Thursday, September 10, 2015
A Tender Heart Screams From The Ventricles: Excerpts From The Colin Frape Poetry Omnibus
Oh, Oh September
Hungry like a wolf,
prowling as a cat,
deadly as a snake,
and much more than that,
September comes a callin’
for Fall, and gives a maulin’
to Summer’s final flush of old, dead green.
And I am a woeful monster,
cut from my smiles
as a gay bustard winged by a low flying jet
or a drone,
wishing for more time of seed to bloom,
water to paddling pool,
grass cuttings from grass,
fine animals risen from slumber
to chase nut, sunrise or worms,
and frozen fruity drinks
sucked raw from their sticks,
even at lukewarm dead of night.
but they do not sow.
The ground is gone to seed,
not risen from’t.
September’s herald of gloom
will usher in
a time of bones filled with hollow air,
the fixed stares of unenthusiastic dogs out on walks,
and no green stalks or shoots
to promise flower;
only dead bark and the rotting corpses of mushrooms
will offer succour to the grower
of plenty within us
who romped across beach and dale and underpass,
drowned in sunlight,
bathed in antiraindrops,
kissed by the spirits of elves
in juiciest glade.
Hear these words,
hug their sense,
cavort with their meaning.
For death comes,
And September is its courier, its messenger, its email, its virus.
Browning what is green
like the soiled comfort blanket
of a child fond of apples,
crisping what is lush
like a spiteful chef burning French fries
for a party of six
he dislikes intensely,
rotting what is good
like the Devil himself
self-harming live on YouTube,
burying dead as dead
in the chilling soil
all hope of happiness and gaiety
till steps taken
forward or backward in the gloom
etch gravestone marks in the very sod.
Oh, Oh September —
how shall we endure
the thirty days and thirty nights we spend with Ye?
Watching as the earth dies,
turns to crisps and crunches of leaves at our feet,
as squirrels shiver and run
and birds throttle their own song?
‘Tis Nature’s finest test,
a proving ground for the miseries yet to come.
like you were a boy of eleven or twelve
raised by a forgotten Amazonian tribe,
penis tied high up against navel,
and when the elders release you into the jungle’s dark night,
and insects bite
at your shamanjuice-infused blood,
you scream to be as a babe again,
innocent and free,
unvisited by terrors,
fears mad as dementia,
and caterpillars over fourteen inches long
to leave scars on your eyes if you falter.
Be strong for September’s test.
For time’s elders call you to run for the trees now,
like that scared Amazonian child-boy,
to battle shrill echoes of emerging death.
You have no flappy ears,
no flappy lips,
but the tied penis of your inescapable plight
pulls tight against your straining gut
as fear of a silent demise at the hands of time
runs you cold,
frozen as an Icarus blackbird
fired from a cannon into a hailstorm cloud.
sleep soft under Winter’s shroud.
For Summer will come again
Oh, Oh September —
and every death it brings in its wake —
lies dead at the feet of the
first hare of Spring,