE

* * * * *

Because we both

Meeting new people

Who cannot take our crowd

And are living whatever piece

Price has paid

To convene

It

Because we

Can redeem it

With anything is possible

It exposes us as well

Sell the favour

Buy the food

Conjure every

Tender mood

That lies

Circuit printed pattern

Because we

Gross

Overbearing

Frog of identity

Sacred pet

Wet

Or squashed along the road

Blocked because we

Dry to set

Dissecting secret

Fresh as the wind

Then burnt

With ashes

And melted

Fresh as the air

Your love for it.

* * * * *