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A kind of Fronkensteen, Alight upon the light, asteroid letters, bouncing off your mirror, brain bank, excavate, finger reading dimensions bumps, hex rays visions, Inspiration, poem, Poetry, Prose, stars to dust to flour to bread to crumbs to dust to stars, Step away from the fright
Rather than go dark, my muse decided (never asks Esme mind, just strikes when I’m not looking. Cheeky sod) to counter all the dearth of fear soaking us up at present with a touch of sun, of sorts, perhaps lightening too – with a bolt of . . . inspiration.
Brought to Life
A flash slashes the skies
Upwards go the eyes . . .
The neck tips back ~ swings on its hinge,
Wide with a thwack ~ its zenith un-impinged,
To behold a thrall supreme ~ stiff as a glyph,
An ebullient beam ~ piercing fourth to fifth,
Fearsome and fantastic ~ a coruscating stream:
Lunatic Lit. bombastic ~ belts a fulgent theme;
One of so very many ~
~ Or so it would seem . . .
Through trachea illuminati ~ wild rioting ricochets,
Machiavellian as Moriarty ~ divergent radiant rays
Embolden; sneaky mingling ~ slips in a searing spear,
Ooh, feel those fingers tingling ~ hotshot bioengineer,
Trading feral emissions ~ excavated tones elate
Bunsen burner ignitions ~ spark the cervical primate;
Memory bank storms ~
~ Brain’s cepheid stars gestate . . .
Thoracic bones entice ~ lower lumbar bass aglow,
A kind of sacrum sacrifice ~ the spine twists to and fro,
Synovial notions swivel ~ ossein concepts thrash in sync,
This fire-fuelled divil ~ commandeers to think as ink,
Firma’s straps unhook and fly ~ arms widen with a roar,
This fantoccini’s new supply ~ creator takes the floor.
A bolt from the blue
You inspiration-monger . . . you.
Esme's Cloud 
I just lost what I just wrote. I’m positive, you are positive and despite the fact the music industry is dead, my other back up ventures in crowds of people is dead, I don’t care. Maybe one day I will, but right now sitting indoors for 6 days so far I maybe saving lives. My left knee hurts from sitting in front of a screen so long. I loved your poem ~ George
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Your heart and brain are in exactly the perfect place and in this case the two positives in your space combined with two here equals a blossoming connection of something very important at present. I am so, so very pleased you love it George. Swap knees. beams
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Can you have two right knees? The (home, out the back) gym wasn’t easy earlier. Even the old man with his knackered knees couldn’t deal with this.
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If you have you’ll definitely win the knobbley knee competition at Butlins. Give the old fool and his beautiful mrs a kiss from me.
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Unquestionably the finest poem I’ve read today, or any day in recent times, Ms Dream Cloud. These are strange times indeed. Toilet rolls are all. Yet perversely I find myself happily devoid of decisions in this thing named ‘lockdown’. My post Brexit, still hurting, stress levels responsible for my current mind and body malaise have reduced because of the lack of simple day to day decisions. Stuck happily indoors, we pretend the back yard is our French café, we even fly the French flag while taking coffee out there, clad in warm, overly bland, ancient dressing gowns. Our laundry basket is nigh empty. Panache a thing, for the moment, alien. For the first time in a very long time I’m feeling well, the racist Farage black dog feeding someplace other than mine. Enough of yours truly, how are you getting on? By the way agree with George re his comment above.
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“clad in warm, overly bland, ancient dressing gowns” – Hahahahaha. It sounds quite lovely ensconced with you, she and George Mike. “Panache a thing, for the moment, alien.” – This kind of talk is exactly why you are in the top tier of Cloudsterness. I’m really glad you’re feeling better for the enforced simplicity and can very much empathise; here on the Cloud I am investigating the ancient art apparently known as ‘cleaning’. Normally the Flying Monkeys and Professor Taboo in his latex maid outfit see to such buiness, but in isolation (and indeed, Esme being a somewhat frail sort holds up her see-through arms, ’tis necessary and has been for what feels like 923 of your Earth weeks) one must heave to and grab the Vim. (No filth there, well, not other than actual filth. Hahahahaha). In other words I am secure at present and managing ok, thank you so much for asking beams and virtually sends him a virtual germ-free free distanced but heartfelt hug. For all that is bad, there is much good that shall come out of this too. Not enough to warrant it’s need at all; I just mean it isn’t and won’t be all dark and that’s something incredibly vital we should keep at the forefront.
“Unquestionably the finest poem I’ve read today, or any day in recent times, Ms Dream Cloud.” – BOOM! manages a see-through arms and legs cartwheel across the Cloud.
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From the most dangerous thug on the planet, as featured at the Goebbels Channel:
“The things they had in there were crazy. They had things, levels of voting that if you’d ever agreed to it, you’d never have a Republican elected in this country again,”
Racism is alive and fell — all over it appears.
