Poem – Tigers In Cloud Ships by Stephen Philip Druce March 16, 2016
Posted by vscorpiozine in poems, poetry, surreal, UK poets, Veteran Poets.Tags: poems, poetry, Stephen Philip Druce, surrealistic poetry, UK poets, veteran poets
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Tigers In Cloud Ships
Clad in spiked plummet –
stilled vapour rip
as cotton ball angels drift,
sail scratch prowl –
circle bird cluster
in snow coat applause,
suited cream orchestras
abandon scarred circus skies
in chorus salute,
and tigers in cloud ships
roar unmanned –
their sweetest melody.
BIO: Stephen Philip Druce is a poet from Shrewsbury, UK. He has been published in Cake, Muse, Spokes, Message in a Bottle, Pulsar, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Taj Mahal Review, Shot Glass, Hermes, and many other poetry journals.
Poem – Alone December 5, 2014
Posted by vscorpiozine in 1980s, Jade Blackmore, love poems, poetry, romantic poems, surreal.Tags: 1980s, Jade Blackmore, love poems, poetry, romantic poems, surreallism
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Alone
Physically defunct and alone
In Zimbabwe
Waving at English cameramen
While the government was being overthrown.
Alone with rain that crackles into a reincarnated frog in a clown suit.
Your diary hangs from the greasy beams,
Exposed like lunatics in rickshaws
And segregated hotel rooms.
How you sneaked into my room,
Not realizing that this was China
And we could cause World War III.
Alone raising bananas in an ant farm.
Alone being silly with divers in Kool-Aid waters.
Alone with naughty boy writing dirty words,
Alone in three different worlds at once,
Slithering like a baby eel in chicken soup.
Alone with boy in shorts between trailers.
Not the same as being with you.
Alone with 1943 Brooklyn Dodgers,
Play-off seen from beyond the embryo.
Alone with little red pajamas and frumpy cardigan-wearing friends from grade school.
Gurgling, belly-flopping fish that double as flashback hippies
Found me alone with filtering jazz in the back of the doughnut shop.
(Better with whipped cream than peanut butter.)
Alone with a baby born in Alaska, wrapped in Indian quilt
And facing future brainwashing.
Attack of the doorknobs: next reel on movie projector that scared me.
Museum wounds and transparent plaques without titles
That led me back to being alone
Under the baseball field lights,
Watching you,
Slippery and harmless as Betty Boop.
Copyright 1980, 2004 Jade Blackmore
Poem – Silence November 18, 2014
Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poetry, silence, surreal.Tags: Jade Blackmore, poetry, silence, surrealistic poetry
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Silence
The worst thing in the world is silence,
cold and criminal, betrayer of psychedelica,
the teen-age spirit gutted
by incorrigible wisdom.
Sand heaves through the open windows
of a pick-up truck in the Sonora Desert.
Handcuffs dangle from opposite corners
of the flatbed through neatly drilled holes.
She walks, squeezed into a black corset,
through stained glass,
a faceless woman in shredded veil.
Dry heat.
The saguaros waver beside her.
Justice never materialized.
It’s not a human voice that she remembers,
Its Eros and St. Michael overlapping,
a hyena on the stalk for fresh meat.
Cactus burn.
Blister of tongues and lies.
Helen Keller in spangled scarves.
Ears flushed clean.
No sound, not even
The tinkle of beads in a baby rattle.
No whisper over long-distance phone lines,
“See you, love.”
English accent on Sunday morning Brooklyn street.
The slurring of a wet kiss in Brazilian soap opera.
Silence
except for the whir of a computer and
a mouse scampering on the subway tracks.
Vague tumor in the pituitary.
A stopped anapestic beat is not healthy
for children and other living creatures.
Wet dream of a desert.
The French lieutenant’s woman
in cowboy boots,
the smell of mink oil on leather.
Nirvana.
To love the open road, not the accountant’s signature.
Broken air conditioner in warehouse window.
Little girl accosted by shower of stones in Chicago alley.
She’s got a picture of you house-
you’re rocking on the front porch swing
in purple suede boots
like the ones in the 1972 Alden catalogue.
Your hair is endless.
Rapunzel gone psycho.
The veiled woman hears a murmur, a tease,
her wrists, thick-veined but anemic,
chained to a desk,
a rain-drenched tombstone,
the Vatican balcony,
to anything but the truth.
The truth-
handcuffs loose on the flatbed,
not a dab of sweat
from skin to steel.
Copyright 1990, 2005 Jade Blackmore
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