The rumblings of consciousness
nacreous illusions bloom
the mind-fields scarlet:
Poppies. Dead-eyed center.
Gravity does not exist. I could
rise from this bed. Your body
is my body. Your temperature dips
as mine rises, voluptuously.
It’s okay. I don’t hold
contagion against you.
I can even take your wounds, your infirmities
in through my skin. Absorb them.
I like the idea of serving the wholeness of others,
Purer than the laying-on of hands.
I was built for pain.
I am pain’s default recourse.
It’s like a talent.
I collect toadstools and hemlock
believing that it’s possible
to be impervious to their properties,
to know only their joys.
The bitter white of the strawberry, too,
is nice. I removed the Tinkerbell caps,
wanting you to taste that white taste.
That’s how a man tastes.
And we drink lukewarm water
from a rusted tap, rife with impurities,
clanging against our softened teeth.
This is the time for negative confessions,
A time for all possibilities:
A hundred and four degrees and climbing.
I take aspirin, willow-bark processed
into something wafer-white. Make your peace
Because there is no earth, and hell
is just another dive. Verdigris is precious.
I may freeze, and imagine myself a bronze.
Time will yield me that desirable green.
I swim in ice. Violins pain me.
I tumble locks. Rush down
the throat of time. It will be Easter again
before you know it. Swan dive into nothing.
Chase illumination down that shadow wall.
Surrender to diver’s bends. Body sheathed
in slick black rubber. Now I want
to be scraped clean like a suckling pig,
an apple in my mouth, fit for rotisserie.
Reality washes out of the world.
Reality washes out of me. I am transparent.
I am a walking mirage, a shimmer.
Try to hold me and I turn to water.
Where did truth go? Chaos is
the language here, and I can’t translate.
So I blurt. I have absolutely no sense
of self-censor, or propriety.
Yet I can’t help but think
there is something embedded here.
Some mischievous bestower
has given me clarity without context.
Maybe it’s just subliminal,
but I think I smell Troy burning.
Author notes
I must agree with Nienna: the flu does suck. Mightily.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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hey lauren
well i guess what they say is true that art is borne of suffering. i think you tie into a spirtual context of flu or fever where like they say your "burning up" tried by fire so to speak-a purification. in a sense your a martyr temporarily. you take us thru all the agony but in a backward sense the escatasy too. a weird alcemehy. well done.
dave -
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Hey, Dave. Yes, I'm glad you picked up on the importance of spirituality in this piece-- it was as important, to me, as the erotica here. I did not think of purification, but you're right, the cleansing fire of the fever is yet another layer of meaning. Martyrdom is also good, the acceptance of suffering. And the agony and the ecstasy-- well put.
Lauren
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Fantastic! and I should just let it go at that, but I can't, because this is so richly erotic, sickly erotic!, that I've got to go on and on. One of your absolute best writes, cpie.
Some poets, well...writers, think that a sexy write is automatically an erotic one. They don't seem to know that a sexy write is fun, but the erotic write is dark and dangerous, not only sexy. This poem is what erotic should be in my book: the voluptuous with the healing, the danger with the medicine, the seductiveness of fever. Peggy Lee: "You give me fever!...Fever in the morning, fever all through the night...what a lovely way to burn..." And it's all here in this delirium of yinyang sick and well, together in the heat of plain old flu. I say it again, Fantastic!
Any poem that's got nacreous's closed up shell feeling, verdigris's coverup, poppies' drug-eyed center, laying-on of hands - what a sacrament THIS is! - rotisserie's turning burning, strawberry bitter white and consoling wafer-white, and - brilliantly deconstructed lines that expose the whole damn inner-bones PROCESS of a poem: "I have absolutely no sense / of self-censor or propriety..." - well, to image all those and more in an erotic illness-a-deux, folie-a-deux, now that's some poem! Along with 'Ages of a Woman', this is, for me, tops Lauren. You MUST send this off for publication.
