Saturday, May 20, 2017

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
& gritty beneath it’s nailwork

disengaged from margins
it is lost in wide white pagination
high on line break & eloquence of en

call to your ear
not for you to hear

so close them & fear

for dramatic effect & in the event
audience members don’t actively
let us blacken the stage

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

gag an urgency
to fall
via mouth
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

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

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

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 do i let everything go? here
, use my phone: ring buddha & ask
him to send life eternal, in yellow

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

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 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

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

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
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

? what does he say: i seek
only the truth or i do not
understand, forsooth. i doubt
it’s the latter. he continues his

& the woman right of
me begins reading this
poetry. lady on the left
joins in, & i close my

here, our poem – for it is
just you & me, reading this
aloud, silently – opens again
, & we are on the bus home

. but of course it is difficult
to write poems on public
transport that isn’t a train, so
this is scribbled in-between

. drop this poem in weeks
after its happening : be how
it brings you back into the
book. look without having a
  Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)
the gift

as the panic smacks my
ventilation system, i keep
my gaze distant & small
, ‘til i see CCTV watching

staring, we match lens for
lens, daring the other to
blink first : neither of us
do. my eyes tundra without

biometrically, it scans me
quickly & i slip through
a database of face after
face : none of them match

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

hissing, this schism is too
much & it erupts in smoke
& indecision : i alight, no
longer passenger to terror or

Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM)  

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...