Tuesday 15 April 2014

Mid-Day Here and There (Book 1) - Cheryl Penn (South Africa)/ David Stone (Usa) - (Collaborative Poetry Book 2 )

Cheryl Penn (South Africa)/David Stone (USA)
Mid-Day Here and There


In-between the middle of
A Cimmerian day –
Extinct Herodotus
The sun is heated here.
Chartreuse boiled pavements /  melting tar
Hot shadows too tired to follow
Ambivalent owners.






& Thucydides' objective Fiction
wherein
is the wonder
of the reels
of the last past.

Widened cracks in worn pavements -
Fissure abyss by an unsettled sun
Amphipolis exile
Chopin fluster number 5.
Agitation - 
Time to knock on walls of
An empty world -
Ticking clocks,
setting suns
the day slowly unwinds.

The beat of the sun I had done the time colonized apt
sweated the beast
earlier
much
we sung
Musickal
shaken
waited
Ra's
alphabetical
plunge.

“tiny bead of life” in a count-down
Abacus
to a shorter day.
As Red As Rubicund Blood
As Red as Ra
As Red as a day reducing
Mid day moves from here to there
Ra Ra Bocce
But Silence still shouts at the Bridges of Between.

Ra
rated; behind the soundstage
the fireball filled
the messengers.
fuel.
ozone
facts
filtered
the cinematic trial.

Midday Today
No Cinema Nouveau
Sirens/guns toi-toi/chants  disordered fireball-real.
Messengers of Chaos
Another trial.
“Bring petrol, I’ve got matches
we’ll set their cars on fire”
anger redder than a ruby sun,
Chopin plays on.

the muse of the streets on Broadway ill disposed tonite I bought wrought iron rings songs fires
I tromped paid cash lied all night however
ill
dispossessed
rings
diadems
entropies
caught
at night
the night that we brought
cleansed
performance
agents.

Noon too nite
In the shadows of a thousand clocks
time 
urging them on.
There is no stay to atrophy
No diadem for entropy
No cleansing of performance
No dispossession of license
To live
THIS life this night this minute this yoctosecond this quark. 


Dispossession-the quill
the quotient
the mind
Gehirngeist
spoke
spokes
rotated
the drum
foil
above
the green
blue
sea
scape.


Alone in the flavor  of a Quark
Looked like a green blue sea -
  Strange up down bottom charm up
Locked in a litany of eulogies
My sun starts to set.
Panegyrics panic
Bats bolt
And we
Stand
at the fringes of our lives
Watching
Eons unfurl.


We walked.
Traveled
around the sea
water
pieces
of time
expired
long
wait
soldered
and spoke.

The sun through a hole in the sky
Is Aurora borealis bright
particles colliding over the walked round see.
Tick tock
Seconds lock
Expiration implodes and
Time bears all her sons away.
Its just mid day -
We have a thousand hours to go -
To stay
To wait
To soldier
To muster
To master
To BREATHE
This tiniest bead of life.

The breath in winter being tempered
attempt
to cry
best
yelled
at
the breeding
sun.

The wind changed -
The rock of Oreb
Came into view
Un-By-Passed by an avenging angel
People part like split atoms
under the nib of Agrippa the Skeptic.
Heat splintered shards of rain and tears
Do but pierce the veil of uncertainty -
The way is never clear.

a selection
sought
i
paid
cash
at the bar.
watched
people whistle in.
the smell
of chargrill
as oil
dripped
over
a flaming table.


Abstract Conscious Construct
In which I dwell
selection at sea
no place to hide
relentless tide
chargrilled to perfection.
A minute so short
a lifetime second
oil seeps
through and stains the
Bar
All
From
Here –
And there.

the objection
the crowd
sat
drinking
and spilling
secrets?
from the vault
offfended
some
special
promise.

Paper coasters
Sullied spilled secrets
Picasso  coffee stains.
Crowds throng -
Are you lost?
red is my favorite colour
I like your hair
where did you buy your dress
WHO is that
another please…
G & T - with bitters?

Mince and Rice
Soap thrashing in the
Washing
Machine -
Your Objection Was Mute.
the bar hordes cheered -
out of time with Liszt.
La campanella S t r e t c h.

yes I wandered into the crowded aisle
I cannot
see
the beach
I swam
and forgot
to swallow
air.
lungfish lunged
priceward.


isolate the crowd
the machine gun chatter -
dune beach wind
stinging salted sand
dark tone heaven heavy 
on
low key green
tumbling foam
Of a mercury sea.
To see is not at stake here

Or there.

at stake the attached
attachee
weight
zone
elements
being
seen
cleaned
the whole forest
stall
it is empty
now
and glowed
with supper.

We wrench
from words
an inexorable
infinity
one
at
a
time.

The spoke gained time
we wrenched
sought
absolution?
per diem.
Theocrats
stuffed
articles
congealed
in the congress.


