mauvaises terres.

mauvaises terres.

I. The Old Line.

We drink red tea in the winter and summer
by the pale, ocean shore with rain
feeding on the sunlight with coffee beans,
and spoke in broken languages to each other
originating from your father in different countries of Europe,
he speaks almost a dozen languages. You wished he taught you more,
but as we speak, the dog sits on his bed wing
in strange, prolonged whimpers, he wants to go outside too.
Stirring beneath the sea of carved coffee steam,
we fall with the firelight that the world spreads
from our bones to the shit street,
pressing time to its summer night river
as the bank of winter ends, betrayed in writings
from long ago, never read again, never thought of again,
lost in valleys in dark whispers
or promises.

II. When the Dust Settles over the Red Rock.

Raven dusk settles over the sea,
veiled in the silent anticipation of mocha windows and drinks,
and therefore, we wept with fatigue rattled with the dark moon in French,
at the hour we have robbed the lights, the assault of wind over Stalingrad’s battle,
and alone we are now; reddened flowers bloom under the dusk streets
as the river turns by glided light towers, we play in the sand with dirty fingers,
burning, and we whisper in our youth that will never come back to us,
entering the torchlight on frosty midnights, where water burns us on our skin from the faucet;
the dry rock in the spring
the dance among the cicadas 
in the rain
upon the winter roads hooded with lust
the light pole of the roof-tree in Brooklyn,
hands molesting the thundering clouds in the prison of nightfall,
as we sat upon different sands; the albatross fits its feathers over the shore
we sit by. The sky fragmented with firebirds, mad like Ivan the Terrible,
existing in the blood of us all, the blackened moment around the earth
showing sides among us all in the red dirt and shadows
mudcracked in valleys in the air upon ditches and roads we can’t go down,
but hear each turn of the rock, and each sound of the thunder,
the wind, and the bird,
hauling their skeletons with them, as they whisper in their age
a secret they know all too well,
murmuring over the Appalachian mountains
the foothills of the southern horizon bursting with their wings.

III. Webster City.

Sunlight, morning gate, deadfall;
I would have left.
Deserted streets no one visits,
in whispers of death
delete the memory;
window panes pool with fog,
E-H-Martin inscribed on the building,
whoever that is, I do not know him;
in time, where we descend like oysters to the shore
the universe is on fire, shawled and naked out the silent wind
out the ice of the sea, settling seaward like a nymph,
but, no, these were not meant to be as in the times we live,
relishing the roots of winter, 
growing in the shadows of spring,
afraid. Who are you now? 
The fire of cities, here are the clouds bejeweled with ivory
hanging over our heads, fed with water,
in which the sea-light withers 
and dies an old song;
loitering the trash on the grass, only noticing in mid-morning drive,
following with harrowed french, upward from the lip,
lays out water, glistening in the sunlight; 
drink, drink,
or you will get sick and therefore suffer. 
Half in the chatter of the cold, the dark stars swim, 
beating their red light down onto the shore,
who is it that dwells? You, far beyond the country, the shore, the world?
but there is no known visit for the whisper breaks and falls
beating down the torchlight, waiting for someone,
to put it out but it exists, it exists, it exists.
Who are you now? Thinking of memories, they confine…
the shore is alone, the fire swallows
and then comes rain on the distant mountains
like a white specter, cooling the rocks.

IV. Sedation.

Sedation, predation of sense
the winter fraught in the dark dwells
dreams, obscured in creaks beyond sleep,
awake, another time; mind of ice and wind
blowing beyond
azaleas, and flowers for the pain.
I will give you flowers for the torment,
I will share you the silence in the wicked of cold,
the burial of rain onto the avenues and frightened catkins
by the orange horizon that is starved from light,
with every streetlight flickering at night,
betrayed the fate of solitude, the blood that swims in each shadow,
you and me. We sit by the weaves of serpents and death,
into the shaping hold of silence.
It lives. fallen upon, forgotten as we all weep,
elected to the dream-state and prosody
of a ghost 
in the ozone layer.
as the water breaks from the sunlight,
the river unfolds upon the white flowers
lacerated in a dimension of autumn death
and exhaled, the glass fogs up
by the confusion in the mania sidewalks
freshened by the wick of a flame
brought out to a burial at sea.
Dark eyes follow mine,
in the fragility of humanity
and conflict of a withered dark
as we breathe, as the city, in its abnormality,
has disappeared. 

V. “What Forgiveness?”

A dark room weaves a ghost-sloth,
I live in the rain’s disruption, tap-tap-tap on the window pane,
famishing by the red bodegas and estaminets, 
a dream awakes by generation.

Windy night,
trades to sleep
by the pink carnations under the flames, stirred by the lost pearls,
summoning the lady ghost,
and prophets,
leafing through the dance of the Nile River,
spreading from metropolis to 
the boulevard of winter.

There is fury in your eyes,
there is something in there, stirred by boredom and anger,
and undesired, the exploration of what departs the ocean rift
half-formed a flower slithers by the white waters,
hands shaking with blood, coalescing the explosion 
of the stars in an illusory, toothed paradox.

What have we forgiven?
I sit upon the sea, shall I forgive? 
the wisteria buries into the roots,
of the blowing wind with hysteria,
there will be no hyacinths for you and I,
there will be no hyacinths for you or I.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.


A/N: Heavily, heavily inspired by T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” Part five’s title in this poem is taken from a quote in T.S. Eliot’s piece, “Gerontion.”



Categories: Poetry

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