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2.21.2020 New Poems in Otoliths (57) Two new ballads in Otoliths 57. Many thanks to Mark Young. Here is Otoliths 57 in its entirety. And in print.P.S. Listen to Wayfaring Angel on mp3. posted by Adam Fieled on Friday, February 21, 2020 (0) Comments: Post a Comment 2.02.2020 De Profundis: A Ballad The crowd is called in, to witness the kill; drunk & disheveled, bitter and chilled; he follows them in by an effort of will. The tiles are cleaned, to be spattered with blood; trickles or gushes, geysers or floods; a yellow-ish light drowns the faces, like mud— he likes who he is, in this outlaw brigade; not a charmed prince in the price that he's paid; he'll have to remainder this bargain he's made— so stands at the edge, & yells with the crowd; overly hostile, overly loud; the victim lies prostrate beneath a white shroud. It soon gets uncovered, revealing a man he thought was another, not from his clan; but seeing his likeness is more than he'll stand. And yet he still lingers, as needles are drawn; screaming and preening, a circuit turned on; he wishes he lay there himself, nearly gone— yellow the light, and more yellow his soul; stripped of pretensions, stripped of controls; he runs for the exit like rats for a hole. The man was my father, the shrouded quite near. Hounded by anguish, hounded by fear,what lingered or perished was never made clear— posted by Adam Fieled on Sunday, February 02, 2020 (0) Comments: Post a Comment
New Poems in Otoliths (57) Two new ballads in Otoliths 57. Many thanks to Mark Young. Here is Otoliths 57 in its entirety. And in print.P.S. Listen to Wayfaring Angel on mp3. posted by Adam Fieled on Friday, February 21, 2020 (0) Comments: Post a Comment
De Profundis: A Ballad The crowd is called in, to witness the kill; drunk & disheveled, bitter and chilled; he follows them in by an effort of will. The tiles are cleaned, to be spattered with blood; trickles or gushes, geysers or floods; a yellow-ish light drowns the faces, like mud— he likes who he is, in this outlaw brigade; not a charmed prince in the price that he's paid; he'll have to remainder this bargain he's made— so stands at the edge, & yells with the crowd; overly hostile, overly loud; the victim lies prostrate beneath a white shroud. It soon gets uncovered, revealing a man he thought was another, not from his clan; but seeing his likeness is more than he'll stand. And yet he still lingers, as needles are drawn; screaming and preening, a circuit turned on; he wishes he lay there himself, nearly gone— yellow the light, and more yellow his soul; stripped of pretensions, stripped of controls; he runs for the exit like rats for a hole. The man was my father, the shrouded quite near. Hounded by anguish, hounded by fear,what lingered or perished was never made clear— posted by Adam Fieled on Sunday, February 02, 2020 (0) Comments: Post a Comment
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