I have yet to see my two uncles in the flesh. Both have long lived entwined with my grandmother, a woman I have never got on very well with, I fear. This poem is meant to encapsulate just a bit of that grief, focusing on the older of the two brothers.
To an atrabilious harridan,
Subservient Anorexic Shadow,
Silent, mewling moue askew on his face.
"Yes, my mother, dear?" ebb the puling words,
Skin of his mandible taut like parfleche,
Sunken eyes deep and black like a quarry.
With detached ears he hears Life's far-off roar.
Marination of misoneism,
Quelling the vast, cavernous Desire
That shines his bones, argillaceous marrow
Steeped in the decay of autonomy.
Ameba sprawled in a chair, hair slicked down,
Paunchy visage, sardonic and rigid,
Her bleak, pebble eyes leering haughtily,
Beige brummagem frock creased with stabbing ends.
Puffy screams beckon Son, her possession.
In he streams, ribcage audibly clanking,
Redolent of a human Skelator,
Outstretched phalanges clutching her iced-tea.
Through the window, an oleander moth,
Coloured iridescent, sweeps, contently-
A thing so small and free, cursitating,
Passing by, he sees with dark, detached eyes.
"Son!" permeates the sharp, sundering word.
"Yes, mother dear?" he bows with detached Self.
Spliced in champagne cloud clamours thunder,
In the distance heard with Life's far-off roar.
Poetry by Soup in the Sand
Read 1081 times
Written on 2011-09-25 at 22:31
Tags Family Grief Loss
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
The Anorexic Shadow
Projection of the yeoman's serviceTo an atrabilious harridan,
Subservient Anorexic Shadow,
Silent, mewling moue askew on his face.
"Yes, my mother, dear?" ebb the puling words,
Skin of his mandible taut like parfleche,
Sunken eyes deep and black like a quarry.
With detached ears he hears Life's far-off roar.
Marination of misoneism,
Quelling the vast, cavernous Desire
That shines his bones, argillaceous marrow
Steeped in the decay of autonomy.
Ameba sprawled in a chair, hair slicked down,
Paunchy visage, sardonic and rigid,
Her bleak, pebble eyes leering haughtily,
Beige brummagem frock creased with stabbing ends.
Puffy screams beckon Son, her possession.
In he streams, ribcage audibly clanking,
Redolent of a human Skelator,
Outstretched phalanges clutching her iced-tea.
Through the window, an oleander moth,
Coloured iridescent, sweeps, contently-
A thing so small and free, cursitating,
Passing by, he sees with dark, detached eyes.
"Son!" permeates the sharp, sundering word.
"Yes, mother dear?" he bows with detached Self.
Spliced in champagne cloud clamours thunder,
In the distance heard with Life's far-off roar.
Poetry by Soup in the Sand
Read 1081 times
Written on 2011-09-25 at 22:31
Tags Family Grief Loss
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
ken d williams |