Wishing I could stop by for a visit to your back yard of France 🙂
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Were it not for this virus you and, of course, Esme would be invited to the back yard. The far right are partying across the Western world in the certain knowledge that nationalism is on a roll…lines on maps to be persevered. The Goebbels Channel speaks wise words, Bill. At least the likes of you and I can see, what the blinkered cannot. Talking of words…and I sincerely hope Esme does not mind me mentioning it here…I was researching for a book I’m working upon presently. Research can be irksome, accurate timelines and history cursed by its source. Yet one brief piece caught my eye, the words of one simply stating what he had seen. I included this in a recent post yet will not bore you with its link; this was the part that mattered…the part that sent to shivers up my spine;
Herewith the translated words of one Franz Mawick, a humble man working with the Swiss ‘Red Cross’ mission as a driver speaking of an event that unfolded before his eyes in Nazi occupied Warsaw back in 1942. His account relates to the seizing of young Polish women to be used as sex slaves within Nazi military brothels.
“Uniformed Germans gaze fixedly at women and girls between the ages of 15 and 25
One of the soldiers pulls out a pocket flashlight and shines it on one of the women
Straight into her eyes
Two women turn their pale faces to us, expressing weariness and resignation
The first one is about 30 years old
‘What is this old whore looking for around here?’
One of the three soldiers laughs
‘Bread, sir’, asks the woman
‘A kick in the ass you get, not bread’, answers the soldier
The owner of the flashlight directs the light again on the faces and bodies of girls
The youngest is maybe 15 years old
They open her coat and start groping her with their lustful paws
‘This one is ideal for bed’ he says”
My conclusion? In fiction I can, and often do, get away with murder. In reality the truth can rip a heart in two.
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My father hinted at witnessing unspeakable acts during his time in Great War Number Two, but he never divulged a single detail about the nature of the dark events. He was also that rare individual who never hear uttered a single curse word, he took them all to his grave. Mine was the good fortune to live in West Germany between 1971 and 1973. My roommate’s parents were born at about the same time as mine. I have a very distinct memory of his father’s photographs, one showed him sitting on a knoll and darning socks with his fellow Wehrmacht members. Conversing with them in German brought me a great respect for the sacred trust that comes with learning a language well. My most vivid memory of visiting Dachau was reading a display of bills of lading, manifests, the “freight” delivered there for final-solution processing — the logistical facts blown up to poster-sized wall-hangings. Thank you for conducting your current research, I am intrigued and now plan to do a bit of research myself on the untranslated Franz Mawick.
Fare thee healthy — or at least Covid-free!!
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Hellish hard to unravel the secrets of those who served in war, Bill. My own father, captured outside of Dunkirk when his truck ran out of fuel, spent the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp right next door the Krakow…and all that that meant. The poor chap, just 20 years old at the time had just signed professional papers for a then successful football team. Upon his return to England born of frost bitten feet put a stop to that career. Besides, at 6 foot tall he had redcued to a mere 8 stone upon arrival in the shores. We only got to know these things at the end, when his mind was crumbling away. In that state he told me of many things, foul things far worse than one’s worst nightmare. Having said that I am grateful his then dying brain told me of such things. His secrets were, are still, golden nuggets of the common man’s and his nation’s history. Such secrets unravelled are lessons to be learnt, yet rarely do others listen. I shall now risk lungs and body temp endeavouring to avoid others humans in my quest for fodder…our stocks are low. All the best, Sir
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Thank you, my friend, for the insightful take upon the ‘foul things far worse than one’s worst nightmare.’ I have read that PTSD is an inevitable condition for all and each participant in any war zone, the sociopaths excepted I suppose. Those sociopaths likely deflect the events onto others in their societies, they become pillars of society and know how to play the dark games of war to “make friends and influence people.” Breaking the silence maintains the silence indefinitely when ‘rarely do others listen.’
And I also risked life and lung at the fodder market this morning. 🙂
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I only had to use the dictionary once. Ok, twice. 🙂
Your poetry here has a primal feel to it. It transcends merely watching the sky with fascination and wonder, but become at one with it. As I’ve described in your writing before, your ability to detail the sensations and feelings in every part of the body is amazing. Light, chaos, motion, electricity all pass through the body as I read. You make an excellent pagan. 🙂
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This is extra, I may pretend it’s someone else. Get yourself a pen name. Hahahahahahahaha.
“Light, chaos, motion, electricity all pass through the body as I read” – Poetry should do all of that, it should pin you to the ground or catapult you beyond the stars, so I’m more than a small amount chufed to minute particles that you find this to be so Swarn.
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Phew!
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You sound relieved! Hahahahaha.
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How thoughtful. 🙂
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Esme, I am moved by your allusion to fantoccini — who (or what) controls the puppets in that box of a theater.
Through trachea illuminati ~ wild rioting ricochets,
Machiavellian as Moriarty ~ divergent radiant rays
All the world’s a fantoccini,
And all the men and women and viruses merely players
— “As I like it” — a Bowlderization of Bill S by Bill Z. 🙂
All the world flames up and crisps down as vivid covidded creatures seek the trachea.
Machiavelli and Moriarty setting off wild rioting ricochets.
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I found the word in the bottom of a packet of salted nuts, so licked it clean, gave it a wipe and a buff and found out it is indeed just that, a puppeteer! Cracking word – ‘fantoccini’!
I like it as you like it Bill, bowlderized properly. ‘All the world flames up and crisps down as vivid covidded creatures seek the trachea.
Machiavelli and Moriarty setting off wild rioting ricochets.‘ – marvellous.
Pardon the slow speed. Strange times.
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Bravo. 🙂
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Bows and blows her a kiss.
Thank you m’dear.
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Gotta keep my favourite cloud aloft! Take care of yourself. -hugs-
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