163

Posted on August 26, 2010 by urbansonnets

Am I really so twisted that I see

color that isn't and hungers unslaked,
and flavors unsavored, fresh misery
accorded to inkblots and whispers faked?:
There are at least two rules one must follow
in this world of gardens and of dungeons:
"Stay out of the right; the left will follow
its course into oneness, and time bludgeons:
The meanings of difference come blinding home
along the dark asphalt, covered with ice
or glass – the cuts are sealed in with seafoam,
which makes pain rain as its drowning the mice:
The recyclers of matériel, raw
or uncooked, must function under the law.
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162

Posted on August 26, 2010 by urbansonnets

Through diamond panels, the light crashes in,

and the wet wind whirls and wooshes outside;
the metal tongue lies in practice again,
striving for the fragrant taste of the bride:
New patterns unfold with a certain spice
that piques the palette with broken glass, bones;
and the blood unfurls along the moist ice,
melted by the backward aging of suns:
All the while, the brown bat stutters shitless…
I mean, witless…It's trapped in the wood hall,
flying to live and dying to witness
why I could never be present at all:
Sirens and shards are sudden reminders
of the fact that society hinders.
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161

Posted on August 18, 2010 by urbansonnets

I flicked a switch and then the sound shattered

all around my feet, and I heard the voice
of passion — never logic — unfettered
by the windless escutcheoned sails of choice:
Each shard was like a new meaning explained
by dint of feel, never fear of failure;
and every second was a body unchained,
manumissed as a sale-gotten sailor:
By now the moon was reeling in the black,
sending out multiplex lights across time,
against ill-fated flailings of a lack 
of movement throughout this pacific clime:
And as the whole entire floor shifted,
I knew the embargo had been lifted.
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160

Posted on August 13, 2010 by urbansonnets

Filaments were broken, fingers retraced

and the maps were useless, the charts were blank;
The mindless consortium of class replaced
by the intestinal quiver of kink:
The plants were not yellowed, the soil was moist,
and the birds hawked and prayed in the shadows;
The sparrows were marrows to the unvoiced
affricate judgings from the seasick gallows:
And the fop peregrines discovered worlds –
thus divesting the air of its patchwork –
and they soared and they soared and then unfurled
velvet blankets and apposite thatchwork:
These sonnets are merely the consequence
of my blindness before dark currents.
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159

Posted on August 13, 2010 by urbansonnets

In the marginal trace of the paper,

I am empty and full, foul and emptied
of that feeling, that instinct, that taper
to spark a dream out of the yellow seed:
I hear the gambol of the watery
drops titter on golden strings of baseness,
making movements swing as Zen Archery
does to the sagittarian, baseless:
For ours is an unbottomless journey – 
for every fathom, there is a father
that re-begets himself forgetting he
only retouched the madrigal lather:
In the end, all meaning might be mended
only by the darkest truths upended.
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158

Posted on August 7, 2010 by urbansonnets

The taste of living can be so, so sweet

when the dew of sound shines under the bulb,
like late fireflies rushing to the meet
or constrained fingers that can scrape the curb:
The slow heft of brown wings leaves a shadow,
a trace of movement, a placement replaced,
a treatise tainted by the black shade-eye,
a ration of loved-ones tossed and disgraced:
I'd follow with my finger, but the shine
rejects my vision, reflects my sight's aim –
which, no doubt, would fade into the supine
fragments of the glass I built out of frame:
Pure is the shade who can pray himself home
after hours of bleeding gray sea foam.
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157

Posted on August 3, 2010 by urbansonnets

I never know what to do tomorrow

with a vexed step and a most narrow lip
that arches up like a flagrant flyer
and a presence that shrinks from the nightstrip:
True heroism dwells in the pits of 
vision and priceless thrusts at the central
core, where the catacombs do catapult
bright souls from the ever-wounded litter
of the forward-thinking back-talkers here:
I die to step outside, but I can't step
outside to die when the coast is measured
by broken bottles upon sands preclear:
The pig fat vortex of my sleepiness
cushions my descent into loneliness.  
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156

Posted on August 3, 2010 by urbansonnets

When facile similes relate the self

to larger but shallower tendencies,
it is an indication of the gulf
that rests between passions and memories: 
There are flames in my eyes for the cold truth,
the little flutters that pass over me
as I dream or think about the mask-tooth
that sustains my fears of the deep black sea:
There is fat on gums, gristle on the spoon
that I lift up to eat, like you all do
wherever that is that you come from; soon
I will be the same as you all, as you:
The only aim in life is to fit in;
thank God that sight is crooked like blind sin. 
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155

Posted on July 27, 2010 by urbansonnets

The metallic roar has turned into wind,

and the moisture is now a path of phlegm
which thickens in the throat, so parched and thinned
by the smoke-eaten drips that flood the brim:
The crisp felt hat that is dipped in the pond
to fend off the bears from the velvet flesh
is the greatest relief – a golden frond –
to a judged forehead, cased in spit and mesh:
We used fresh-picked spider silk to dress wounds,
self-inflicted gainst the pine cone's fine tooth
and the acorns' hard shells, letters and mounds
of boiled limbs bundled up as feigned truth:
We set aside and aflame every line
that chained our movement to the Alpine vine.
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154

Posted on July 26, 2010 by urbansonnets

I only dig in crates when I have to,

but the mossy stench invigorates me
from eye to eye, as treason and graft do
in the souls of this nation that hates me:
The past emanates in portions, parcels
of lightness and dust that rinse the sea floor,
uncovering the rhythms that pierce cells,
enacting a violent osmotic pour:
The pages are wizened, the words callous
and see-through like a global glass ceiling;
our dreams from afar all smell of malice,
but to touch them is to throw up feeling:
Those were the rules that were laid down on me
by the ruler's metal edge in Swansea.
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