O! The Radiance, The Grit & Four other new poems by Parker G. Jamieson

O! The Radiance, The Grit

 

The forest
Overgrown
With divine machinery
Posits
Firstly
A faint
Glow
Of tattered ages
One year
Dusts
With black pills
Climbing
Railroad ladders.
Not even oil
Could muddle
The granite
Father
Hated
Nor
Secondly
Smog
Knotting
Electronic shrubs
As Moses may have yearned to
Blinding
Ancient
Teeth
Gummed by rhododendron’s
Nascent smile.
A smile so imperfect
So fevered
So raw
So endless
So torn
As the soul behind it
So rotten
So disturbed
So undisturbed
Gnawing
Upon impeccability.
The forest,
The mechanism
Behind it
Bit the elbow
To taste the marrow
Undeniably.
Only to falter
Into inevitable
Bones.

 

Oh, let me succumb (sonnet)         

 

When the sirens die, and licit wrinkles are finally
Annihilated by an iron,
Your bliss will ruin me
Through ceaseless ruminations which
Make me feel warm
And tidy below the solemn ages
Which only mood allows me to feel –
Like death. Oh, let me succumb
To your demands, your puppet strings
Of choruses that tear apart
Faint joy that makes me melancholy.
Relieve yourself in my pliable cushions,
For I will do nothing to fight against that pretty
Anguish. Give your flame, I’ll nail together a hell.

 

Untitled

 

Hell is modern now. The devil thinks Civilization is returning to the early 1960’s.
Most of us down here laugh                        and continue to feel like miserable tarantulas.
The wrapping on
My Cerveza Modelo’s lid opens, temporarily, the sin filming my soul                   crusted
Wet leaves on a window between two storms  – don’t bother picking at your former self.

Rimbaud is somewhere around here, I’ll tell him you said hello or something.

Fire is made in squares and triangles stuck in tacky trellis Montauk style down here –
Like wallpaper
ripped off the roll by Stupid, then slapped                         in ignorant patterns.

No one cares.
You could imagine the wallpaper’s colors – black and red.
Frank Lloyd Wright purchased it, he’s the interior decorator around here.
I guess architects don’t go to heaven –
The devils throne is Romulus’ heart pried apart. Pontius is cleaning up the blood as we speak.
He lets me in on a little secret every week, Frank; he says when he built homes
He imagined each was a different stage for family massacres.
My eye’s bulge to ant heads every time,
He pulls me over to the side to tell me the same secret once a week.
He’s buying my anorexic bedroom
A rug next week – it’s red, too he says – with vermillion triangles and
Thin black lines. With an antique, yellow marble, coffee table with onyx legs to go with it,
He enunciates.

This is a modern hell.
It gets worse each day. Sometimes primary color demons haunt us.
Sometimes we live inside postcard nightmares; no one wants a postcard from here.                                                       But you’ll be getting this soon.
It’ll be the early 1960’s again

And some one up there on Jefferson st. will be salving from bad acid
screaming how biology is godless and the clinical pills are church pillars.

But they’ll be down here
not long after, smashing their face into the dirt
And running on all fours.
But we’ll clean that up too. Frank doesn’t like incontinence, he made bathrooms our place
to give up.  It’ll be funny, we’ll laugh.
Then, back to building, cleaning, digging.

In a Parking Garage in the Center of Savannah, GA.

The stairwell is a swivel of worlds. Nothing remains put except regimes of uniformed bodies.
In the air                  Piss, chocolate, stale beer, and miniature voices;

Every level has its own stench.
A homeless man with perfectly white shoes, dons a cologne I’m curious about
(The peppered insanity crosses my an infants nose      lapping details
Of crucifixion and rainy revolt           
                               On a projector jammed with the slide – a relentless repetition, eclipsing)

He is stuck in the stairwell’s corner on a penny glued to concrete with bubblegum.
We’re learning about cataracts without an optometry degree. The smell,
removed by another.
My mother’s perfume, when I was nine, has since
Been inhaled to oblivion. It returns from oblivion
In swirling leaves to horrify my clinical descent.
The limbs of Garage #9

Are a swiveling age

Gyrating through truths, objects I once held

Now are only evaporated odors.                              Blood of Christ in the rain
as I escape
Into the city.

Position A

 

The girl in the book shop was whispering loud enough to her friend on how she masturbates
That I could listen. I wonder if she was purposely trying to whisper that loud
Which may have been a rehearsal for some act,
I didn’t question her one-decibel-too-loud voice until I left.
I guess she never left, I went back the next day and she was there.
 
In my mind, she’ll be sitting there forever picking her scabs and talking about her clit.
Maybe some people are like this in the afterlife,
Stuck in one place on one topic which doesn’t make a difference
 
And has no magnitude. But she’ll be there in her big, dumb, damask chair
 
Whispering loud enough and acting well enough                  so people walk past and ignore her
Because Respect. Who knows, maybe she’ll stand up and do something. Maybe she’ll masturbate
And show off her wrinkled flamingos and demonstrate – maybe she’ll quietly scream.
 
I dunno – But if something does happen I wanna know –
I want to see her do something else – I have no clue why –
 
This is good for now though.

Parker G. JamiesonParker G. Jamieson is a pin-drop on a beach surrounded by fans. They are from Woodlawn, NY – This place sits next to Buffalo, NY on Lake Erie’s shoreline bench. They read, write, listen to teachers, and hold a degree of 98.6. They work at the Marilla cemetery and they edit student poems at the college. They have been published in various magazines and online sites. – You won’t find them on any social media site, they don’t connect to the world via technologic gore.

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