SproutWORD CAGES

How to hypnotise my own folly
and move beyond the next step.
Open up the lines and don’t expect
too much from time.

Trampolines might keep you on
the way a traffic light dictates
and the wilful fallen echoes
ramble on – dividing the lines
and carving out a
backward sliding descent
into old age.

But on the other hand,
a miracle glow
can be pleaded to grow
and slope the way to a shape of youth
that lasts forever
in mysterious silence.

 


Suddenly an entrance,
Queen of Sheba on skis;
and sailing to the right,
boasting all kinds of sores,
a fleeting glimpse of a reason
clothed in flight, and ranging
from sad to succour
in the blink of a town
that weeps.

Signal of distress
branching along the wall top:
a man begins to shatter
and his only form remains:
the stamp of a martyr
solid as rock.

I’m as vague as an ocelot
and twice as rare as never.
People put me in a rage
and I change it into a word cage.

– Twice two is nought
but seventh seven is heaven.

– Tracing the wheel lines,
we graced our presence with
near-rhymes.





Who is left to gather
at the reins of a slaughtered
triumph caused by the building
of an altar stacked with trinkets
and spoken in high relief ~ the way a
golden platter is laid for hens to peck
and turn the hall into a rainchamber,
checking out to be nothing more than
eyesore mean anti-matter, where
probes are laid in, and saddles packed
with chess-playing eardrum controllers . . ?

– Chisel a queue of blockheads
eager to deliver a new earpiece,
to calm an altered eloquence,
thereby achieving nothing.

Trampoline wax, the harbinger of many:
how do we get through
this forest of wood
and still remain anxious for food?

The chips are down.
The billows of the room
lead me into a harmless state ~
when the response is so hushed
the delivery chamber
is left to its own devices.

Do I have a story to tell?

   Harking back to those old things,
   how they happened and where they fell
   in the strivings of a mixed up life . . .
   There’s sense within when it happens,
   but in between, the tumble drum
   puts the most obvious into shady causes ~
   never knowing what you are really saying,
   not even afterwards!


© 2003 Pete Gioconda & Black Cat Communications
All rights reserved