Hesitation before the Dawn, An Esthetic Concerning the Dialectal Process of Beautification & BBC Grammar

Hesitation before the Dawn

Hovers white finger, anticipatory,
As eyes refocus on drunken dawn,
Deadpan dawn and all its hoax faux-courtiers.

Cigarette ash coating a marble floor, sticky
With ale, stricken with pale faces, slumbering
Epicureans, the crème-de-la-crème of hi-jinks.

‘Paris, Paris’ shouts a lass abroad, alas,
Bridged fjord, abridged discord, the stories of
Cheese, wine; knights of bound fables, tie-ins.

Tiring of child’s play we adult to the dawn,
That father-sun of all our fun and his silent unhappy
Eyes, shies us away as shysters of the day, the dawn of

What’s to come


An Esthetic Concerning the Dialectal Process of Beautification

As the eye of the beholder tingles we see there, then! the process
Of Beauty!
It is in his eyes, when lit by the object of their affection, that the dialectic
Of Beautification is in motion.
Iridescence in corneal transformation makes Beauty an occurrence perceivable
Between two things.
And it is only in the in-between that the Beauteous verity exists in and of
Itself.
As if a projector projected an image onto the projected image of another;
In that ethereal moment;
In that transubstantial space;
In that that we call ‘holy’;
Is beauty is.


BBC Grammar

It should of been for free at 12 am,
The cause and affect of CD’s on her and I.
Reflexive blood boils yourself and none of
Them are different to me compared to you.

Then they opened fire on us, its true; it was
Due to two they’re too, their to lend
From others there pencils and rubbers!

The amount of people going by foot;
A whole team of them; the team are happy
With the walk they had set up. Parading stadiums.

Writers & Artists, Isn't Cricket & 22

Writers & Artists

- Agora artist in vast open spaces of expression
Spinning like a marionette; playing in shadow,
Splashing colour in the red room red studio;
A fledgling creation taking light and shape,
Form and motion.

- Wrapped writer tucked up in cobweb corners,
Is hiccoughing, claustrophobically scribbling;
In his cocoon of papery words he flounds,
Buried under clothes, debris and wall-tiles
Of an old room.

- Muddied musician traipsing in the muck and
Guts of valid human emotion making song; de-
Noting noumenal areas and aspect with tone and
Temperance, wading-boots on for a drudge
Through the melodies.

Tongue of a Rothko portal to the silence
Of the gap of a Rumi treasury in mind
Of a shocking stopping short in a Chopin
Keynote motif. Of hovels and landfills crawl
Out writers and artists.


Isn’t Cricket

As a batsman in a game of cricket,
I, and he, are your sets of wickets.
Running to and fro, the fielders are
All vigilant to throw, a fast bowl-
Over, ‘howzat’ and out. You’re winning ,
But the innings are running out.


22

Cuticle scars grow out over months,
After blended thunder struck the portico
On another lost Sunday to our love.
But love grows neither inward nor outward
But strays circularly, strangling
With pull-strings our aortas, or mine alone.

Every time you looked back, the nodding
Bedside lamp congratulated dead Staropramen
Bottles, hollowing their greenness sanctimoniously,
Like library lampshades studious in the dark,
And this is the dark alley; my brain at night;
A faltering man of science can’t…

Caught 22 and that’s enough, sewn in,
A being one can’t be with, the one one
Can’t be without. There’s a sum without a
Maths. Behind the door the portières drape
And drop and roll and enclose and endeavour
To conceal, a body, 22-years dead.

Bath, One Too Many & Opalescence/Liquidity

Bath

Victoria Park of sunshined days
Is a place in vast and beauteous array;
And in streets so gay come
Tourists from every fray, peering and
Pointing at Jane Austen and King Bladud’s
Swine, herded round bathing spas for the
Rich Romans and crossing Pulteney Bridge.

To The Old Green Tree for a pint of Abbey,
And Sally Lunn’s for a bun in the old alley;
That great house of God stands staring over
The drunks and buskers in Abbey Church Yard,
Asleep on benches, whilst the Japanese take pictures.
And the Avon, eternal river, flows in tumult
And tranquillity by Garfunkel’s and Pulteney.

Into holes in the walls scuttle Bath’s inhabitants,
And out of them, fed, into Milsom Street, visitors.
Great Pulteney Street looks as magnificent
As a Parisian rue often and off it, down the
Stairwell a walk along the river edge; in the
Evening the lighted limestone glistens over
The soft waters below. Flowing and coalescing.

The Royal Crescent represents the architectural
Magnitude resultant of an aristocratic plenitude;
And so Bath in days of yore is imaginable unlike any
Other city in the world, as if Georgian ghosts haunt
The heritage still, stalking the cobblestones by
The Little Theatre and The Theatre Royal;
An impression of pasts trampled into its paths.

The ghosts of houses stare from hills at the quiet
Suburbs of Bath’s ancestry; like a bowl in which
Water was over-spilled the valley stretches up its edges,
And Oldfield Park is humming with night-time folks
Going for fish & chips and curries and evening drinks;
The lights of the shop fronts illuming roads and pavements
As Bath and its people settles down into moonlight.


One Too Many

Face the humidity and dance
In perfidy polkas across a floor
Of upturned drawing pins lain
Like confetti on a wedding-day;
The wedded bliss of evil and death,
A wedded hit and miss conflagration
Swallowing in its wake all the
Sentiments we used to hold dear,
Under a new collective title: lies.

An egalitarian simply couldn’t withstand
The heat and was born again misogynist;
Whether he really was or not was purely
Academic, but he felt it easier to wear the
Badge; to walk like a leper so as to avoid
Baseless words, meaninglessness, simple
Untruths wrought to ends, ultimately base
In themselves: a dancing martyr;
But it was selfish the cause.

Salvation was the cause. Salvation is
Lying to oneself, slightly easier
Than being lied to by another,
If only because our lies to self
Are less believable, because the veil
Separating our lies and the quiet truth
Is slightly less opaque; the filmy
Truth beneath the cataract, unseen;
The bred nothing of vision deceased.


Opalescence/Liquidity

Shimmering, glimmering reflections of light,
On rivulet spindles of water and night.
Rivering warships of whispered poof!
Vanishing markers of innate proofs,
In ravelling and inter-ravelling pools
And currents of trends and fashionable schools,
The inside in inside-out a caboose
Looses the drinkers in carousing abuse
Of liquid insipid in puddles and Oceania;
A skin on the liquids is opalescent and thin.
Thinning the liquid with Warfarin and skinning
In haemorrhage tones muscle from bone bleeding,
Into cups of tears and urine, an opalescent museum
Of man’s liquidation .