The graveyard roses

Your tone’s a knife — carving ink-blot syllables,
rust-and-oil-despicable, you’re hurling gazes
laced with deep contempt, with thistle words
and soot I’m suffocated, I am a stranded fish.

We pick in wiltedness the thorns of grave-
yard roses sick with Blake’s disease, a worm
of midnight fingertips, pressed darkly against
our temples, we are burning bridges tenderly.

Thunderhead emotions, seaside seaweed-rot
as silence finger-paints the hidden sky
where starving constellations cannot show the way
we feed the kilns; a pyre for what’s past.

Jackson Pollock, No 8 Black Flowing

Jackson Pollock, No 8 Black Flowing

Linked to Magpie Tales

19 responses to “The graveyard roses

  1. I like how your poem gave us a glimpse inside the emotional turmoil that we think was the artist.

    Very chilling and good at the same time.

  2. Holy moly, this feels so delicious on my tongue, the literary devices are killing (in a good way). Your intepretation of the image is raw, suitable and for some reason it remains me of C. Dickens.

  3. That first line is wonderful. It says so much… about the work, the style, and the essence of what it might inspire in other people. A knife can be for killing… or for reshaping… or for cutting out decay.


  4. I would say amazing write, and add it is one of the best I read from you so far. I can’t pinpoint exactly what makes me feel so, but there is just some reality in the weaved atmosphere, like a tremor.

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