PHLOGISTON
By
but light was not his field
dirtier in busy doors
and tightly woven doorways
shades of its refraction trimmed
and skimmed dishevelled ladies
his brain kept flaming spills
alive in bell jars birds fell
dead out of the sky his phantasy
revelling at length in patterns
of great earthquakes
the certain stars showed
smiles of loosened hair
wicking away all terrible
appearances and unforeseen
in time he went for phlogiston
and weeping said within himself
the first breath of a word
BICYCLIST
By
when clocks retract
in this purloined hour in altered forms
of words we make a film about
invisible twice over
a hidden Muslim on a bike
you conjure worlds inside the room
that play together to infinity
where unconsidered
children anticipate reunion
trains are running consequentially
in places we may never touch
if that’s not how it is you say
our unborn intentions never anywhere
but here
our only chance is le bicyclist Algerian
and in fake time this conversation
Thanks for the kind comments everyone.
Brilliant poetry, so good to read you here.
Thank you Neva :)
This is awesome! Great job!!!!!
thank you so much.
Andrew's retelling of the feminine ritual could come right out of The Feminine Mystique. The question is ownership. If the daughter owns her body, men, and other women, will love it and want to merge with it. If a man or woman owns his or her sexuality as a lifelong gift, it can last for decades. Obviously, the poet succeeded in evoking a collision of worlds and spheres.
Thank you Andrew for your comment. I love to see where my pieces are taken by the reader.