Porthole

[Jerrybaldy]

Burn me in the empty desert
with every flavour of radiation,
until I am a darkest brown and crackling
with hairs still poking through.
Lay me face down to swallow sand
and let cancer feast my back.
Bring hammerheads above
and send white strikes
to spark convulsive fits.
Open the fault line and drop me in,
entomb me in its closing.
Spout me out on a lava crest
dissolve my melting pigskin.
Land what is left on a stretch rack,
ratchet until I split in two.
Gather rusty buckets,
let my black crap
spill right out.

The pane is cold on my forehead,
condensation melts into the riverbeds
of the creases furrowed there.
My finger forms a smeary porthole
and I can see
a cauliflower sky
slightly old and grey,
a pavement apologetically damp,
a tree too tired to
bare the weight of leaves,
a child seeking puddles,
some curtains curiously closed,
a magpie requesting a salute,
and a reflection
I never requested to see.
I see no sign of a monsoon
to bend an excited umbrella.
An ominous heartburn
oozes on up to my tongue.
My black crap, bubbles within.

[Delta40]

I think both stanzas are very vivid. Its like you wrote from the outside looking in to the inside looking out.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I thought


I can see
a cauliflower sky
slightly old and grey,


was among the most striking of many extraordinary images throughout this. After enough of us have commented on it, I hope you'll consider talking about what motivated it or the mood you were in when you wrote it. I couldn't help but be impressed by it, that is, but was somewhat baffled by how dark it is.

[Hawkman]

To be honest, this reads like two separate poems with the second being the better of the two. S2 has more rhythm and coherence than S1, which seems to have little relationship to either the title or S2 except for the reference to 'Black crap". It's not that the imagery is not ppowerful in S1, in fact it's very powerful, but it's also a bit chaotic.

Taking the poem as a whole I'm left with an impression that the narrator is looking out upon the dull wintery townscape and craving the warmth of more tropical climes. If this is the case it might have been better to reverse the order of the strophes. But the metaphores are confusing and the anger of the words seems irrational, unless the references to cancer and radiation are more than alegories for sunbathing. Lot's to think about in here.

Best, H

[hillwalker]

Wow - this oozes self-loathing or defeatism. I couldn't help but picture someone buried in a mood of darkest depression or perhaps grief - the 'pane' acting as a porthole through which the tortured mind sees a world he no longer feels part of.
Deep stuff and filled with graphic, nightmarish images; undoubtedly written after the midnight hour.

H

[Jerrybaldy]

Thanks Delta.
Prince . I will.
Hawk. when I do, I hope the two will become one for you ( circa spice girls 90's)/ It is one poem.
Hill thank you, as a master of commentary I always welcome your thoughts.

[Delta40]

Did you consider Portal as a term than Porthole?

[Haunted]

Making a pothole in the condensation to look out and then seeing one's own reflection, there's some serious self loathing here, maybe an attraction to suffering. Very much your style which is always unique and punchy.

[Delta40]

sometimes we see things we don't expect. Is the reminder pleasant, flinching and a way to drive us deeper inwards?