Catch A Ride On Swiftsleigh7

[SwiftSleigh7]

Ride #1

Read: The Colour of My Blood

Bleed poetry, like verbs that live to die on a page;
Let your arteries pump purple passion, freely;
like actors in a tragedy dying on a stage,
the knives that cut one to the quick are steely.

Street poets strive to know so little of their art;
hold so much of bluntness, raw, banal, and hard;
and Death, a reigning mistress, called to play her part
in some vignette performed before some guard

whose posts forsaken long ago were nevermore resumed,
fakes the love she promised not to give,
as Apathy, her sister, stout and swart and peacock-plumed,
pretends to care, and then proceeds to grieve

the souls of holy-minded men and women everywhere,
the hearts and minds of all the meek who strive
to gain that New Jerusalem on some mountain in the air
so that weak ones need no longer downward doubting dive.

Do you crave the blood that from my veins flows forth?
Will you play the dark vampire in this gothic dream?
Tonight, tonight mild, mild hearts softly beat beneath
the white moon’s wild, wild crystal pale blue stream.

Romance yearns to rustle in immortal restless seas.
Sweet, serene, and nuanced is the bed
of rosy-petaled bliss that aims to thrill and please
even as the hot red blood rushes to the head.

Surrender like a prisoner whose fate is justly sealed.
No longer will I bite when I am bitten.
When the blood has ceased to flow, it will be congealed.
When the poem is read it will be written.


Note: I use "die" in the first line in the same sense that John Donne and the metaphysical poets used it, as a synonym for sexual orgasm. In this sense, each poem that has not been "tried" is a virgin. Like Alice Cooper sings, "My heart's a virgin, it ain't never been tried. And you know I'll never cry. I'll never cry." This is from the song, "Only Women Bleed" — One of my favorite Alice Cooper songs of all time!

http://www.alicecooper.com/images/alice.jpg

[amuse]

Street poets strive to know so little of their art
i'm confused - ?

[SwiftSleigh7]

i'm confused - ?
Do riddles amuse you? Does the air scare you? Water's daughter fought her for the right to flow. Air made trouble; bubbled up; from the earth below. Show me what YOU know.

[Avalive]

This is your poem? great,I like it a lot. Sorry for commenting simply,I am a person who is lack of reasons. But I read and I feel.

[SwiftSleigh7]

Do riddles amuse you? Does the air scare?
Water's daughter fought for the right to flow.
Air made trouble; bubbled from earth below.
Show me, then tell me what you think you know.
Seems like a backbeat rhythm everywhere;
four men from Liverpool had quite a show:
Because the wind is high it blows my mind.
Neptune’s oceans rage, and sailors must row
beyond the rainbow, where muses are blind,
and the pot sits with its pure golden glow.
Does fate ever choose between fair and foul?
Do farm cocks ever crow at break of dawn?
Wisdom is stuffing the old barnyard owl;
mated kings may die from moves of a pawn.

[SwiftSleigh7]

WHAT CHILD IS THIS?

Dine on the ends of a dozen dead days.
While your smiling soul craves pardon at Mass,
subtle thief whisks your infant away. Seize
prey in voracious beak, nest-ward pass
above the trees to mountain peak to raise
battalion brood in brutal wilderness.
Dusk comes. With your cold desserts left untouched,
you grimace in august disgust, chagrined
at mortality’s maw: kite-like, un-vouched
for, feral, unaware that it has sinned,
effusive in understated, muted
bond of supernal lust, unabated.
Wine, symbol of blood, pours over altars,
as dying infant painfully falters.

[SwiftSleigh7]

I ache from a longing to situate
the smiling moon somewhere west of Eden.
Feel me, in complacent and satiate
bliss, as we walk barefoot through a moist fen.
Feed me with lust, as carnal sapience
sheds its thick skin in favor of dusky-
hued splendor. In soft twilight silence
I hear your voice: low, sultry and husky.
Dewy-eyed in azure you sweep the sky.
I ache from a longing to caress you.
Above the iridescent moon you fly.
Why does my body crave you? Tell me why?
Forevermore we are free to embrace.
Forevermore our mad love will entice.

[SwiftSleigh7]

Despair, that villain—old, haggard and spare
hunts like a demon for victims to scourge.
Faith, pretty lover—young, vibrant and fair
weeps for her children when she has the urge.
Morning sunrise over mountains breaks bright,
turning away from sad Night’s waning view.
Beaten like lightning that puts up a fight,
her flashes in pans are feeble and few.
Night’s dark laughter, macabre, retrogressive,
teases temptation, though altruists trust.
Black is her humor, but she longs to live,
so she fights corrosion and decaying rust.
The far-off bright stars shine down by degrees,
as she lets light enter, aiming to please.

