Read my poetry, I BEG: here’s ‘Fly!’

I wrote a poem! This is a direct reaction to my blocking YouTube (my only music platform) across all my devices, realising the loss of lyrical content depressed me, trying to write songs, realising I did not have the patience required to learn music theory, then adding a million different puns, references and what people I look down upon would probably call ‘Easter eggs’. I absolutely think that I belong in the field of poetry – that I have come home. I blame several things for keeping me away for so long: English teachers attempting to make poetry ‘relatable and fun’ (ie. cringe and culturally bankrupt), googling the name of a student teacher in sixth form and finding a video of her slam poetry performance piece which explored gender variance through the metaphor of vegetables who can talk, and being trapped into several other spoken-word poetry performances since. Did you know that poetry can actually be written down? I have thankfully found that out again. I’m currently planning a translation of Farewell, My Concubine without any E’s (Farwll, My Concubin) but for now, here’s my first poem! It’s about several different things and intended primarily as revenge. I exclamation-marked the title because that should be standard for titles, in my opinion.

Fly!

The sonar falls and the lunar increases, 

sets at hand as you fall out of the 

sky, cycle past the rip, 

Links it so a harmless anchor yields you at the hip, green,

cloaked, lest I, standing and helpless at year’s begin, 

Madame! Inventor of the safety-pin! Dead. Downwards spiral. Despondent verb.

Listless in some autumn hail (what does it say?) and yet 

The rain arcs over, I do regret, she

Lolls in some amnesiac hell at Yemen

old mid-East, and here I scheme them.

(Many lactic returns for the chosen jewel

I am born again, and scattered over the tlantic.)  

Bring plots and plans to von Nordeck’s school – think of the glassy ball, the magic mirror, sand-timer, trailing satin, blood smoke. 

Heed distortion: two-strip, female glaze. 

Now struggle out from under-mansion,

leg immense, swells at her atrophied yard,

Cloud County, Wichita, and astra per aspera,

von Masoch, roared the lion, de Sade.

You lived it, sang at heart as yin-yang scansion, 

Pounce out over-coiled – lit in saffron 

angst, harsh and yellow, ready-tarred. 

Adrian, a devil-child! O, brag of your handiwork,

as she bursts at the flash, flammable sun.

Black-market kingdom, heidaodai.

“Loss is suffering, and hearts always yearn”

The phrase traces your path all under the sky.

Here are Flanders Fields, your dreadful earth, 

go if flower-fingered arrival requires drowse,

listen, Somnifera, for I must earn –

I’ll paint my face all lacquer-black – will let the xiaoren caw and grab

as they hang, Metro’s bats, acro-tacked. Old one! Gudian! 

Epithet –  analect – dialect, collis, -polis. Pneumatic sog.

Don’t take away my little dog. 

pollicere?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s