one
thousand roses
let
these roses fill your heart
with
a field of my love, their
fragrance
heady as they yield
in
me words hushed, unspoken
my
silence is now broken : each
rose
says i love you & know each
petal
is a tear i fear to cry if you
leave
me now, forever : please, no
now,
let us unpluck the thorns
from
our sides, let our pain quell
&
subside so we can speak of how
our
love may thrive & spread like
:
let our contentment once again fly
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
more
pillow booking
things
i love:
-
secret bits of land, inaccessible to an everyday human
-
old people who smile at you, sincerely, & without fear
-
complimenting other people on how amazing they look
-
completing a journal as if you have just read a really good book
-
writing in public & how curious other people become of such a
habit
-
the way a pencil purrs to make a line whirr
-
really big thoughts
-
trains
-
double knotting sneakers so they don't fall o0ff or can't be mugged &
the way that tightness binds against an ankle, snug
-
composing poems & the way they leave the head as if leaving home
-
people who are brave enough to be themselves, even if that means the
body they inhabit must change to express how they truly identify
-
the smudges & smears that appear across the length & breadth
of a touchscreen
-
green
-
the possibility that a machine can dream
-
wings
-
walking with a step that springs
-
writing things
-
the silent prayer of hymns
-
giving yourself over to unimagined that faith brings
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
night
murmur
vagrant
dust-kneed poetry is
ambling
&
gritty beneath it’s nailwork
disengaged
from margins
it
is lost in wide white pagination
high
on line break & eloquence of en
-jambment
tabbed
spacing
indents
call to your ear
not
for you to hear
so
close them & fear
for
dramatic effect & in the event
audience
members don’t actively
participate
let
us blacken the stage
here
on
the page
ink
would disappear
unfold
nothing to become absence of itself
your
eye cannot bear what the poem would say nuzzling fingers like a
stray
licking for momentary love
so
take this poem home tonight
carry
it in a queer cochlea
dearly
curved ear bone bed
let
it crawl within & drum
patterning
gag an
urgency
to
fall
out
via
mouth
screaming
to
be heard
either
in private recitation or night terrors
dream
talk has never sounded so exciting
&
then you ruined it by saying something
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
silver
makes everything disappear
i.
enlightened,
elizabeth taylor a
-lights
the silver screen, jumps
into
a warholian print machine
&
multiplies. marilyn & james
&
elvis & even jackie onassis
join
in & lay claim to fame. as
does
buddha, on an off day. an
instant
can contain all this, as
can
a factory: go, find andy, &
ask
for fifteen minutes kindly
.
ii.
to
climb mountains, begin at the
top.
to climb into dreams, swim
from
the drop. either way, please
stop:
ensure all limbs are tucked
up.
sing hims. sing hers. wings
purr
from the head as we come
together
in bed & nod our heads
that
yes, this is the most perfect
place
to flop, face to face. now
,
close your eyes, &, chop chop
.
iii.
an
abode this be: a bodhi tree. with
heart-shaped
leaves, let peace reside
.
your own marilyn find inside your
mind.
on the other side of this wall
,
a monroe breeze blows, a tree’s
canopy
flows like the long lines of
how
a zen garden grows. andy, yo
...how
do i let everything go? here
,
use my phone: ring buddha & ask
him
to send life eternal, in yellow
.
iv.
silver
screens might make stars
appear
closer than they actually
are.
reach up & touch marilyn
on
the lips. lean back & admire
the
artefact. let buddha in & with
one
hand, clap. an applause is a
worthy
cause: it says, you have
arrived,
& for that we’d give a
standing
ovation, live, but these
seats
are just too comfortable
.
v.
when
a tree falls in the forest
,
does anybody hear it’s call
most
gleeful wheee, catch us
!
to collapse is a beautiful act
,
so uproot your shoes, give in
...be
the leaf that flew: relax &
,
inhaling, make naps. awaken
as
a might wood that wraps the
earth
in roots made from equal
parts
dirt & love. then, grow up
.
vi.
versace,
chanel, armani, & louis
vuitton:
such things are irrelevant
in
the face of bemused beaming
beings
like buddha or a white wig
on
andy warhol’s bald spot. shhh
:
quieten the factory of mind &
envelope
a golden light. remember
,
silver makes everything disappear
,
but bronze will make you live on
through
the years. go, cast yourself
.
vii.
dissolve
into dreaming. in
waves,
sleep shall come: to
fall
asleep, listen to a heart
-beat’s
thrum. summon all
dreams
you can only dream
in
the darkness behind your
lids.
like a drum, pounding
,
the sun will rise, as shall
your
song: such things are
inevitable
like love is long
.
viii.
succumb.
become...undone
.
let sleep curl her feet under
your
pillow. hear her purr in
zzzzz’s.
you have until the sun
peeps
his big yellow fun - blaze
in
from the east - to dream your
incredible
dreams, so come &
live
surreal zen themes we have
prepared
for you between these
sheets.
just lay...& greet release
.
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
an
ocularity song
across
the aisle, an elderly
japanese
man is reciting
words
– unknown in his
world
– over & over, as if
chewing
?
what does he say: i seek
only
the truth or i do not
understand,
forsooth. i doubt
it’s
the latter. he continues his
chatter
&
the woman right of
me
begins reading this
poetry.
lady on the left
joins
in, & i close my
journaling
here,
our poem – for it is
just
you & me, reading this
aloud,
silently – opens again
,
& we are on the bus home
jostling
.
but of course it is difficult
to
write poems on public
transport
that isn’t a train, so
this
is scribbled in-between
bouncing
.
drop this poem in weeks
after
its happening : be how
it
brings you back into the
book.
look without having a
look
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
the
gift
as
the panic smacks my
ventilation
system, i keep
my
gaze distant & small
,
‘til i see CCTV watching
me
staring,
we match lens for
lens,
daring the other to
blink
first : neither of us
do.
my eyes tundra without
dew
biometrically,
it scans me
quickly
& i slip through
a
database of face after
face
: none of them match
exactly
i
override its design &
hack
inside, insert myself
as
virus, give it humanity
&
what humanity loathes
:
life
i
am now a ghost inside
the
machine, keen to blood
bolts
& mechanics, give it
the
gift of the blind white
panic
hissing,
this schism is too
much
& it erupts in smoke
&
indecision : i alight, no
longer
passenger to terror or
fright
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