There can be no absolution
from a man and his spokes congress
time splinters
godless crusades
versus
Josephus theocracy.
‘man’
minces
masters
mangles
a manacled moment
with which to wrest
from
the pillar of fire by night.


a thought
crossed
my table
a tableture
sprinkled
you don't know history
said Jasmine
I tried
we visited
the Oriental Institute.
I looked
at the ancient
knives.
tableware.
silver.
goblets.
pardon.
I beg
forgive me
I thought
across
the dark
bleak
avenue.

Did you knock
history enquired
an aging institution in itself.
Tear Lined Avenues
Awash with the past
Wait
With bated knives.
I drove through
Warrick Triangle
To get to work -
I have no words
to say
to
pay
to lay
me down before I sleep.

THE KNOCK.
the lock.
open it.
come in.
later.
life.
evolved.
a federal file


unopened.


the pivotal knock
perfectly precise
Most times called The End.
closed files
stuck turnstiles
apples falling silently in
federal fishtanks.
midday  evolution revolution
has to sway
here
and there
trapped in the noon day sun.

The knock.
the time frame of the big band was one trillionth of one trillionth of one trillionth of one second.
Lord Berkeley covered his eyes with his hands,could not see this cataclysmic event occur,
to be is to be perceived
in
side
the per
i
scopic
site
of
this
fever


ed end.


Monday 14 April 2014

An Epic. The Viscous Circle of the Couch Potato. (Cheryl Penn, South Africa/Marie Wintzer, Japan) Book 1

An Epic. The Vicious Circle of the Couch Potato. 


GET OFF!!!!!
NO!!!
I SAID GET OFF!!!
AND I SAID NO NO NO NO NO NO!!
There's no escaping a Couch Potato.
They hunker down next to one
round and knobbly on the chair
growing fatter and uglier every day.
They wear your lipstick and
ladder your stockings.
MAN! I long for lying low.
Your Lip / Stick
so let's go couch fishing
Toss the baited hook
out of the closest window
Real Life Heroes, Pizza,
Smells like Napalm, Tastes like Chicken.
(an old sock)
I didn't know Couch Waters
were so deep
and cheap this time a year
Did I say, did I say NO?

Subsection two                                                                             warning to all couch potatoes                                                  upground, underground
boiled, braised, fried or peeled
skins on skins off your days are
numbered
lumbered 
with the baggage you bring you're
not wanted
stunted
lip - 
-stick-
back
         -slack
Mack the knife
strikes twice
s-p-l-i-c-e
you're done.
Fried and peeled,
the couch Waitress is gone
and gone too far
Back at Couch Potato School, where
they teach you to 
Lick
Plates
Empty
(    )
Stop poking Common Sense or
I'll miss tomorrow's pillow marathon,
the oddest
Avalon
Couch
Crouch
Cage
Encaged Enraged
But the passing is sweet.
Sounds smell stronger
more fragrant on the tongue,
the shadows grow whiter as
the ink of madness fades 
into
ether.
Hump day too
will dawn,
The Pouch Philosopher
mumbled 
through his rusted electron tube.
Remotely un-controlled
in muddy waves (not unlike
Potter's Clay)
of grey,
Gully groove to
nowhere in particular.

Discovery
By Prof-Med-Phil
The Worm Hole in which
Couch Potatoes form
is filled with worms.
Squirms.
And I 
spoke
to 
1??
Or at least I thought
I heard it 
skillfully screech
in my Daydream.
The thin line
between awake and the ceiling
seems to shorten
as days get longer
(for all we know a saving grace).
Still.
For them worms it's all the same,
silk or muck
your butt's just stuck.
Magenta Crash
Night Spills
Butt still stuck.
The space between
the ceiling and couch grows thin.
I breathe suspicious air 
Night falls
Daylight retracts,
Ink is spilt into her 
slight
light.
The cough potato glowers. 

How many hungry moons
reclined
on the fostering inside arm?
Many, 
or too few to recall.
Those Lotus-eating Roots
poking through Moleskine.
Wound-up paths
dry as Bone.
See, a breeze and they
tumble off
in a flush of Decay.
On the other side: the faintest hint
of bloom.
Too soon to bloom
To late to sate
The appetite once filled
With
Feelings unknown
Countless coffee cups
Endless swirling words in worlds of
Lemon grass chicken stir (fry)
A knock -   a bang -  a grate on bone
Ripples on water turned to stone.



Pictures on screen
are traveling that Road of Déja-vu
I hit pause but the blur 
lingers.
Sitting on orange peels
I can't feel 
their familiar tickle.
Strange.
Skin must grow thicker when
eyes blink reluctantly,
a stagnant attempt at 
catching
the drowsy slipper


feet once shod with grace
fleet of bone marrow
ample arms that held
the light on grasslands aloft.
The walls of the world
Ring
With shrouded Orange Sent
From minds and feelings
Awash in  Magma Magenta.


She lived in the see-ling
space between
Living and not living
For so Eon
That the roots
Were orange strong
But today
Or yesterday
There was Magma Magenta enough
To pull free.