Thursday, January 20, 2005

A Poem with No Name

With yesterday's post slamming free verse poetry, I thought I'd present a bit of my own that is utterly devoid of meaning. I just liked the imagery it conjured up.

I'd just like to reiterate that I don't hate all free verse poetry (Neil Gaiman wrote some especially nice stuff in his anthology, whcih I believe is called Smoke & Mirrors). So here's me putting my money where my mouth is. Enjoy.

This poem looks so much better with indents in certain lines. I really need to figure out how to do those in HTML...

Light splatters sidewalks,
Neon lavender rain
Collects in gutters
(Don't look up
You'll go blind).
The power of
Grand preciptate light.

Temple of the Buddha of the Razors,
Empty in the lavender glow,
Empty at all times now
(Though police emptied it
Just last week,
Monks screaming
"Om, but the flesh is dead
Hom, the razors must be fed").

Passing through the tube tunnels
I spot the Craven-Jack
(Lord of the Tube
King of the rails
Our Lord of Imperpetual Dark)
Eyeless, sockets seek cleared sight,
Eyes I dare not meet
Less I should be his meat
(In nominis Patris,
Et sanguine...).

Eaters of the dead,
Ghouls by "Our Lady of Perpetual Torment",
Doctors eating the dead,
I wonder what they learn?
Cannibal ghosts whisper hymns
"Don't go near,
Don't come here;
Flesh and blood,
Sweat and toil;
Aesculapias perverted,
What dreams we could..."
(Don't listen,
You'll go mad).

Cuthroat king,
Leather clad and mad as hell,
Holds court beneath Marrow
Bridge where corpses float
Up the river and through the
(Sorry, lad, tis flesh again tonight,
She's not too rotten yet).

(Here we go dancing
'Round the bend.
Watch out,
Little one on Kitcher's End,
The rats'll get you
Just you watch out,
They'll pick you dry).

And in the spires the jack-crows roost.
(Didja hear? They e't him all up!)
A craven lot of beasts,
They feast on the dead,
They feast on the living,
They feast on the half dead yet.
The jack-crows are friends to the doctors,
The jack-crows are friends to the morticians.
The jack-crows are never the friends of the children
(Don't you go playin' there, boy
Don't you go bein' the jack-crow toy!)

Why are there predators here?
It wasn't always so.
It was a nice city once,
Before the priests came,
Before the doctors came.
Before the best lawyers got out've the ground,
Before the jack-crows got out've the walls.

There's a hole under Boston Bridge,
There's a troll under every manhole cover,
There's a beastie under every bed.

The hole's plastered down three thousand feets with ads.
The troll's a security guard.
The beastie's got a paycheck in his pants,
But don't ask to see his liscence,
Or you'll be in his belly.

This is the end, my friend.
Not a dream to spare,
I'm afraid.
Not a shilling to give,
Not a pence to spend.
But its ok,
It's not really the end.
Its a beginning,
Why not?
If it was really the end,
Wouldn't we all


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