You've nearly done it. You look
Almost identical. So close to the
rank
Of replica, my specter, growing solid.
Are you a clone? Coy, ripe with
fractures.
There is something askew, though. A
Single cell of your mosaic removed.
You are different.
Imagine, I paid you a courtesy. I interred,
And you couldn’t hold firm the form of
The split shell that sticks to
The innards of my lids. Nothing is
Sacred. No, not even six feet of funerary dirt.
I am intrigued; that two years could
Glaze you to an antique. Cracked,
Embellished with golden Africana. A wetted
Porcelain, tilting with attic attribute.
It is when I think that I link the
Line to an obtuse hook that rips
Off the false patina. There’s the proof.
Me, the necromancer.
And yet I am doubted: my alacrity to
Spoil myself rotten, with handfuls of
harms. It is
So easy; to stimulate the resurrection.
There
Is no recipe; hollows jar-jammed,
Earth birth boiling, anthology. Why
Would I require these? – A
trigger?
Please, elaborate. What do you
Mean?
I thought I had made myself clear
That I’ve capacity.
I told them. I told them all. Now
Look at what leans adjacent, away from
Me, white and gelid as the arctic constant.
And demands the contents
Of my peach sleeve in their entirety.
It is hardly grueling,
This perfected poignant praxis. A failing,
Fooling every pillar in me to puddles.
And that thudding, throbbing juggernaut
That crushes my judgment so sweetly.
God do I do it well.
It is the gelatinous texture of it, the thickened
Recollection that I probe. Do you not see
That I touched you? I should amputate.
But instead I print this second eulogy with
The glitter gone gray –
A name? What do you need of my
Name? It was Tantalus that night,
Steeped in a sentiment aquatic. Face
Beat by spray I took
My own bait. I granted your dead,
Dead eyes to dine on mine.
What a marvel, what a séance. Watch me,
Watch me, academia, as I defy.
Ghoulish wheat, spiking through the loam.
Feigning the martyr, you do not deserve
A prize. What am I to gain from your
silvered
Scarecrow but another fissure. What repaired
Lobe are you now dying to colonize?
Lobe are you now dying to colonize?
© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH
So many fabulous images here.. I especially like the glitter gone grey and the ghoulish wheat. And the title...so intriguing. Great piece!
ReplyDeleteMmm, a strange and hypnotic mix of myth and dystopia... The dangers of false counsel? Certainly a poem to read again, and each time it will tell me something a little different.
ReplyDeletewhat a mix indeed...somehow made me think of someone creating something that people thought he couldn't - made me actually think of frankenstein on first read - but can be i'm so completely off...smiles
ReplyDeleteClaudia,
DeleteThank you for your response! I am unsure as to if I should lay out the meaning and reason for writing this piece, since when I have done so before it seemed to come off as pompous. A note, though, is to catch the necessity of it. I had to write it. I had no other choice.
Much food for thought here--certainly a piece to come back to again and again--
ReplyDeleteSometimes being caught in that point, that limbo of uncertainty is where only the poet can guide us through uncertainty of what's the road ahead,
ReplyDeleteThe temporary, nearly measurable by seond, in-between. The ground was gone from beneath my feet.
DeleteAn ambitious write Benjamin - I'll be back for mor... With Best Wishes Scott www.scotthastie.com
ReplyDeleteThank you for reading, Scott. I'll be checking out your site shortly.
DeleteGreat images in this.
ReplyDeletefinely done ~
ReplyDelete