To those found dead in chimneys (#1, the Paisley take)
By R.W. Plym
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To those found dead in chimneys (#1, the Paisley take)
Last night a dead man came to me
In striking polka, plaided paisley,
Wild orange, violet daisies
Vaulting windows, speaking nas’ly,
grabbing hands, imploring gravely
Off the sill and up the av’ry -
- Till I balked: “why these whimsies?
Can’t you see the wire’s flimsy,
The robins wake, the wren’s sing grimly,
The weavers stir, you restive ninny!”
but he just laughed, dim and thinly
“Can’t you see, you’re dead in chimneys!”
And so we hung outside the ‘closure
Grackles squawking at sharp disclosure:
“Pity your suit! I’ve never seen gaucher!
Lady Death? I hardly know her!
Return me, sir, or I'll lose composure.
Straight to bed, and we’ll call it kosher.”
But he just scampered up the cornice
Cross the gambrel, he flew like Horus,
I glimpsed the flue and felt a soreness,
And when he spoke, I heard a chorus:
“Behold the man! Behold the corpus!
He sought the strange, and now he’s towards us!”
Through the crown, I peered the ‘struction
rotting there: my sodden gumption,
I gasped and bawled; he clapped, instructive:
“Weary not your drear inductive!
Sing the body non-conductive!
Sail the auburn seas, the non-deductive!”
And so I clasped his ghostly fashion
And up we flew beyond the passions
Of birds and bricks and buildings ashen
Of swelling hearts and scant compassion
For loose balloons, and all that happens.
Last night a dead man came to me
In striking polka, plaided paisley,
Wild orange, violet daisies
Vaulting windows, speaking nas’ly,
grabbing hands, imploring gravely
Off the sill and up the av’ry -
- Till I balked: “why these whimsies?
Can’t you see the wire’s flimsy,
The robins wake, the wren’s sing grimly,
The weavers stir, you restive ninny!”
but he just laughed, dim and thinly
“Can’t you see, you’re dead in chimneys!”
And so we hung outside the ‘closure
Grackles squawking at sharp disclosure:
“Pity your suit! I’ve never seen gaucher!
Lady Death? I hardly know her!
Return me, sir, or I'll lose composure.
Straight to bed, and we’ll call it kosher.”
But he just scampered up the cornice
Cross the gambrel, he flew like Horus,
I glimpsed the flue and felt a soreness,
And when he spoke, I heard a chorus:
“Behold the man! Behold the corpus!
He sought the strange, and now he’s towards us!”
Through the crown, I peered the ‘struction
rotting there: my sodden gumption,
I gasped and bawled; he clapped, instructive:
“Weary not your drear inductive!
Sing the body non-conductive!
Sail the auburn seas, the non-deductive!”
And so I clasped his ghostly fashion
And up we flew beyond the passions
Of birds and bricks and buildings ashen
Of swelling hearts and scant compassion
For loose balloons, and all that happens.
Quatrains # 1-9
i.
one
on top of
one
equals one
ii.
the night tamps dew across my bed;
I pause, a faucet’s dripping ice,
a grapefruit moon is sprouting reds,
and in my room, the sun sets twice.
iii.
last night, we drove off
in a melody of words;
St. Michael called it heaven
the organ called it thirds.
iv.
oblivious oblivion
same root, same song
a soldier in his pill-box
a quartered mind strung long
v.
the poet’s spar, the martyr’s kiss,
their laughter’s wrapped in napkins.
None will ever plead the fifth,
and nothing ever happens.
vi.
sometimes I dream of hips,
sometimes I dream of hippos,
sometimes I dream of Latin’s six –
sometimes I sigh, and light my zippo.
vii.
seven seven, a dripping clock
a mite-cloud, a scalp, a fraying sock
a toddler’s cry, a burning wok
a million things that act the clock.
viii.
infinity turns ninety degrees.
time is rolling bones.
God is pulling three-sixties,
while the devil’s getting stoned.
ix.
ideas will part from objects, where
paradise is pain;
I’ll count to nine and meet you there
even if it rains.
i.
one
on top of
one
equals one
ii.
the night tamps dew across my bed;
I pause, a faucet’s dripping ice,
a grapefruit moon is sprouting reds,
and in my room, the sun sets twice.
iii.
last night, we drove off
in a melody of words;
St. Michael called it heaven
the organ called it thirds.
iv.
oblivious oblivion
same root, same song
a soldier in his pill-box
a quartered mind strung long
v.
the poet’s spar, the martyr’s kiss,
their laughter’s wrapped in napkins.
None will ever plead the fifth,
and nothing ever happens.
vi.
sometimes I dream of hips,
sometimes I dream of hippos,
sometimes I dream of Latin’s six –
sometimes I sigh, and light my zippo.
vii.
seven seven, a dripping clock
a mite-cloud, a scalp, a fraying sock
a toddler’s cry, a burning wok
a million things that act the clock.
viii.
infinity turns ninety degrees.
time is rolling bones.
God is pulling three-sixties,
while the devil’s getting stoned.
ix.
ideas will part from objects, where
paradise is pain;
I’ll count to nine and meet you there
even if it rains.
R.W. Plym is a poet and author from Virginia. He currently lives near Frankfurt, Germany, where he's finishing a novel. You can read his published works at rwplym.wordpress.com.