Saturday, February 28, 2015

VISIGOTH ROVER
 
i went on the bus to Cordoba,
and tried to find the Moor's
left over
in their excavated floors
and mosaic courtyards,
with hanging flowers brightly chamelion
against whitewashed walls
carrying calls
behind gated iron bars-
but they were gone
leaving mosque arches
and carved stories
to God's doors.
 
in those ancient streets
where everybody meets;
i saw the old successful men
with their younger women again,
sat in chrome slat chairs,
drinking coffee to cover
their vain love affairs-
and every breast,
was like the crest
of a soft ridge
as i peeped over
the castle wall and Roman bridge
like a Visigoth rover.
 
soft hand tapping on shoulder,
heavy hair
and beauty older,
the gypsy lady gave her clover
to borrowed breath,
embroidering it for death,
adding more to less
like the colours fading in her dress.
time and tune are too planned
to understand
her Trevi fountain of prediction,
or the dirty Bernini hand
shaping its description.
 
 
ON THE TRAIN TO EL CHORRO
 
on the train to El Chorro
something cut me loose,
and i left this tomorrow
of my youth-
in the twilight of a lake,
in the sky mountains break,
rock chasms of echo and truth
brought me to young olive groves,
standing like soldiers in sun-starched rows,
ripe for some buyer and vendor
to trade them
and train them
so profits accrue-
in the style of Milo Minderbender
dealing in Catch 22,
when women loved like floozies,
and sat at the back at the movies-
showing me what to do.
time turned each page
of idealism's rage
into cynicism's age-
on each point of winding track
as i thumbed back
through the book of that tomorrow
on the train to El Chorro.
 
 
OVIRI ( The Savage – Paul Gauguin in Tahiti)
 
woman,
wearing the conscience of the world-
you make me want
less civilisation
and more meaning.
 
drinking absinthe together,
hand rolling and smoking cigars-
being is, what it really is-
fucking on palm leaves
under tropical rain.
 
beauty and syphilis happily cohabit,
painting your colours
on a parallel canvas
to exhibit in Paris
the paradox of you.
 
somewhere in your arms-
i forget my savage self,
inseminating womb
selected by pheromones
at the pace of evolution.
 
later. I vomited arsenic on the mountain and returned
to sup morphine. spread ointments on the sores, and ask:
where do we come from.
what are we.
where are we going.
 
 
 
SHEDDING CLOTHES
 
some soul exposed
open closed
looked at
put back
where it was
because
 
because
it was done
being in sun
unalterably changed
randomness rearranged
moving on
 
moving on
rising out of what has gone
through opaqueless
weightless
windows
shedding clothes.
 
 
THE COMET OF HER WORDS
 
he sheds his matelessness
and shapeless
statelessness
undormed
to lie with her undressed
in woods earth warmed.
after drinking
and thinking
in the hollow trunk of an ancient tree
she reads
his tea
leaves-
and he hears
her nature in the pattern
of her years,
saying now we happen
and the comet of her words
weaves it's sentences
in his,
lets go of bleakness
walking through wilderness
light footsteps in senses.
 
THIS CONCERT OF CONTOURS
 
ear nibbles
neck kisses
sex ripples
mouth wishes
to arms and legs
with minds and heads
is a body ballet
of rock and sway.
this concert
of contours
that squirts
mine and yours
is never too far away
from broken loneliness to play.
your beauty's blushes
colour in my years
and time's rushes
are hands that paint like soft brushes
so unwanted darkness disappears.
 
Strider Marcus Jones