Confessions 11-15

[brianedwards]

Confessions

#11

This won't be easy on you, hell it
wasn't for him. He clean lost track
the number of times been born.
And each time more squealful than the last.
Ouch! Cut him open, count the rings --
astonishin' Dumbo still sings
louder than a mountain roar or ocean blast
and all the time a fear of sweetcorn
heavy as confession on his back
brutal as a rabid ferret,




#12

slicker than an angel's lies --
Not wise to, Dumbo, digress.

[tab][/tab][tab][/tab][tab][/tab]Whole damn universe just damn disappoints.
All so damn Human. Offsprings too.
Never will forgive a world that tried
convince him otherwise.

I grow nostalgic for caves --- Oh God you
musta loved us then, before we dressed
it all in otherwise and therefore and other lies.

Now just who the devil's runnin' this joint?




#13

Diggin' a hole got me thinkin' aloud about
holes, holes, holies and holiness--
the whole holy mess.
OK, the sand pit's not the place for fits
of guilt, but we's the vessel not the water
and Dumbo's more a fish than a Peter,
more karaoke than pulpit.
Despite the reputation soggy doubts
seep thru di holes in hands and feet.
Belly-full of gravy. Now where di meat?




#14

Skinny chicks are clopping coconut shells
in bed. Clop-clop. My nuts cracked.
The restaurant floor's all blonde bright lights
but the basement is dark, dark, dark—
just a splash of pink to please the crude.

And yes, Dumbo meant to be rude
when I refused to drink at your well,
hell, those prices could keep me warm all night,
get home and find my trunk packed,
followed by the moon and a filthy narc.




#15

Jo-Jo rode di Dumbo dry,
hours and hours, nothin' got to flyin'.
And Brother Monk gave up the monastery
for this— a grounded beast,
wings folded, wantin' only to hug.

This weekend pass was a waste.
Step up Wing-Nut, you sure you tryin'?

[tab][/tab]My mind got stuck on knowing she ain't why
the trunk mad seeking the sugary
rush! [tab][/tab] Hush boy, here come the thug.










~

[Arian]

Interesting additions to the series, Brian. I’m picking up much of the same vibe as before, though – this time – the (to me) vaguely creole contractions and other references in these sequences make me think fleetingly, but quite frequently, of the slave trade of the 18th/19th Century Deep South. There's a sort of minor-key, blue-note feel to them. I got the same sense from earlier verses, too, but less pronounced. #14 – especially the first part – is another of those imaginatively graphic sequences that make these verses constantly surprising.

Btw, when I referred to a “sneering” tone previously, I didn’t mean I thought it was a bad thing. I liked it – it suits what (I imagine to be) the thematic subtext.

Cheers
peter

[RobertFlorey]

Confessions

#11

This won't be easy on you, hell it
wasn't for him. He clean lost track
the number of times been born.
And each time more squealful than the last.
Ouch! Cut him open, count the rings --
astonishin' Dumbo still sings
louder than a mountain roar or ocean blast
and all the time a fear of sweetcorn
heavy as confession on his back
brutal as a rabid ferret,




#12

slicker than an angel's lies --
Not wise to, Dumbo, digress.

[tab][/tab][tab][/tab][tab][/tab]Whole damn universe just damn disappoints.
All so damn Human. Offsprings too.
Never will forgive a world that tried
convince him otherwise.

I grow nostalgic for caves --- Oh God you
musta loved us then, before we dressed
it all in otherwise and therefore and other lies.

Now just who the devil's runnin' this joint?




#13

Diggin' a hole got me thinkin' aloud about
holes, holes, holies and holiness--
the whole holy mess.
OK, the sand pit's not the place for fits
of guilt, but we's the vessel not the water
and Dumbo's more a fish than a Peter,
more karaoke than pulpit.
Despite the reputation soggy doubts
seep thru di holes in hands and feet.
Belly-full of gravy. Now where di meat?




#14

Skinny chicks are clopping coconut shells
in bed. Clop-clop. My nuts cracked.
The restaurant floor's all blonde bright lights
but the basement is dark, dark, dark—
just a splash of pink to please the crude.

And yes, Dumbo meant to be rude
when I refused to drink at your well,
hell, those prices could keep me warm all night,
get home and find my trunk packed,
followed by the moon and a filthy narc.




#15

Jo-Jo rode di Dumbo dry,
hours and hours, nothin' got to flyin'.
And Brother Monk gave up the monastery
for this— a grounded beast,
wings folded, wantin' only to hug.

This weekend pass was a waste.
Step up Wing-Nut, you sure you tryin'?

[tab][/tab]My mind got stuck on knowing she ain't why
the trunk mad seeking the sugary
rush! [tab][/tab] Hush boy, here come the thug.










~

I picked this to read because it had only one reply.

I didn't get anywhere in particular with it, it seemed to me to
wander rather spectacularly. That's not bad in itself. You have
a lot of interesting passages; it's also very cute, in most places.

I think it needs a severe editing.

Why a dread of sweetcorn?
How does fear of a sweetcorn become a heavy burden,
why is confession equal to sweetcorn, and isn't confession
supposed to relieve rather than to burden? If not, then
why confess at all?

What in hell is this guy complaining about?

How is it that a confession manages to be:
brutal as a rabid ferret,
slicker than an angel's lies -- ?
a confession might be brutal to get out, but
if it's slick, then it comes out easily, if it's
full of lies then it's not a confession, it's a
false story. Do angels lie? I wouldn't know,
I've never been among angels to find out.
But don't metaphors establish qualities of something
that are transfered to the subject at hand? Or can they
simply sound like they might mean something?

I'm not a poetry cop: I'm asking, not ordering.

Not wise to, Dumbo, digress.
Yeah. I catch on that Dumbo digress
regularly.

Skinny chicks are clopping coconut shells
in bed. Clop-clop. My nuts cracked.

Dumbo cracked a joke. I think it occured to you as
you wrote it. It was convenient. I think it's jammed in
with a shoe horn.

Well, enough.

You've got the rhythm, you've got the vocabulary, you wander
in and out of some kind of patois, or maybe several ones, as
you hear them in your ear, to be used to grease otherwise
absent axles, you've got one of the most fertile imaginations
I've come across.

It's a rap.

But even raps are edited by professionals.

You've got professional quality.

So, I'm wondering why I'm reading something that sounds
more like notes for a poem than a poem.

[brianedwards]

Peter, thanks again for your input and engagement here. I hope you stick with me on this journey, I'm going to need you I think.. . .

RobertFlorey, this is part of a long sequence I am developing that works outside of mainstream poetic styles.
Approaching it the way you have is akin to cutting up Guernica then treating it as a jigsaw puzzle of a landscape.
Maybe the wrong channel, but thanks for tuning in anyhow.

B.

~

[David]

Still enjoying the ride, but still no idea where we're headed. That's fine. (Lot of crows talking here? Jim Crows? That bit of Disney has always vaguely bothered me.)

The magical mystery tour is waiting to take you away ...

Not home, James. Not yet.

Cheers

David

[brianedwards]

Not completely sure where we're headed yet either David, but sure glad to have company on the journey.

B.

[dedalus]

I love watching you. It's a delight. There are times when I feel you go Ezra-Poundish but there's a hard cold light of truth behind your writing even when it doesn't quite come off ... you can almost see the fuckin thing developing. It's like someone lifted off the top of your skull. I'm writing occasional pieces now in the glum sulky doldrums waiting for that flash of illumination to come down ... cold hard benches, stark unfriendly overheads, fag ends strewn across the floor.

Bren