Just about every time you post, I'm amazed, and that's a fact. Makes me look forward to all the hallucinations of the flu. What am I saying??!!
Hugs
Lad
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Hey there, my Lad! I had no idea what an enthusiastic response this piece would get from everybody-- I thought it was just strange rambling product of my fever and being homebound for over a week. I don't wish this year's nasty bug on anyone, inspirational potential notwithstanding. It really was the pits.
The only good thing about it was all the sleeping-- and the incredible, lucid dreams I had the whole time. No one wants to be sick, but a lot of people want to go on a fantastic mind-voyage. I guess that's the dark allure that really showed itself through here, in the guise of eroticism-- you nailed it, the dichotomy of flesh, misery and pleasures. Also, dichotomy of consciousness-- being aware of pain and knowing you can do nothing about it. And love-- that whole bit about "in sickness and in health." It makes it easier to understand how some people can be addicted to drugs, or to pain (physical or emotional). And I guess I am a true tart-- a cigar for me is never just a cigar, just as I can't resist sticking a food reference in somewhere-- preferably three or four. And yep, nacreous is just the coolest word. It sounds like something awful-- somehow, I have associated it with organs-- kidneys, perhaps, (renal), or some other unpleasant innard, yet it means iridescent, something we associate with beauty. So for me, that made it all the more fitting for my nasty flu poem.
Can't thank you enough, as usual, for getting it.
Luv & Hugs, (I'm at liberty to hug-- no longer contagious!)
Lauren -
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Lauren tart-sky, if dreams, food, love and sex are the music of the gods, play on...
Healthy hugs back,
Lad
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I had the flu last month but maybe it was the flu XL because it was not nearly as enjoyable as this poem!
A very creative piece. I am so glad I am not the only one who read it thinking it was a "sex" poem, only to be a bit surprised by the flu. That was what I was seeing in it all along, but on second read with the flu in mind, it was mighty cool. No matter how enticing some parts of this work may be, however, I do not want the flu again. I'll find another way to get the pleasure. lol
Another great write!
language: 5, rhythm: 4, subject: 4, tone: 5, form: 4.
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Hi, Mark. You're absolutely right-- no matter how many poems I may be able to wring out, I don't want the flu again. I managed to get both strains of it at once-- respiratory and abdominal, and it was no picnic. Yep, there was sex in here too, as I mentioned to Al, to me, the body is the body. It cannot be divided. Plus, there's the inherent female desire to nurture, to minister the sick.
I don't always know what comes out of my head, never so much more than when I'm running a fever. Do you watch the Simpsons? There was an episode where Moe publishes a poem with Lisa's help, and he refers to it as his "brain goo." Best description of poetry I've ever heard.
Cheers,
Lauren
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Consciousness rumbles...
like a deep-throated stranger walking down the hallway, heels clumping, rumbling toward you, serious as all-get-out.
"nacreous" I'm not going to look it up - but it seems it might be a combination of nauseous and gaseous, don' know. nice ambiguous phrase (if my guessed definition of nacreous is somewhere close) to make these illusions bloom.
Red exploded like a minefield with the bloodiness of scarlet and the redness of poppies.
The second stanza is simply among the best things I've read anywhere. The physical transference there and the 3rd and 4th stanzas portray a saint-like acceptance and willingness to take all suffering upon themselves - like a female messiah.
In the 5th stanza you get impish as is your wont. I sense a sort of attack and approach that Shakespeare might have been comfortable with. The 5th and 6th stanzas are ironic, humorous.
The 8th stanza - the confessional - let it all out - doesn't matter at this point - straighten out all the history known to you, unknown but what better be known to those close to you.
The 10th stanza is undeniably sure and strong in its affirmation - with the first line establishing the hope, then the middle two lines describing the conditions of the dilemma. "Rush down the throat of time." is a winner - then "swan dive into nothing/ chase illumination down that shadow wall..." like a junkie hooked on something worse than junk.
culinary references of course - "suckling pig" "fit for rotisserie." is mouth wateringly perfect.
