breathe deep fast hit the ground running
by Donna Marie Surles

[for Will]...a missive of grand design


as you hinted this evening
a revelation is at hand
or singing dead birds
gaze into my burning eyes
the ocean wetblue
the sea mistress
abhors slander
awareness dulled not

they rise
opening
consciousness
like a can
a can of worms
slithering.sliding
towards the exotic
promised land

formulating
a visual vocabulary
as the carnival begins
the triad sings
the tired royal
season of moon
washed out
images
just beginning
to learn
how quietly
the zodiac kills

I am still dead
tho I speak
for I see

Zeus

in shadowed pines
blowing his horn
beating his rhythm
on a broken machine
for me...
the angel of death
never
out of time
a taboo
bloodletting
seeping wounds
unforgettable
negative conscious
prisoners
denying participation
movement marked by
regulated succession
of visions
dream now!

awaken this
lightness of being
of ice encrusted fathoms
forget the past
the sleeping beauty
of yesterdays paradox
so close now
you catch her chemical scent
conceiving
birthing
hot flashing
starving children
pray for forgiveness
looking for clues
in dark recessess
flowers wilting
defiled by promises
bending into their
pools of sorrow
that began as
mother's milk
soon turned to
rancid punk music
or unimproved
message protocols
bare bones
gradually erasing
impermeability
breaking through
to head home
to her
the usual velocity
of the journey
increased
water.motion.light
outside
of them
they see...
mother's mouth

her pain
set free
from birth
to death
she knew
that divine love
her life haded
the angle of inclination
imprisoned
surrounded
no acceleration
consecrated

she remembers

there is a life preserver
hanging there
waiting as a halo
glowing
where she toiled
the hours a way
finding none
the worse for wear
she lingers

speaking not
a goodby
but a welcome
passage
diseased but
still vibrant
this white bird

her visions
brilliant
[golden gods
silver chains]
remains vital
not beaten
allowing her
French metal heart
to remain pulsing
secretions
spinning
even in
abandonment as
she became the hunter
tables turned
in the era of rebirth
searching
for her lost
white rabbit's
surrealistic pillow

executing
exact
revenge?



Copyright © 2011  Donna Surles