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Saturday 8 March 2014

Craig Podmore - From 'Entropic Elegies'


Funereal deliverance of knowledge; to nullify, to enamour yet…this bemusing serenade, echoes of suffering under hollow canonical facades…this is the way we go, not physically but…in essence. Denial. Antipathy of psalms.

Despite this rage…shrouds of bramble, foliage, crowned for despair of existence…my father’s face, under browning leaves of autumn, the grace of winds settle as the nameless gravestone tilts…

Until, this sombre reflection understands that I, that I am to resolve.

This chapel coalesces a firmament that welcomes a genesis…

Organs collapse. Thoughts vaporise into oxygen…to give, to share…for you my love. The heart on my back that I carry is a lead weight but this hill, that is my father, one shall overcome.

Temple of aural lights shimmer, above, the darkest hour is here now…I fall as the heart bears too much, flowers with urns as stems, discolour our hope however, one is determined to allow you to be…to…be.

Silence flares. Rain descend, the dirt denounces into…perishing, the abdomen stings…crash unto flames of melancholy.

Your embodiment,

Eulogy of love…I see, at the top of that very hill. A raven feeds. Intrinsic.


Mother Mary, I have decried you often, perhaps the taste of your tears would elevate I into a state of acceptance but…why? Theological idealisms penetrate such stale and delicate psychosis. No, this sadness is in the bones and the universe, this entropic episode resonates but…

When will it stop for crying out loud?

I remember laughing at the sensation of my father’s beard upon my cheek…

This hill is chthonic, particles and atoms collide the higher I get, is that the sun or…is it fire? A golden seizure, irascible menace in the sky – the plains I can see over the summit.

There’s a constant autumn here; it paints a tiresome romance, the hypocrisy of these lands bemuse me, there’s eternal dusk and perpetual autumn yet there’s a fierce sun, white hot, a mist hovers near the peak like a crown; an heir of acceptance.

Oxygen decreases before the vestibule of a higher hemisphere. I lay amidst the mist sodden grass, the white dress envelopes me, I shiver, crestfallen idiot…the vessel beats, a flow of blood pervades the empty veins, a thin residue blankets the lonely anatomy –

Retribution will be my descent. Idol of failure. Yet this wonder succumbs to me, she, my lovely growing she, sparks of Eden, a supernova heart that I am so enamoured to grasp. Ambivalence…settling, liberty foils in sadness, no more chains for thee.


Abyss of bone.

Tears of flesh.

Wound of a sorrow misunderstood; reciprocated from a mundane melancholia in a vortex of decomposition…rapid, fetid mutilation in the course of the unforgivable erosion…cells have gone, unfettered unto a dust of what was.

A father in a jaded veil. Cocooned in a vacuum out of my reach.

Lord, I know I mock thee due to the abuse of this abusive humanity but…

No, no, I can’t betray my own thesis, my own poetry for the need of

Your lie. No matter how I plead to your nothing, he will still pass.

Suffer. Fall into flies’ mouths. There’s no rapture for I. This squalor, here, a carcass embalmed in a denial that is not palpable.

I see the veins.

Dark blue.

The blood that made me.

Where are them saints now?

The cinders of Babylon cursing these chambers with cruel and wretched significance.

I breathe in the train smoke of Auschwitz. The cold. The thinning of flesh…

Gnawed bone. My fear dining on the skulls of children. Chthonic slumber. I compel myself to this emptiness.

This design; made of mourning. Deadened leaves scatter and dance in morbidity.

I am not I. I is my father, the father of I and the son of what I was once.

This chrysalis seeps afterbirth.

God is chalk lined. The saints perish in my questioning. Eyeless serpents absorb the shades to this chamber to that I am confined to. Echoes of my father’s last disorientated words; the grasp of death has him drunk for he, in the utmost agony, despairs and contorts as he cries

“No, no, no, no…”


Sunlight vanquishing. A heavy grey lulls above.

I have conquered the hill yet not I…

There’s faded flesh. Gaunt and pallid, I fall onto the muddy mound,

In uterus except aborted, sullen…despair yet again, the paramount grief

Like a pendulum cutting the bowels,

A flood of entrails, the spleen of discourse; 

A crescendo of ashen memories

Disembodied, broken and sublime.

I foil and wait for the flies,

That’s all there is…

The repellent of,



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