Saturday, April 24, 2021

John Thomas Allen - 3 POEMS

 1. Medusa In Abstract

These laughing gas hoses and permed fields of razored yellow, the sun whistling in cold and the thousand painters it takes to stain a pure piece of guillotine glass driven in the whistling, coiled silver of her coal eyes. The cracks on her face will canvas an oil abstract and when removed reveal at the compartments of a rubix cube, the compartments glass, colorless and not plastic, the eyes crossing in atom spills, rooms of candelabras burning in a hushed vertigo, the curtains spinning ministries of nature’s paneled WELCOME signs, occult sigils, the mice in drizzling gazebos, a sideshow in the spectacle of each indigo ring. A hush is heard in constancy over the eye, which is a firefly breaking in perpetuity like a mood ring, or the smeared egg yolk abstract in a midnight carnival’s interior castle, that hush in torn tiremarks, the nude and skinned eyes crossing in perpetuity, the dilated rooms of fantasia, the seaweed strangler, the heads turning in barrels filled with founts.


2. A Yellow Man Clapping In Traffic

The King’s ministry is a traveling star,
irradiate with warrior alien mail coats
Hidden histories, black verse and hymns
one knows better to throw
to the fire and roast.

And the only refrain is a laughing murmur,
and a yellow man clapping in traffic.

Subterranean dynasties,
thing against thing
the King devouring his foes

stripped and heaving
by quivering candelabra,
pulsing in eldritch shadows.

Screams rife with the choral ring
of small mouths praising Carcosa,
a thing falls in slow tumble
toward an evil star.

Sated on the oasis
of a flaming gallows,
Cassilda dances on
jackpins, the Queen Jester peels shadow
from her eyes, following syphilitic
village kings who loose
their own progeny
toward His vanguards,
hoping for strange miracles.

And the only refrain is a murmur,
and a yellow man directing traffic.
These each Carcosa’s orphaned lot,
roaming as blinded lambs
misled by each, his drifting mage.

These each these starry eyed
These cross legged grinning
yellow mages playing dice
with flaming genomes,
holding Hastur’s seal
making his young so mad,
feeding them to the shade.


3. No. 17251

The REM mirror's 
bent tubes synthesized
in snake pegs 
of archipelagic
ice hieroglyphs;

(hear the eglantine washerwomen
call breakfast with gold spoons)

the hierophant C-flat 
spilt in a tide pod 
rainbow suit worn
in a night Mass’ oval paucity.

A date unrealized
and of silt gravity, 
split on all sides 
by holofoil wings 
of indigo aeons,

(hear the eglantine washerwomen
call breakfast with gold spoons)

where a shadow caches 
spectral amber 
and unseal frog eyes
hanging as cragged 
dropsy jewels
in memoriam,
insect moot eyes

spilling a fog mass, lit
in small wings

burning sigils flown
in SILK embossed flags
by codex seraphics 
aflame in cellular

peeling a yellow horizon

of flypaper 


 domino flanked spiders,

dialing up light in the 
glass toothed eyes 
of the loved dead

torn cellophane angels 
unfurling false teeth,
the shattering 

 Chinese christabel

hexes, the table 
having a rorschach 
spill, weeping figures 
traced through in baby
blue on pinched borders,

on the melodic scuttle of uranium

the smear of

         beatified lipstick,


(here the washerwomen
stitch a message home
in the flags of plexiglass
rising from the tinfoil
king's severed wing);

humming the coral 
ministries of death's
lexical glossalia.

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