08.07.06

Poem: Untitled

Posted in Art, Mine, Mine, Poetry at 2:06 pm by Moody

[image]

04.24.06

Silence, iron wrought…

Posted in Mine, Personal, Poetry at 6:57 pm by Moody

i.

From those two hands wring silence, iron wrought,
Mold it as clay, as if by willing dream,
And lay it there upon a page. There, caught,
Pinned and framed, ready for the book's close seam,
What is it you have found? A nightingale?
A frog? an imp? a rose imperious?
Have you a tiger by her paper tail? --
How sweetly disappoints the quietus.
Nor could you (though so you'd hope to have it)
Know aught of such silence in its habit.
ii.

The dark descends as stardust ocean bound,
To mix its dissolution with the salt
Of that rich blood, upon which we were found,
Thence to bear no word. Harder than basalt,
Sharper than diamonds, heavier than lead,
The darkness of the silence spreads its wings
And rises from the page. Not live, not dead;
Itself alone, the kin of other things.
Nor could you (though so you'd hope to have it)
Know aught of such silence in its habit.

04.04.06

I want Alan Cumming, dressed up as Mercury, to read this at my funeral…

Posted in Mine, Personal, Poetry at 8:35 am by Moody

They say that life `round here is tragicomic,
With a-bombs and aplomb and much sardonic;
It depends on point of view
(though these words i might just rue),
But much there is that simply says "moronic".

Of course I don't refer at all to you.
I know there isn't fuck-all one can do.
There's what we have, for what it's worth,
Like Queequeg's coffin was his berth,
And everyone should know that this is true.

Perhaps this is not pedagogical --
This consideration, ontological --
But it's something kin to biological

In all its dubious necessity.

And if you're thinking theologically
Then the answer will come pathologically
To shake your wide world ecologically --

If it should ever come to you at all.

For in lack there comes a certain sort of mirth
That grows with the diminishing of girth,
And though the truth is grim
And is careless as a whim,
Its laughter's prettier than tears at birth.

But thusly are our chances also slim --
The wind of fate's immune to our best trim.
We reap what we shall sow
As I'm fairly sure you know --
For it's blindness that the dark is set to limn...

It's blindness that the dark is set to limn.

01.08.06

the perfidious sponge

Posted in Mine, Poetry at 7:56 pm by Moody

unfaze the splines of this giddy scorch
deny the coruscation of indeterminate appeal -
lo! bark the lounges of enigma shin-wise and reveal
soft disparate knowledges as crunchy pluralistic spores!

we who are flattened hammers of incision
cut the nail from the music box,
arrange the maelstroms and behemoths in lines
as long as life sentences
with every stroke of our claw pins
(which we have inked in the blood
of bookworms).

denounce the retrofitted exacerbation as pride
unfounded in the dithyrambs of spastic lyres!
renounce the supra-ceded sui generis and abide
within the cozy confines of comfy eclectic wires!

marrow - marrow - morrow! ha!

we have no illusions: what is illustrious today
will tomorrow be as cotton candy in the rain.
energy drinks, cameras and canon fodder will
replace the delineation of rhymes with imagistic
confetti.

there is no shame in the shambles of our itinerant supply,
for heady splines can not but splint the symbols of the dawn
with nascent anomalies unnamed in hammered holes -
thus producing an origami vernacular pre-accustomed
to both bonsai and baobabs
in paper form,
well lit.

un-endow the walls of shadows and sighs
and let the wallflowers return to their ditties in the garden
(all thorn and sour mash,
compost and reticulated hours)
where they might perchance arrive at the unbidden bowl
wherein all things are given the punch of non-existence -
if only as a talisman in the indicative mode,
moonlike and arguably ineffable.

eccentric as these orbits be. like a turtle’s. a happenstance melange. unique.
we alone remake our unformed soliloquies as pop standards.