I only find me in the twilit streets.
I am conflict, and conflict is within me.
In the heaviness of dreams, I hear
only the thickness of a hundred bells.
LOOK! I have fear – among other night-mares
– inside of me, that I’ve never had before.
HEAR! My trembling, like a multitude of ghosts,
phantoms over a blackened grassland
just before an evening shines its moon.
FEEL! I suffocate in the thickness
of a thousand biographies ending, smothering me,
like books in free-fall eventually burying me. Look at me!
I am that one soldier maimed,
the enemy you looked upon with disdain,
my yells of pain now only echoes on a field;
should fortune smile, it could remain
in someone’s memory. People remember the glory;
I remember the shit, piss, the stench of fear,
my future unmarked grave. Thus, call me selfish.
I only find me in the twilit streets
because I walk alone. I only find me
in the deceptive terza rima of the changing
positions and dispositions of the times.
— A. P.
I. C Mayor, lent et triste
Look, t(h)inker, clock-reaching cockroach in the works,
Be on your feet and tremble! See how hollow the night.
Miscreant, in the middle and fifth of C,
The glowworms feed on your carapaced stomach lining bleached
In a dozen colored curlicues brought on by the smoke
Of your burnt trials. Sink, make me. Border-trample the tempest
In the groomed brick of silent scale. The pavements
Cry their rhapsody, now, the wet heat expressing their sizzle
In the ear. Color me surprised. I heard you and your nightmare
Galloping across the frail shields of men afraid of laissez faire,
Savor me, now, in wick. Candle-shaped pine trees do flicker in winter
And the flame on their heads are not for you to lick.
II. F menor, andante
Please, projection, you are mere, even for the stellas in your sangre.
Your platelets may compose constellations under your skin,
Your icy bones may form planets in your tears that muster galaxies,
But in the grander scheme of things, you are a carpet of logic compressed
In a paradoxic vacuum. Leave and elevate. Leave and elevate
The skin, your toil, such eviscerations and dirt factory,
Carpal tunnels reside in your art; in your heart,
Calloused emotions breeding demons. Life, through carbon, is
A series of sensations punctuated by arousals, accented by
Chromatic cymbals of attractions. But rhythms are not self-contained,
They glean the stalk of everyone’s name, the vibrations in the strings
Create echoes; may your fate be with mine, in the reverberation.
III. A menor, lent et douloureux
I am mildly a shadow, an existence in the final straw, I hung
My lips on words; I hung my ears on sound, my skin on touch,
A testimony of testimonies. Take all of me and the subtle cracks in my
Perceived legato — leave me out of your tierce de picardie.
Your expected brightness in the ending, a preconceived
Colossal composition of what petty chemicals your existence is made of;
Oh, contuse, confuse, grave sadness. The elegy is coming to a close.
Claim my core, forte, fortissimo, louder and louder and more and more,
And be solemn, and be still, I am mildly a shade. I may blur
In your hand-waves. In your clear, corrosive light, I might disappear.
Come, whisper dangers in my ear that my heart might believe them;
Come, make me feel like I am more than what I am supposed to be—
IV. C menor, largo (coda)
Softly, like a stream,
Carry me to my dreaming, softly
Like a stream, carry
Me to my dreaming, mildly
Like the wind, carry me
My arrest, mildly,
Like the wind, carry me
To my rest.
— A. P.
The arbiter’s tongue, soft under wing in flattened seventh,
Measured in the embochure. Fly, fly like grass in wind.
Over qualm and quell, so cruises buds in air.
Fawned over glasslike, that in cages spat;
Such is excitement in primordial form.
What hook she drives in the flesh competition,
And culls intellect: such unfairness,
To take the sky, and when she comes
— a storm warning.
I plant the seeds of my thoughts in you
To grow like unwanted growths.
You are calmest in capture, in imagined capture.
Like dislodged modes in minor sternness, grew
Mixolydian melodies in my almost-rebirth.
Why is attraction easy, asks the earth
In its near-rapture.
End, in little fading vibrations,
The outcomes, they hung on such flimsy strings.
The pages upon which we started caught activity
And with its half-life consumed, it slowly decays.
— A. P.