Poem

RATULTANA - A rework by D.M. Jerman

Back around this time in ye olde 2012, I read "Tarantula" by Mr. Bob Dylan. I took one word from each page, then manifested it into a poem, "Ratultana." I really dug his line "adore every full feel."

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From the heated memories of seven Augusts not so easy to recant, the holy water holocaust of derivative homage and other mainly perfect disasters local to root, take view.

They are Romeo in view of Hogart's line. The teeming evidence of beauty double'd back. S-curve walks wit into itself.

A deaf circuit handled the beat science of feathers falling away from my hair. The angel. Undoing grace.

Kicks in the tango of finding out. Awake and aware in romantic wrongs of a telling situation what scour and scrape and interrupt the sensual meantime.

All charity stained trick swoons oration to the warm grave.

His collar gone, preachers turned pushers commiserate. In today's deep surgery of hours it can all be done. Extrana can be found yawning or faking like a taxidermic princess determined to grandstand the atomic dollar of drunk love.

Priestless- adore every feel between rebel and shirt.

She can guess at permanent moon men heroic as the conquering radio.

On the balcony, her freak pleasure singing, sprouting three invented answers for twenty knobs of law. Herself bow coo-coo to cowards persuasion.

Lo- a nightlong ale where the fence ambles dead. Salvation brags crash is the sounds of doctors talking.

Extremely arrested rudeness. Courage without ambassador grows irreligious about forced weeks of mustaches and nose job. Really.

Daredevils hope a screwy jingle will drum up considerately enthused apprentice discoveries holding to leftover or missing unenchanted postcards.

Heyboy boy- Blam. Carrier of saddle. Volcano ship signs dangerous! Paleface- a melancholy tape.

A carved elephant ring is a bond for hands. What measures weddings, punches hoods, votes, autographs chauffeurs, does not hibernate like oranges. Typical up-street clarity.

Lotza blackheaded shelling to be done in the carved response from a new god.

Let's aim our beauty close to the heat of memory. Of memories.

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All Odes in Honor, All Prayers To Floyne... by D.M. Jerman

I spent the night in that city, creating light before moving on.  In an afternoon, in a year between wars, I arrived.  Even in summer on a train the world grows dim. And the rain puts me to a sleep like children. A child’s sleep – after play and refreshed by dream.   They know far away the sea is singing its milky lullabies for transforming the cool moan into froth. Dissolving the pains in the bones from growing up which spread out into the blood. Making the marks it leaves harder to remove, but who wants to banish a stain that saves a life? These stains, in the brainshapes of the lush and rolling hills of my constant imagination, numbering in only the few thousands on reality’s plain.  All are art. And I long to be upon them.

I spent the night in that city, creating light before moving on.

In an afternoon, in a year between wars, I arrived.

Even in summer on a train the world grows dim. And the rain puts me to a sleep like children. A child’s sleep – after play and refreshed by dream. 

They know far away the sea is singing its milky lullabies for transforming the cool moan into froth. Dissolving the pains in the bones from growing up which spread out into the blood. Making the marks it leaves harder to remove, but who wants to banish a stain that saves a life? These stains, in the brainshapes of the lush and rolling hills of my constant imagination, numbering in only the few thousands on reality’s plain.

All are art. And I long to be upon them.

Rain in the morning, still old men ride their bicycles in the same direction up the winding narrow cobblestone. Perched on the cool thick sill, my lips find the white concentrated air of cigarette smoke and pull each drag lungward before the following fullness of exhale manifests.  I have struck upon a holiday.  The prayers pull the day down quiet and slow, melting its vanilla sun over a natural blanket.   The dimmer the haze, the paler shadows.  The wash basin in the corner like a sundial. Creamy path of light touching the edges, a lover lain over.

Rain in the morning, still old men ride their bicycles in the same direction up the winding narrow cobblestone. Perched on the cool thick sill, my lips find the white concentrated air of cigarette smoke and pull each drag lungward before the following fullness of exhale manifests.

I have struck upon a holiday.

The prayers pull the day down quiet and slow, melting its vanilla sun over a natural blanket. 

The dimmer the haze, the paler shadows.

The wash basin in the corner like a sundial. Creamy path of light touching the edges, a lover lain over.

I don’t fall in love until I sleep. Waking again to find, purified, the color.  The streamlined air has a song on it. The stringed instrument of a woman’s voice. I cannot find the source to view from my window. The room, the paint, the walls, the texture and hue of ash. Of soft burnt freshness.

I don’t fall in love until I sleep. Waking again to find, purified, the color.

The streamlined air has a song on it. The stringed instrument of a woman’s voice. I cannot find the source to view from my window. The room, the paint, the walls, the texture and hue of ash. Of soft burnt freshness.

But the echo carries effortlessness and charge. On a sky whose tone is about some season that knows no stars. Long past. Long forgotten. Lost. Hidden and preserved under blazing diamond snow of mountain crags. Beauty beyond all observation. And as well it is for the sake of those mountains and stars that I light all the candles. Half melted, they crack in the sconces as each accept the fire.

But the echo carries effortlessness and charge. On a sky whose tone is about some season that knows no stars. Long past. Long forgotten. Lost. Hidden and preserved under blazing diamond snow of mountain crags. Beauty beyond all observation. And as well it is for the sake of those mountains and stars that I light all the candles. Half melted, they crack in the sconces as each accept the fire.

A match awoke on the two I planted firm in the rinsing bowl. The burn sits even upon tall wax pillars occupying space in the thick green bottles that rival my age doubled. I have left half of that batch, the final bit of my day’s rations, on that same sill. New now yet familiar to my sitting and reflection. Much in the delighted attraction of two dirty dueling sparrows. Attracted to the breezeless flickers.   Gentle vagabonds, they are like me in this.  But this is their home, and I am bound for other countries with no more candles to my name.

A match awoke on the two I planted firm in the rinsing bowl. The burn sits even upon tall wax pillars occupying space in the thick green bottles that rival my age doubled. I have left half of that batch, the final bit of my day’s rations, on that same sill. New now yet familiar to my sitting and reflection. Much in the delighted attraction of two dirty dueling sparrows. Attracted to the breezeless flickers. 

Gentle vagabonds, they are like me in this.

But this is their home, and I am bound for other countries with no more candles to my name.