~Boulder in a Bowl~

WordWulf By WordWulf, 22nd Mar 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Short Stories

~ to reassert tribal needs & memories ~ Jim Morrison ~ enveloped by you ~ silent & foreboding girl-cats ~ Nietzsche ~ you expect to break me? Impossible! You broke me years ago ~ Charles Manson ~ I stand beneath the mystic moon, an opiate vapor, dewy, dim ~ Poe ~ riding dead horses ~

~with Denver as a side dish~

They come on fallen morning, dawns chasing and darkness flies; then night begins and morning dies...

Driving south on Ninety-three, I wonder about the mad poet I am bound to become. He sees teeth who are mountains and clouds gnashing themselves ragged in the twilight mist of morning soft, as yet unbroken east side back of the Rockies, spotted white patches, December down, a cross of lights and lighted cross, serpentine hiss as headlights pass, eyes on the back of centipede car beasts.

Ain’t nothin’ like a crimson dawn, feathering cloud, wisp of hope for the new day, phat path beaten, edge of horizon, bare backs of dead horses. A man between kisses, “Be nice to me, girl. I will breathe you a breath of tides, a promise of dune.”

Riding your coursing river of blood, it comes as no surprise, heartbeats and minuets, babies dancing on the Moon. A crier lands on their face, sings the intercourse of dead poets, composers of doom. We approach the wall anointed; a dust of centuries resides. Autumn faces, strangers wear the names of dead children.

Don’t you dare twinkle your stars, make a space for living somewhere this side of halo. Where ancient wanderers roamed lie a field of crosses, seeds of victory borne, the brows of soldiers known. We found grief in a stranger’s land, a broken bone for wishing.

Children want to, like, know cool things, mind-walk barefoot through the mucus of gods whose breath hails the winter. A howling dog from its backyard bed and driven to the asylum, wings of father fallen and mother, goddess of whiskey. I have come to write the days, the wrongs upon their faces, to look underneath the skin. She finds my fingers in her hair. A woman’s rage ain’t no masque to hide.

Driving north on Ninety-three, I wonder about the old singer I am bound to be sung. He sings of teeth who are tall buildings, clouds hollow and cold mountain mimic. And a fading sun brings afternoon crashing toward night, west side back of skyscrapers, twinkle of window, December town, land full of light and lighted land, mouth full of false promises, dark and un-owned, the man beast stands.

Ain’t nothin’ like a crimson dusk, withering cloud, resolution, the new night hammered by wind. The horizon dissolves, slick oil backs of dinosaurs gone. A man between kisses, “Be nice to me, girl. Remove the dagger from my heart. Just take it away.” Offer reprieve, sanctuary, nothing new to find, heartbeats and last waltzes, aged couples fornicating in the dirt. The crier slaps their bare asses, remembers hymns written by Hitler’s men and sung by a choir of the damned. Our mouths as dry as puppet string, a stack of hollow bone, our homes; strangers swear forgiveness on a parade of ghosts.

Who will come to water the oceans, provide a dry bed of seed, this planet underneath. Fish walked, back-humped, on finned feet and shallow of root. They were sent stumbling to settle anew where home is home, found joy in a stranger’s bed, used his stolen cup for drinking.

The old would like to know nothing, to mind-sleep, feet wrapped in tear soaked rags of gods whose wind promises are blown empty. A mumbling beggar from the frozen street, hell-bent, embraces madness, a blanket of warm falling and mother, goddess of whiskey. I have come to write the days, the wrongs upon their passing, to live underneath their skin. She finds my eyes in those faces. A woman’s rage ain’t no masque to hide.

~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Kissing the Doppelganger~
~Death Chords~
~Whiskey Man~

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author avatar Greenfaol
30th Mar 2011 (#)

This is an amazing poem, filled with unbelievable imagery, a madness that tries to push its way in. great work :D

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author avatar WordWulf
30th Mar 2011 (#)

That is a wonderful compliment.

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author avatar Steve Kinsman
7th Jun 2011 (#)

You are, WordWulf, quite simply the best writer on wikinut, maybe the best writer in America today. The imagery - "He sings of teeth who are tall buildings.." - Amazing!

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author avatar WordWulf
7th Jun 2011 (#)

My favorite editor, Michael Annis (Howling Dog Press-home of the most dangerous writers alive) told me something like that & reminded me that such a writer, a genre unto himself, would likely be rotted in his grave before he was recognized. I leave that to my children, the five best friends to my life. Your comments are dear to me.

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