Thursday, July 21, 2011

Uncovered poetry: Monkeys and Angels

It’s not all that late, but I’m all that tired. So tonight I submit some more of my odd poems. Reading these poems again now is strange to me, my game of metaphors obscured by time.

Monkey Tongue

Words are like problems we never solved;
like the five-year-old monkey that lives in my mouth
whose shit on my tongue is bitter, the smell of damp fur musty and dark.
His tight black fingers pinch my teeth and his whimpering
wakes me each dawn,
a helpless moaning that tastes like desperation.

His name is Bob Transcending
he moved here from Trafalgar Square,
it’s not in my mouth that he lives,
but further in my belly somewhere.

I don’t believe you saw an angel when we climbed onto the roof last night,
your coat hunched over your shoulders so its wings could drive clouds from the moon.
‘This gets my mojo hummin’’ you shouted from your perch,
the crumbling chimney of archetype silhouetted against your back
like Michael’s sword come to bless and comfort you.
This before you leaped to the church tower and hung on its heavy bell,
its pendulum swinging you side to side like Natalie’s pen in her restless hand.

When you will swing next and the monkey rise to meet you,
I will swallow for the very first time,
tasting my own baked saliva on my wet furry tongue.
I am no mother’s appendix, my feet are yet unclean.
The bell replies no
and the monkey’s shit unraveling.

God’s Angels, Priority Post

The pin-head dancing angels delivered by the post
startle you when you open the letter,
spray jasmine scented dust that makes you sneeze.
The return address reads: God Almighty, Belfast
but the street name is smudged illegible
and you haven’t really opened it yet.

In your moment of hesitation,
She reaches through the mail slot
and plucks the letter from your hands,
so that you will not be blinded
by the glory of God and her dancing minions.

Thus the prayer will rise, disillusioned,
recalling the unopened letter
lost from beaded fingers unclasped.
And you, crying in incompletion,
are left longing for the angels
snatched back by a jealous hand.

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