''Folly''
Oracle Part II (A Hundred Other Vices)
Oracle
Part II (A Hundred Other Vices)
by K. Scott Smith
September 2011
1).
Collumn rising,
Forever East-
Forever West-
Like sweet cumulos persperation
sweating rain
drying out
we wrote seven perfect songs
and wrote no more
he was resigned then
to some selfish degree of silence.
Salt Hymns-
Hymns of salt.
2).
Why do you forsake me with silence?
Ah, that's how the poem begins,
The muses will have their way with me.
I've lived and died and have been reborn
Or is that the rum talking?
So quiet-
but not from loss of words,
nor the meaning behind the meaning
of words.
Lover that bites be cruel-
I invite you to inspect this chest I bare.
Come now for the currents are strong,
and how can I last?
When at last you've become too intimate,
when you can recall every road,
and count each path however wide or narrow,
When each fence post, each destination,
becomes co clear-
It IS Time To Depart!
Scatter like ashes,
in a storm,
torn and placed by tiny electromagnetic fingers.
You,
Your head swimming in Greek Names,
Rivers in India, or Asia Minor,
You,
with your elegant displays of of clumsiness,
you wont be able to run forever.
So run while you can-
Write , interpret, live,
take, leave, give,
When at last its over
you wont even know.
3).
Swaying moonlight-
guided saftely by rum,
and the promise of half sunken conquests,
My heart leapt like revolt on a slave ship-
blood rushes upon wood,
made crooked by long years at sea.
These waters will not remember me.
4).
A name spoken outloud,
Like a spell-
Cast-then shrugged aside.
Sweat & Heavy slumber (at last),
To wake you (from sleep),
And a hundred other vices.
A lack of rest is violent sleep,
And makes for violent ends,
That linger uopn waking.
Tempted by waters,
and by tall, far off grasses,
Each evening stalking me,
Each horizion mocking me,
*my caravan of seekers,
my carnival of fools*.
5).
The deed is almost done,
No dawn, Only silence
Turning in your bed or grave,
Ever quiet-
the King of Silence-
Silence ITSELF!
6).
Drawing rough conclusions
on stolen papers
with stolen ink from stolen pens
Some where meant to never win.
Given to Time,
Ruining, raining,
on your parade,
ruining your holiday
Anyways...
To return to anger
and the lustful angst of youth
will only serve to frustrate me
and isolate me further.
What is greater?
What is worth saving?
Or even worth getting involved for?
Where is this ''lost cause"?
Should I wage a half-war
half-heartedly?
October.
and October's sons
October's daughters
Fee men, slaves, and poets,
Clergy, Cupbarers-
Christ's,
the first ''miracle'' in Caanan...
Babylonian plains, flat and ghostly
Dust rising, shouting orders,
Blood (and blood's rewards.)
7)
Oracle of water,
I find myself in strange places,
strange lands and countless countries,
Among caravans,
Of peoples moving West-
Then East again-
Sit with me awile,
We cannot risk a fire for warmth,
Only the stars,
and the stones,
beneath the sea.
8).
The sea at night,
stand amazed
at the deepest sense of mystery
jostling waters
wave after wave.
And this,
this molecular ocean
seeming forms
Disregard the uselessness
and the pointless, recklesness,
of a vauge and vulgar ''innocence''.
The Oracle makes no sign or crude gesture-
Though I posed no question.
9).
Having control,
losing control,
having never had control,
only the illusion of control,
some measure of happiness,
and yard and yard of burnt offerings...
Inkwell,
the pages swell,
within their leather bindings
under the spell of hydrogen and oxogen
A thousand vices for each secret desire
10).
I have exausted smoking and drinking,
And a hundred other vices.
Brilliant and childish
and full of remorse
full of long and dated discorse
letting the end reign
Silence shall be King of all.
11).
Wont come clean-
for poems or paintings or rich tapistries
still belongs to me
what if You didnt haunt me anymore.
I would have traded places or Fates,
But what could I do?
Would you have stood on my grave, stifled?
Abandon all that would bring peace-
for a sense of connection?
Would you repeat each folly?
Would you sit alone at night and hardly sleep?
