Poetry by Parker G. Jamieson

She 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.