Human Poetry: Throbbing In Crevices

Doug

Jun 29

Inhuman Definitions

The pejoration of Poetry is the shame of the age. The 20th Century spark that first ignited a new breed of feral poetry has been extinguished with the rising power of the Academy. The bulk of what they deign to call "Poetry" is a biting insect on the skin of humanity that spreads a colic of abstraction. The approved dead corpse under the tombstone of "Poetry" is a language of obfuscation and abstraction. From the early "poetae" of Latin who wrote creative literature to the degeneration of the "poetria" of medieval Latin, the pejoration process has culminated in the seizing of what is now the technical term "poetry" that now belongs only to the elites. "Poetry" is the condensation of the sinister reign of the elite rain-makers issuing thunder-tripe like gold at the end of the leprechaun river. Literati thunder in papers containing metamorphosed metaphors from the ancient social butterflies, they, now transformed by the artificially intelligent who infest the neural nets, now in the wind, captured by their own sticky jargons memorialized by chatbots and chatGPT, are stuck.
Human Poetry is poetry written by humans. The term is a retronym that signifies freedom to be emotional or depressed, to rhyme or not to rhyme, to dance or sing, and to be.

Throbbing In Crevices

Though there's little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who'd let luck go where
fecal creeks don't drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that's home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven's ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missiles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin'
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man's nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin' and rollin' in serotonin.

I have traveled into you--
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven
Backdoor Poetry
Amazon

Comment