So perhaps my task is harder,
To carry on, to prolong living.
But each Sun is cruel,
and each star crueler that the last,
The weight of it shall be the death of me.
12).
Horses fleeing,
escapes the waters,
spilling from the sea
like torrents of blue-green blood,
Stars overhead and below,
bathes all in light-
if only to admire the dark.
Almost six am,
No rest in days,
Though sleeping is all I need,
it refuses to take me.
Even in my bed
Even all day
Soothes this loathing,
swelling like the heart
of some wild beast or man
still running with the hunt
13).
Flirting with the idea of living,
not throwing stones,
or even building stone houses.
No! My villa shall be of the mind-
it shall contain as few or as many Suns as I choose on a whim.
Classes will mingle with the minimal amount of blood.
And I will despise youth-idle
As I watch -idle
Every Kingdom has been a dream,
for dreams are worlds containing infinite worlds therin-
So, what to do with dreams?
Do not be so quick to answer.
Perhaps a hundred years or more have passed
since I put these words down,
Look around you.
What is time to you-Now?
And me,
being long dead,
Where am I?
Do I live when you read?
If I asked you to truly live-and you did-
would you think that I was somehow present in the deed?
Thus some writers seek immortality,
14).
A torch and a cross
sees you across a Pagan sea.
'Maya'- she called it.
turned to life
turned to stone
tuned to pillars of salt
15).
A gardener becomes a satrap,
a thief become a judge,
a clown becomes our priest,
fools become our sages and saints
all ''good'' and ''noble'' men become blasphemers
all innocent men & women imprisoned
all cheapness of spirit rewarded
all that depsises reigns
and then..
the universe says ''so what'',
or says nothing at all.
16).
Evoking Muses and Furries,
Propagating our desires
In flesh and in 'spirit'
Protecting and banishing secrets,
and the hiding place of secrets.
Provoking once calm waters to wrath,
in foaming blue-wave tantrums,
fits thrown like words or stones
or unruly guests thrown overboard.
Reflections-
Oath's firment into wines of promise,
with honor intact.
Part II (A Hundred Other Vices)
by K. Scott Smith
September 2011
1).
Collumn rising,
Forever East-
Forever West-
Like sweet cumulos persperation
sweating rain
drying out
we wrote seven perfect songs
and wrote no more
he was resigned then
to some selfish degree of silence.
Salt Hymns-
Hymns of salt.
2).
Why do you forsake me with silence?
Ah, that's how the poem begins,
The muses will have their way with me.
I've lived and died and have been reborn
Or is that the rum talking?
So quiet-
but not from loss of words,
nor the meaning behind the meaning
of words.
Lover that bites be cruel-
I invite you to inspect this chest I bare.
Come now for the currents are strong,
and how can I last?
When at last you've become too intimate,
when you can recall every road,
and count each path however wide or narrow,
When each fence post, each destination,
becomes co clear-
It IS Time To Depart!
Scatter like ashes,
in a storm,
torn and placed by tiny electromagnetic fingers.
You,
Your head swimming in Greek Names,
Rivers in India, or Asia Minor,
You,
with your elegant displays of of clumsiness,
you wont be able to run forever.
So run while you can-
Write , interpret, live,
take, leave, give,
When at last its over
you wont even know.
3).
Swaying moonlight-
guided saftely by rum,
and the promise of half sunken conquests,
My heart leapt like revolt on a slave ship-
blood rushes upon wood,
made crooked by long years at sea.
These waters will not remember me.
4).
A name spoken outloud,
Like a spell-
Cast-then shrugged aside.
Sweat & Heavy slumber (at last),
To wake you (from sleep),
And a hundred other vices.
A lack of rest is violent sleep,
And makes for violent ends,
That linger uopn waking.
Tempted by waters,
and by tall, far off grasses,
Each evening stalking me,
Each horizion mocking me,
*my caravan of seekers,
my carnival of fools*.
5).
The deed is almost done,
No dawn, Only silence
Turning in your bed or grave,
Ever quiet-
the King of Silence-
Silence ITSELF!
6).
Drawing rough conclusions
on stolen papers
with stolen ink from stolen pens
Some where meant to never win.