Reality washes out of the world first - then "out of me."
"So I blurt." is a good quick volley to re-establish what's real here.
The ending of the poem doesn't give us salvation, but more doubt dawning in this, what seems to be, ceaseless, engaged vigil. I feel unequipped to rate or rank this fine poem, I'll leave it to those who can hand over more money than I for its publication. Cheer, MJ -
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Hi, Richard. I am never more thrilled than when someone gobbles up my poetry, just like devouring a meal that I have painstakingly prepared. There is no greater satisfaction-- enjoying other's enjoyment.
Isn't nacreous a great word? It sounds like something gross, fitting for flu, but it's a fancy way to say iridescent, or mother-of-pearl, which is how delusion seems to me-- only the colors are scary, sinister somehow, like the "deadlights" in a Stephen King novel.
How well you have picked this apart-- how well you have seen into me. All of your assumptions were spot-on.
Thank you so much for the wonderful comments.
Lauren
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This is incredibly sexual.
I didn't see the flu at all. This write enthrones sex as an act of healing with woman as healer and osmotic taker of ill through the tantric touch of skin on skin. Which is truly a woman, a healer, and sex is a great comfort to heal the soul and mind when done in that frame of giving. That's one of the most beautiful things about women. When we men think about sex, it's about getting. When women think about sex, it's about giving. I think that's why I love women(not in a dirty way), because they get what sex is truly about while we men rarely do.
There's nothing sick about this, but plenty of fever to go around and I think it's quite beautiful with all of it's raw sexuality wrapped quite artfully around what sex should be, a consummation of love for one another and an act of giving.
I thought this was great, pie. I'm not really into erotica as it often just tries too hard and totally misses the point of what sex is. Sex isn't all about the feeling, it's about the feeling behind the act and how is should be one of giving and love.
You know, it's funny, pie, but we men get so lost in thinking that women want the posing, the attitude, the dirty talk and bad-boy bullshit when really...all a woman wants is a little kindness. My most shining moments in this department have been preceded by acts of kindness. Sure, the show may open the curtain, but it's the feeling behind the performance that makes it good.
I really enjoyed this, pie. The way erotica should be. Now...if you lie and even try to tell me this was just about you having the flu I'm going to go down this point by point and call you on it. So don't do it.
This was very good.
al
language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 5.
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Hey, Al. Now how could I write lines like, "That's how a man tastes" and "rises, voluptuously" then try to deny it's about sex? For me, the body is the body, in sickness and in health. It's a package deal-- the body is something to be nourished and tended, in all appetites and avenues of health. I did not, however, think about the osmotic healer bit being about women as givers/nurturers, per se, but you're quite right. Women usually are givers, and men are receivers-- which is kinda funny, when one considers the mechanics of the sexual act.
It WAS also about illness, and I find my imagination kicks into overdrive when I'm ill-- I imagine it's because I spend all my time alone, lying down, and my mind has to do something. So as I was sick this time, I got to thinking about impossibilities, and as the fever was at its highest points, I got to thinking how anything was possible-- healing someone, forgoing gravity -- and I had the most fantastic lucid dreams.
I'm glad you find this beautiful and sensual-- that tells me that I accurately conveyed the beauty and freedom that I discovered in those fever-dreams. And of course, when two people commit and act of love, all things become possible.
You are also right-- it is a shame that many men never attach any significance to sex, because it's so much more intense that way. And yes, a lot of women would prefer kindness over swaggering.
Thanks for the read and for the comment. As always, it's a great pleasure talking with you, Al.
Lauren -
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Yep....
I was pretty keen to catch that, wasn't I? My momma didn' raise no dummies... See, I'm pretty sharp that way.
I think this was one of my favorites from you, pie. You graze every shade of the sexual spectrum in a sleepwalk write that bleeds the sensuality of relations without poking the readers eye out. I thought it was a dandy.
And pie, it is a always a great pleasure talking to you...ditto that.
