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Saturday, 26 April 2014

Grant Tarbard

My Own Beautiful Wreckage


I am not alive.
I am a skeleton with
a bluebell growing 

out of my rib cage,
there is life in my decline
the anglerfish light

tempts the marrowbone 
in the soil surrounding me,
my soul to die in.

My icon carved in
soft soap, my own beautiful 
bister cartilage 

brunet memories 
percolate out of my skull,
the spectrum of light 

is an illusion,
black and white resolution
resolved to undo

to make God anew.
My skull is a trinket box 
a garland in bloom 

with snowdrop, crocus,
bright red osseous matter
and pearls of the dead

--

Grey Tones


(I)


Distance is in my 
Eye, the viewing not
Restricted to make
Believe borders drawn
Out in the design.

(II)


Wagnerian grand 
Sweeps. Grey tones, garnet
Relished in flesh, in
The blood pools of a
Sorrowful moonscape. 

--
 
Sea of the Hanged


Rag dolls hang from the
Telegraph poles. The 
Wind blows the only 
Moving parts on these
Flesh marionettes.

Protruding tongues, white
Bait for the vultures,
Terrorists for the
Groping Eye socket,
Open palmed flowers.
 
 

2 comments:

  1. Revisitations of "Fleurs du Mal," of course, but your own palette: "bister cartilage// brunet memories," for example -- rolls right off a protruding tongue.

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