Given to Time,
Ruining, raining,
on your parade,
ruining your holiday
Anyways...
To return to anger
and the lustful angst of youth
will only serve to frustrate me
and isolate me further.
What is greater?
What is worth saving?
Or even worth getting involved for?
Where is this ''lost cause"?
Should I wage a half-war
half-heartedly?
October.
and October's sons
October's daughters
Fee men, slaves, and poets,
Clergy, Cupbarers-
Christ's,
the first ''miracle'' in Caanan...
Babylonian plains, flat and ghostly
Dust rising, shouting orders,
Blood (and blood's rewards.)
7)
Oracle of water,
I find myself in strange places,
strange lands and countless countries,
Among caravans,
Of peoples moving West-
Then East again-
Sit with me awile,
We cannot risk a fire for warmth,
Only the stars,
and the stones,
beneath the sea.
8).
The sea at night,
stand amazed
at the deepest sense of mystery
jostling waters
wave after wave.
And this,
this molecular ocean
seeming forms
Disregard the uselessness
and the pointless, recklesness,
of a vauge and vulgar ''innocence''.
The Oracle makes no sign or crude gesture-
Though I posed no question.
9).
Having control,
losing control,
having never had control,
only the illusion of control,
some measure of happiness,
and yard and yard of burnt offerings...
Inkwell,
the pages swell,
within their leather bindings
under the spell of hydrogen and oxogen
A thousand vices for each secret desire
10).
I have exausted smoking and drinking,
And a hundred other vices.
Brilliant and childish
and full of remorse
full of long and dated discorse
letting the end reign
Silence shall be King of all.
11).
Wont come clean-
for poems or paintings or rich tapistries
still belongs to me
what if You didnt haunt me anymore.
I would have traded places or Fates,
But what could I do?
Would you have stood on my grave, stifled?
Abandon all that would bring peace-
for a sense of connection?
Would you repeat each folly?
Would you sit alone at night and hardly sleep?
So perhaps my task is harder,
To carry on, to prolong living.
But each Sun is cruel,
and each star crueler that the last,
The weight of it shall be the death of me.
12).
Horses fleeing,
escapes the waters,
spilling from the sea
like torrents of blue-green blood,
Stars overhead and below,
bathes all in light-
if only to admire the dark.
Almost six am,
No rest in days,
Though sleeping is all I need,
it refuses to take me.
Even in my bed
Even all day
Soothes this loathing,
swelling like the heart
of some wild beast or man
still running with the hunt
13).
Flirting with the idea of living,
not throwing stones,
or even building stone houses.
No! My villa shall be of the mind-
it shall contain as few or as many Suns as I choose on a whim.
Classes will mingle with the minimal amount of blood.
And I will despise youth-idle
As I watch -idle
Every Kingdom has been a dream,
for dreams are worlds containing infinite worlds therin-
So, what to do with dreams?
Do not be so quick to answer.
Perhaps a hundred years or more have passed
since I put these words down,
Look around you.
What is time to you-Now?
And me,
being long dead,
Where am I?
Do I live when you read?
If I asked you to truly live-and you did-
would you think that I was somehow present in the deed?
Thus some writers seek immortality,
14).
A torch and a cross
sees you across a Pagan sea.
'Maya'- she called it.
turned to life
turned to stone
tuned to pillars of salt
15).
A gardener becomes a satrap,
a thief become a judge,
a clown becomes our priest,
fools become our sages and saints
all ''good'' and ''noble'' men become blasphemers
all innocent men & women imprisoned
all cheapness of spirit rewarded
all that depsises reigns
and then..
the universe says ''so what'',
or says nothing at all.
16).
Evoking Muses and Furries,
Propagating our desires
In flesh and in 'spirit'
Protecting and banishing secrets,
and the hiding place of secrets.
Provoking once calm waters to wrath,
in foaming blue-wave tantrums,
fits thrown like words or stones
or unruly guests thrown overboard.
Reflections-
Oath's firment into wines of promise,
with honor intact.
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Oracle Part II (A Hundred Other Vices)
Oracle Part II (A Hundred Other Vices)
