Post by mor on Jan 14, 2010 16:06:34 GMT -8
Metaphoric Stepping-Stones - Exercise in Post Modern Poetry - .
Unexpectedly, an enigmatic smile floats its ambiance across a lesser forded stream.
How does one, decipher those minded mysteries that divide so the chromosomes in the assumed gentility and courtesy of their own imagined old-fashioned ways?
That even clerics have problems refuting today's dada images of dimensioned thought.
Was it, perhaps desires own purpose fit? Perchance, a promise, by which perseity that befriends need's lesser plan; a pisaller, whereby, in privier placement's scheme, time, its essence reck-reined by bridles-wise ruelle, heeds heart's re-energised rybat of immew word recast; immured by brattice bonded wrath it seeks to forge itself a different path.
Whereby, the mind infused by chemicals of a different kind, recharge its ions in a multi-patterned way, what strange behaviours its busy neurons seem inclined at moments notice, a braver sense of intended way their biological inheritance display.
That which by self- wrought trust, a pattern impressed upon a well worn path, gives it a gesture's gee, to which, by signals right led thought, advanced sighs, to such a smiled wave, it sees, but yet by mood's own purpose plays, denies all, but calls to life, from its own fractious maze, a minded sense of littered lies. Why then, its own, much feigned, and overly wrought surprise. That in a modern age, such an unusual invitation should prevail at all and man should seek escape the compartmental enclosures imposed by his contemporary poet peers. O how the modern poet drags his new self-imposed chains of freedom, forever bewailing the indiscretions of others like wise inflicted.
For should such toned voice intenerate by changes chance made choice, awake long lain, an abettor; solicitation's avocation from life's tired old dusting days, which have been they of late, a detinue, free, from the occident of night, by morns own-minded ways these metathetic powers; metiers its pertinacious hours, and time's ne'er-slumberous fate. To see its somnambulation a stepped agate, as if by progression a further thought it hesitates to step beyond that creaking state.
How strange the mind seeks to delay that movement that fortune alone has pushed its gifted way and sets man's hopes on higher planes, more suited them compared of a summer's day...
Whereby, such winnowed truths, are true ascian wiles, they more impalpable than such simple rathe and styles, though to summate perhaps be less than palimpsests rewritten in denial, or desirous too, a lesser sense of trust, an unsure trial; imagism a caricature recherché, it immured, denies a nature self-assured. Who judges the judges I ask!
As acrasia an excuse toward an acquaintance aisle; minded by all multi myths, its more than careful guile; word's whisper. Which simpleness, in all its outward sense, those safer stepping-stones engraved by its past tense, whose memories, a horizontal masque of care compile, to hide from passing stares that seem so endlessly set to rest awhile, before they inevitably should take their turn, to die. Minds atomic structures in programmers of predetermined decay. See micro seconds flash by unperturbed by like sensed simile.
However, due diligence is an adventure set by the mind alone, where with a little trust the gallant hero will cast all doubt aside, and fear not the archaic words that reason sought to plead on the aesthetic nature of his mind. He will ride his mountain bike ower ancient hill and through time worn gorge and see again those splendours his ancestors took for granted and which shaped their daily life- and words...
Yet by semblance fair, least ways, you are much more than just new-fleshed bone. Processes, by which seemly all, we are at best still prone. As from your medley of words, do chance by careless circumstance, sensed, a romance of slab placed stones, that in wilful ways, intone to pleasure's wraith of purposed plays and platitudes own dull mimetic rested place alone. Where poetic placers' melic thoughts merge their long ecstasy, from which one single step of progress brought, mind lures, it me; such are the sensitivities lief bring. Whereby a bid of truth and fate, such averaging, demands that near-perfect step is ours, postnuptial end-to-end commands, placement, of its, all too, perfect hours. Where now the chemical of loves pretence that lures the mind into strange imaginations, where reality takes on new boundaries untried how the eager minded steps perceive not the dangers of its faults.
For yet, that fatal slip, from which mind's moss layered stone lost grip, to plunge desire into a ridicule of sense, where all the gay abandon did, grave suddenness, bedraggle so the wretched plan. How little does imagine love perceive its treacherous steps? The inconceivable thoughts that love its self could in its wildest sense be wrong.
Whereon, a rising vadose does pour, upon cares, upturned vail of man, a cade's measure short, of all the tricks that Dryden's vole it span, whilst fate does by relentless reasons, plays so, the finest cards, it can. By paraphrasing Burns.
“Where all the best laid plans of mice and men, are apt tae gan awry”
Mor.
