Joseph Armstead

The Gleam in the Eyes of the Night Dancer

 
...like a crane dancing in ankle-deep waters,
her beauty is a dance of graceful sadness...
 
Chromed,
a walking shadow,
quicksilver mannequin,
I move among the multitudes
transparent,
no one knew my face
and so I bartered
identity
for Time.
 
Dead hours
spent with a friend of mine.
Exchanging lies, we remembered
things that burned.
Alcoholic recall
birthed silent screams
and the silver fires hunted,
burning all they could find.
 
...as she moves, a veil of eternal dusk envelopes her
and she stares small suns into the gathered gloom...
 
I watch her liquid beauty,
the sweetness of young pain,
entranced
by her stare, flows 'cross these
crowded streets...
 
Looking into her gaze,
I want her to steal my unease,
take the storm
of my agony
away.
 
... screaming in silence, there is so much unsaid
that paints a blurred portrait of a Life that eludes me...
 
Afraid, I chance a quick look
into the abyss
behind
her glittering
jeweled gaze
and
I see the shadow
of the machine.
 
I think she is dancing on my grave.

 
Salamander Bloom

Like a flower, I open to the sun.
 
Hoarsely, I sigh
as the sun's light
floods in
past the curtains
at my window,
a breakfast of magic,
I wince, surprised
at the rolling wave
of sizzling darkness
streaming
across my tender flesh,
an uninvited stranger
greeting me
with the new morning,
and I can feel it
sinking in,
erecting
the armored mask
I wear
to face the day,
dragon's skin,
sorcery
and
soft heresies.
 
I am a blossom of plated steel.



Hieronymous
 
 
We are unexpectedly
heir
to the embarrassments
of the flesh...
 
Twisted colors flow
rushing, like fluid lightning,
down muscle and tendon,
to brush and canvas,
hallucinatory effluvia
jetting, like bleeding nightmare,
from the mind into reality,
no longer imprisoned within the Id,
no longer hidden by shame,
no longer Loki chained to stone,
but instead
revealed to a public consciousness
unprepared for the fever-dreams
of madmen and martyrs,
afraid of seeing lusts
translated
into garish caricature.
 
Our devils are naked
and
drunk with abandon.
 

We Darkened Few Laugh With Needle-Sharp Joy


Laughing
with delight,
we thought we saw
a vision of blood
Turn to wine...
 
It's a story told
in silence and pictures,
where everything we say
sounds like the spatter
of falling rain,
the sound of weariness
beating a drumbeat
on old concrete,
And its brittle beauty
makes the cracked
photographs
in our album of memories
dance
while we feel like children
at a tea party
with ghosts, pouring our hearts,
a piece at a time,
into empty porcelain cups.
 
Our timid smiles
are splintered
breaks
in the face
of a laughing clock.
"See how sharp,"
the timepiece said,
ticking.
 
A vision of light
at the tunnel's end
fails to lead us
from the dark,
Saviors and Angel Wars,
Burning bushes
calling out numbers
at an endless game
of celestial Bingo,
And God's reflection
looks out
from the fruit punch,
laughing from inside
the crystal serving bowl,
We can't believe in such things,
because we feel like children
at a tea party
with ghosts, pouring our hearts,
a piece at a time,
into empty porcelain cups.
 
"See how sharp,"
the timepiece said,
ticking.
 
And we darkened few
laugh with needle-sharp joy.


© All poems by Joseph Armstead, 2008.

Drowned Man, by Max Janis

The Malevolence of Swans


[Remembering]

Malevolent swans
on the still lake
and later grease stained
Newspapers

in quiet moments I can still hear
Rippling, still feel
Crimped edges

[scraped wafers on Billboards
reposted so often that all they promote
Now is mess]

Sibilant dragons embroidered in
Silk on Silk
thousands of red paper lanterns
leaving, levitated
by scented candles

Mah-jong tiles in the rain