Good Stuff, pie.
al
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I have to agree with other comments if delerium is the result of this etc...sign me up too
This is a brilliant write to me Pie...just so creative to have written what you did.
I can't say anything more, brilliant
Hope your feeling better, Flu sucks...winter is on approach for us in a few months , I don't look forward to it lol
Cindy
language: 4, rhythm: 4, subject: 4, tone: 4, form: 4.
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Hey there, Cindy. I am feeling better, thanks. I hope your winter down there isn't like what we've had here-- it's been miserable here, lots of ice and snow, and of course, these terrible flu strains have swept the country-- people are getting sick and staying sick for weeks. The hospitals have been overwhelmed.
Thanks, as always, for reading and for the kind review.
Pie
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This is a long one, Cutie, but well worth the effort. I've read it a few times now. The first stanza is a beauty, the dead-eye poppies suggesting narcotic induced creativity as well as lovely red image to go with 'the mind-fields scarlet' which the ear hears as ' the mind FEELS scarlet'. Did you contrive all that?
Only Pie could make illness sound sexy. I wonder did you also contrive to blur the distinction between the speaker as patient or nurse. For long spells you could be either, particularly after this stanza
'It’s okay. I don’t hold
contagion against you.
I can even take your wounds, your infirmaries
in through my skin. Absorb them.'(shouldn't infirmaries be 'infirmities' by the way. Infirmaries are hospitals.)
It has a great sense of fever, it rambles but remains focused at the same time. Favourite stanza (and choosing wasn't easy)
'I am a walking mirage, a shimmer.
Try to hold me and I turn to water.
Where did truth go? Chaos is
the language here, and I can’t translate'
Get ill soon! >W<
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Hey, John. First and foremost-- I turned rhubarb-red at the gross error of "infirmary" rather than "infirmity." Glad you caught it and pointed it out. We'll blame the fact that I'm still recovering.
Yes, I did contrive the layered pun of "mind-fields scarlet"-- mine field/mind feels. I've been hanging out on Simon's page a lot, and I think he's rubbed off. And yes, poppies are, of course, a reference to drugs-- as well as the flower of remembrance, Flander's Field and all that. Sickness is a battleground, and again, there are nursing associations. I blurred the line between nurse and patient because that's just what I was-- Patrick was sick first. I took care of him. Then I caught the illness.
I've traversed galaxies from my sick-bed. This time, the scenery was so interesting and vivid, I just had to share. I'm glad it was a good read for someone besides myself.
Thanks again,
Lauren
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Flying With Flu!
Hey Pie, if delirium is the price to pay for a great write then sign me up. All the poetry bottled inside sweated out in one fell swoop certainly gives pores for thought!
As for listing favourite parts I don´t know where to start.
"to be scraped clean like a suckling pig,
an apple in my mouth, fit for rotisserie."
You seem to split, dissect and reassemble your cogency here like splicing bacterium.
On intimate terms with an illness at times eroticized. Sweltering seepage through an intravenous quill, you do even in your feverish state, retain a focus to your words which is commendible in a combustible way. An explosive discharge, tapping the tumour of a fecund miasma, this flows like effluence from a bubonic pustule, Pie - in the healthiest sense naturally!
"I swim in ice. Violins pain me"
Funny how being sick serves to sensitize us.
Oh and before I´m justly accused of being insensitive to your suffering...
Get Well Soon or at least
Write More Insalubrious Odes Whilst Afflicted!
Take care CP
gG
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Hey, Simon-- sweet of you to give me back-to-back comments. I thought you'd enjoy this little fever-trip in particular. Since it was the flu, the doctors couldn't do anything about it. . . but they did give me some fantastic pain medicine that no doubt helped inspire quite a bit as well-- I had the most vivid and amazing dreams the whole time.
I agree-- it is funny how sensitive we become, a set of raw nerves. But a small price to pay for a glimpse into other worlds.
And not to fear-- I am better now. Thanks.
Lauren
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