[SwiftSleigh7]

Imitate life as you may, you are bound
by conventions and the whims of custom,
the censure of critics, and the shrill sound
of your own absurd constructions. Shalom!
That one word paints you into a corner,
paled by a low incandescent wattage,
weans you from the glory of your former
self, situates you in a hermitage
designed for derelicts, and leaves you there!
Oh Art, would we could catch you unaware.
Why are you so indisposed to life’s pith?
Reality, engaged, wedded Myth
with a passionate ploy of ardent love:
in your Surreal world a verdant grove
wreathed in red roses, with ivy-columned
castles formed the backdrop for rich-volumed
reams of quaint and curious lore. Art,
you have leapt upon the stage with the heart
of a lion tamed by a senile shrew,
and she has pulled dyed lamb’s wool over you.


But you dare not play sacrificial beast,
an act designed by Society’s priest,
because you lack the Spirit of the Age,
and you refuse to work for an honest wage.
Turn on your light, it’s like turning the page,
like spinning reels, or like sculpting clay mold.
Verisimilitude means much to some,
yet when it comes to essence, it’s Fool’s gold.
Declaim, deny, remark. What have you become?
All that remains is just a ghost’s whisper.
As Autumn grows colder, clearer, crisper,
hear this dawning Truth: You will not prosper.
Art, Time’s memento, passing fad, idle
dream: Soon an Eternal Wind will bridle
your brashness, and we shall suffer your dull
intemperate moods, ideologies,
and ill-mannered ways no longer. Awful,
isn’t it, to think that your aim to please
all fell so far short? Ah, well it was sport
for a while—your bad attempt to extort
all that Humankind held as most precious.
And no, dear Art, the value of specious
wealth ranks not as highest in this account;
the vitiation of Spiritual
effects, waning and purely virtual,
is naturally the would-be triumphant
feat you won’t acquire. Sadly, thou art, Art.

[SwiftSleigh7]

The end of mass consumption

Quality assurance is a modern
contrivance designed to reassure us
of sound meritocracy—but we learn
by what we see, and the loudest chorus
that resounds among us these days suggests
people rise to the level of their own
incompetence. In a world full of tests,
trust, a precious commodity, has shown
itself to be in scarce supply. So why
not encourage each other to always
try harder and aim to reach the sky?
We need to pull together more these days.
Mass consumption is eroding our peace;
to cure social ills we must make it cease.

[bloggod]

The end of mass consumption

Quality assurance is a modern
contrivance designed to reassure us
of sound meritocracy—but we learn
by what we see, and the loudest chorus
that resounds among us these days suggests
people rise to the level of their own
incompetence. In a world full of tests,
trust, a precious commodity, has shown
itself to be in scarce supply. So why
not encourage each other to always
try harder and aim to reach the sky?
We need to pull together more these days.
Mass consumption is eroding our peace;
to cure social ills we must make it cease.



i'm afraid the end of mass consumption will be the end of the "mass" part of it
and not the "consumption" end of the matter. i like your poems. complex and playful simultaneously.

[SwiftSleigh7]

Thank you Bloggod it is good to know that someone here is reading them, and enjoying it as well. I was wondering there for a while.

[SwiftSleigh7]

diurnal demigods twist as though we
are thumb-turn knobs
designed to fine-tune TV lives
compliant, we pop in and out,
whirl round and round
as if tint and color
are freedom lost and found,
we wed dreams to our sheenscapes
like dew bees’ honey hives,
meanwhile shuffling cryptic cards
call the cost of Ego’s spending spree,
and dimly aware
of daily homage
due demigods,
we find funds being had
have not yet ebbed
or flown out of hand;
like marked birds with twisted necks,
we flout odds
and scout to honey more
before the Queen “I” ceases to be.
Blame not the Masque of our Time,
nor the faces it creates.
From fair to fairer
our pass or part
depends on red dawns
and the debt paid to vanity
which validates identity
in this Golden City.
The paid debts of vanity
gives identity validity
as we twist to turn
whatever identity
may yet be created,
making a pretty picture
or a perverse mockery
for the face
of diurnal demigods who twist as though we
are thumb-turn knobs
designed to fine-tune TV lives...

[SwiftSleigh7]

Are you afraid?
Is it something we said?
Kissed and told,
Bought and sold.
Did you tell?
Was it fun?
Wish you well.
Bet you’ll run.
Politics is sin.
No pain,
No Hussein.
Wipe off your silly grin.
This isn’t just a game.
We’ll only use your name.
The race is already won.
The died-in-the-wool spin is spun.
The line is cast, the fish will strike.
We’ve only just begun.
Wave goodbye to yesteryear.
Fight your fear, we’re very near.
Embrace your enemy, dear.