4/18/2018 0 Comments Poetry by Parker G. JamiesonShe likes the part in Milton’s epic about making man into a sinner We breathed up lyrics for folk music: Let’s go smoke a black together, Let’s follow the sorrow amongst the cushion of darkness. The ruminated breath disposed us to elder hollows And calm intrusion Of nights incriminating Lithe dysphonic harmonies. We talked about the salt lamps desire, It suffers conveniently under our pointed blame. We talked about the riddance of guilt It’s means of causing a shiver to wilt Amongst the anorexic oaks in winter – to accept the hell Of our vulnerability. The abolishing, apple sting, lying Below the surfaced scabs – where bliss escapes Despite the love that shared its hand. Let’s go smoke a black together, Let’s follow the sorrow amongst its cushioned darkness. We never wanted to stray too far. We found ourselves beside a lake From happy digressions inconvenient fumbling. We shared a cigarette. We shared the smoke that pulled us together Without even knowing. Without even knowing The word communion. The dying of a primrose’ fantasy Your words spill over me like blood. I long for their healing, their place Amongst my chaos garden – No one comes here but me. I’m looked down upon as if I were an asylum. I taste the purity bubbling Inside the pebbled cells, the ones Who tongue their way to the shore, A place that is me Where oxygen doesn’t last as long As the suns enormous squares, where a blonde girl Stands at the end of its road That holds a sign that shrieks No Outlet. This girl holds her hat and umbrella As the hurricane comes bolting Above the forest. The bruised atmosphere Burrows in wooded environments, the outer Swollen. Your words spill over But they’re not yours anymore They’re my fury, my exasperation – This dream fails to last as well. You’re beginning to float away In polka-dotted dichotomies. The street-light cannot reach far enough to catch you. Someone shouts From an unseen edge, Their voice also fails to stay put. Except miseries little storm, That’s much bigger when your apart of its bizarre Discomfort that makes its cradle its grave. I dreamt I took a trip to see you somewhere in the sunshine state. It’s relieving to know you live, Especially somewhere inside me Like a coconut within a palm tree. You’re always out of reach – I don’t wanna spend my money to buy a ladder That I’d never use again. It’s way too simple to access excessive Limits, the ones that hide you in death – Their stings are tuned far beyond An orange’s sense perception. Morphine bullets, and stapled mornings Are what transcends the meaning of black-and-white To show me you, Whether it happens or not I’ll find a way to blame myself, Or god’s incriminating eye. But everything else that’s Seamed up inside this state Is bright and soft And lets me know That you’re also happy In some distant place I haven’t been before. Paper mache Studded slabs Your fingers Aim by adhesives. Collage A mess one calls a life Is licked, enveloped And folded By swollen motions. Layers increase like hell In cafeterias Bound by blonde Interpretations of dare Undone. She makeshifts Probable circulations Overcoming ebony Of next week Last week It’s pasted On diagrams Of feminine retribution, She says the poison’s From her cuddled insurrection A long precise And gorgeous composition Of cover-up Hardening amongst the cool air. When the orchestra Cries In some disguised room Behind the world That collage Begins To fall apart – She beings To cry Away her cover-up. Bio: Parker G. Jamieson lives in New York. He goes to school for enviromental studies and environmental law. He is the editor of the SUNY-ECC lit mag Mutata Re, and he also works at the Marilla cemetery. He has been writing for years and still doesn't know why, but he loves it.
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