KkK

 

Jason Wilkinson

4 Poems

 

Chartreuse

The morning came out
shitty when you left
bubbles on the skylight
me
hammering at glass
ocean-bottom living
like an animal-
cracker going
limp in the java

Robot arms finger
broad cushioned hinterlands
furnished treetops

There we beheld unfathomed symmetry

As the porch lamp fizzled
shadows drew
lurid cherubim
above the concrete:

Souped-up hotrods perambulate
maniacally,
combing the darkness

Streets expire
to a dull
hypnotic paean
tincturing my calcareous electuary
with rueful declensions

Exuberance gathered obliquely
plated the chimera with hemlock

Rumpled words there
doggedly burrow
through the sententious
discoloured vellum
marking their
clandestine flight.

 

 

1/12/10

May the wind rain poniards of Silence
where the meadow’s brook slips
brazenly
varnishing a wintry catacomb
with murmurs of luminescence
whose idle gentry
tapping their bevelled canes
frosted, damask roads
telescoping before them
oft knelt among the mirrored waters

May the hills form parapets of emerald and clay
chimneys to freckle remote Arcadian vistas
pullulating with Youth
to cauterize the dismal bloom of Youth

May the sun drip indolently
ever searing
mummifying
wagon-trails in the firmament
its torrid shafts plummeting
in nascent helices

May the seas pull up through those star-bedazzled fields like sudden hedgerows
polished amid luxuriant coverlets of moonlight

May the vernal down caress our aimless tergiversation
wend its frowning hands about us

May Summer roil in ecstasies untold

May the lanterns bloom
and the cockle shells
with rime unshed their pulchritude
weary of Winter’s forlorn maquillage
nor may the ode fail to swell our hearts
that bespoke such tragic wonders.

 

 

This is not about a ‘World Gone Mad’

Or those imagined consequences
derived of such a harrowing prospect.

This is not about a truculent gallimaufry of feather-weight rebels
hell bent upon setting things right.

It’s not about all the more conventional philosophic mechanisms
which have failed at similar pursuits.

This is not another sleek advertisement
beckoning you and your family to an ‘Island Paradise’
beyond whose tourist areas a small battalion wouldn’t feel safe.

It’s not about amending tax regulations or cutting back pension fund spending.

It’s not about what you or I, or anyone else on planet earth, would do for a square chocolate-coated bar of ice cream.

This is not about the day that your last functioning brain cell packed up and moved out

Or the rather odd variant of separation anxiety which ensued precipitately upon its departure.

It’s not about a Tea Party For Idiots

Nor the institutions of demonstrably inferior repute
through which Conservative slander has found an audience.

This is not about how many disingenuous morons one is expected to transact life among
for the sake of remaining buoyant in a global economy.

It’s not about what you should do with your piss-pot inheritance of worthless bric-a-brac.

For the love of God this is not about your mother in law!

Nor the mean frequency with which she has been known to disrupt the equilibrium o
your otherwise quiet abode.

This is not a loud wake-up call for all of the people whom would do themselves a greater turn should they ever choose to pay way more attention to their own lives.

This is not about the ‘well-intentioned prank’ that cost your uncle his right leg.

Don’t worry, this is not about refining the American Healthcare System.

It’s not about the public school lunch program of the future, which will likely consist of
nothing beyond ill-tasting protein bars and bottled water.

It’s not about how many politicians will be disgraced by the time it is implemented.

This is not about a witch living on your sister’s block, who, for the sheer pleasure of
countenancing her neighbours, has made a flamboyant show of observing Christmas for
the past nine years.

It’s not about the untold number of household pets that went missing between that
development and the nearest Chinese takeout facility.

It’s not about the ethnic violence in Nigeria.

Or the virtual monocracy of Yemen.

This is not about the five hundred pound gorilla that some genius thought would make an
ideal pet.

This is not about a religious hierarchy that is more concerned with defending child
molesters to The New York Times than it is protecting children from abuse.

It’s not about an imaginary band of nomadic aliens whose invented history includes
manufacturing the first humans in a laboratory, and strip-mining our universe for gold.

Or how such dubious extraterrestrials have, according to an equally incredulous agent,
lately found themselves mired with intergalactic sanctions.

It’s not about the utterly barbaric fashion in which the most vulnerable members of
Civilization are often treated.

Or the collage of useless judiciaries whose despotic machinery refuses Justice to those
whom have suffered the worst.

It’s not about the first thing that you plan to do after reading this.

Nor the fact that most of your friends have not read a book for the better half of a decade.

This is not about how made disinterested jackasses are required to stop an oil spill.
It’s not a lucid editorial scrutinizing their largely ineffective practices.

This is not about placing blame.

 

 

A plastic spider

A plastic spider
zipped through your Heraclean tress
accenting my nightcap
felt the waning Absinthe shrivel
Her spirit uncadenced-
prehensile, dysphoric marvels
left behind toy footprints
as of sun-laved gems

There was a gaggle of soft bells
polluting the see-through clime
with rumpled arpeggios
its dandelion hymnal
vanishing on the warm road

Betimes an echolalia of marmots clawing
anonymously
broken wood shifting
under them
foiled Serendipity’s wild music

A streetcar gurgled in the makeshift morning
styluses twinkling with moonlight
bled of its sanguine depths

Above, along the rooftops’ chequered tiles
we lounge tangentially
unobserved by retreating heavens
into whose rime-coated shop front
myrmidons glean the sophistry of Age

Risen moisture veils our fallen coppice
now sunken loam the parapets
like charred chandelier tops
without the ectopic haze
of twilight fading

Through derelict clover
a roseate bloom suggests itself
neath tessellated window glass
letters tossing their curious repartee
subdue the idle wanderer.