Genesis by Jamie Dams (great novels to read txt) 📖

CONTENTS

Page... Title

6... They're Telling Me
8... Battle of the Unconscious Mind
10... Self Reflection
11... Snapshot
13... A Memory
14... Who?
15... Little Murder Ditty
16... Siam Husk
18... Fall
21... Goodnight Stars
23... Modern Patriot
24... The Pudding
25... Immaterial: 5am pt 2: prose
26... Scrapbook of thoughts

They're Telling Me

They're telling me it's snowing,
My talcum dream.
It'll be a White Christmas this year,
It seems.
They say that it won't be the same
Without me,
And they'll put my old angel
As always, on the tree.

They'll be clinking the crystal,
Maybe thinking of me,
Maybe not. All the same,
I'll be far 'cross the sea:
Lonely,
But free...

...


I can set aside worries
And anxious hello's,
And thoughts that the car
Will seize up if it snows,
So we won't be on time
To Melissa's big do,
And the kids will just whine
If we make them come too,
And the turkey will burn,
And the wine will be spilled,
And Granpa will eat too much
And be ill,
And Richard will certainly
Make a scene,
And we'll all wish we'd gone
Somewhere warm, somewhere green...

'Maybe next year when we've saved some
Money.'


Battle of the Unconscious Mind

Deer and Dragon run together
In the wintry mountain pines.
Vision of the slightest silver
Veiled in endless blizzard's blinds.

Clouds around their hooves emerging,
Pitted in a godly fray,
Sifts of snows illuminated
In the startling bright of day.

Thrown against unending valleys,
Tossed out to the tumbling pines,
Giants of an ancient forest,
Lords of the Unconscious Mind.

Two to fight and one to wonder
Who the victor, what the prize.
Tears of snow meet tongues of thunder,
Tolling shadows in their eyes.


No-one knows the cause of battle,
Myths of man unended still,
So two halves continue, warring:
Heart on mind, desire on will.

Echoed on the walls of sleeping,
Scattered through the fields of day,
Both in stark illumination:
Bloody, ancient, bitter fray.

Softly now boy, softly now,
Tell no soul of what you see.
Leave the gods their futile warring,
Lest you raise the toll to three.

Day, eternal day
In my night,
Shining on these forms
As I fight.


Self Reflection

Stand at the mirror,
Get my feet wet,
Get my skirts wet
To stand at the mirror.

Pull faces in the mirror,
An ugly face,
Make my face long,
Make it wide.

And I am flecked with dark,
Chocolate on my face,
Pull my mouth out,
Skeletal neck.

Only a child,
Only a child,
Only a child,
Only a child.


A Snapshot

The days are dripping.
Life's sweet dew is dropping in the honey air,
And the bees come to share
In the fruit of our joys.
Everything is peaked
In colour and texture,
Steeped and embossed
In a caligraphy composition from
Moment to moment,
And with every breath I can feel
The deep soft pulse of the earth,
Slowly pounding out the beat of creation:
Surely this is heaven?

Now a little old lady wheels her trolley,
Weaves her baskets throught the traffic.
The sun has warmed the shell of the engine
All afternoon. A smack of heat to the wrist.
And now young boys robed in marigold dyes
Drift like pollen amongst the people
While I wait. Heaven's market?

The shifting breeze is greased-
Mechanics, lunch.
Amphetamine-laced with chilli powder,
It goes straight to my nose.
Succulent honey chicken is
The basic feed
For these paradise dwellers,
These easy bees.
Heaven's canteen.

And in these moments I notice
How time becomes thick like
The very heat that opiates,
The slow adrenaline of a
Foreign street experienced alone
In the midday heat.
Then this is heaven's waiting room,
And here I must pass the time.


A Memory

How tenderly the mind presses,
A memory it brings.
Gentle love, soft your kisses,
Hold them to my heart.

A smille to my lips it brings,
Long since gone your eyes.
Gentle in my dress it sings,
Press it to my heart.

Breathless flutter carry me,
Play for me the song.
Memories, dance across the sea,
Rhythm, cast a spell from me,
Beat it to his heart.

My mind still lingers on that part,
Long since gone your eyes.
Memories of our naked art,
Ribbons in the skies-
Rhythm in your eyes,
Ribbons in the skies,
I'll tie them to my heart.
Who?

I am who I am.
Take others to paint on your
Canvas, you can,
But I
Am not fluid enough to do that,
For I am a
Porcelain bust,
I am set.
An urn, and to ashes
And dust I'll return when I'm dead.

And when what's left
Is only a song or a poem,
I'll remain
On the shelf,
Or the radio:
An antique,
I hope,
Set in stone I will stand,
And continue,
Forever,
To be who I am.


Little Murder Ditty

I think I killed a butterfly
He flew into my path
As I was driving aimlessly
One evening, after class.
The palm trees flickered swiftly by,
The sunlight briefly glanced...
But I think I killed that butterfly-
He fluttered in my heart,
That evening after class.


Siam Husk

Over there amidst the glaze
Of city fog and burning days
A monument of sandy stone,
An earthy temple overthrown,
Like some jutting broken bone
Is cast into the haze.

On the winds blow coloured shawls:
Echoes in the dusty halls
Of memories of nights of flame,
The virile youth that time has claimed.
Dirtily the evening falls,
And reveals their shame.


Two companions stand at dusk,
Naked in the pain of lust.
Their fretted skin will stain my mind,
The sweat of longing eyes will blind,
Forever sunk in pools of time,
Forgotten, Siam husk.

Over there, amidst the haze
Of city fog and burning days
An effigy of sandy stone,
An earthy temple overthrown,
Like some jutting broken bone
Is cast into the blaze.


Fall

Whispering leaves,
Dead butterflies that
Cling to the trees
And breathe expiring secrets
Of summer,
Your gossip is old.
Your veins have dried up,
Throttled like
The little brooks of winter,
Cracked and tongueless.

Gossiping leaves,
Dead butterflies that shudder
And twist in the trees,
Tortured limbs,
Bent by age's disease,
Death is coming.
Like a vine the blue horror is climbing to stop
Your mouths. Your desperate hearts will freeze,
And drop.

In veils of dew
As children we will run through you
And break your bones,
Like a vivid stream over
Brittle stones,
For we are the currents of youth,
Life's beautiful fruit.
Tumbling, our flood is charging.
Charged, electric profusion
From our perfect mouths.
Our wings are soft,
Our limbs are proud.
We taste of tomorrow,
Fertile ground.
The truth is ours to breathe,
To breathe like supple leaves,
Like butterflies that
Bloom in the summer trees.

Brittle leaves,
Old butterflies who cling to the trees,
Surrender us your cities.
Your life is buried in memories,
Like a whisper in a
Pile of dead leaves,
You are a scent lost on the
Summer breeze.


Goodnight Stars

Goodnight stars,
Fall on me slowly,
Dust in my arms,
You look like a melody
Glittering there,
Shine on till morning,
And wheel me a dance
In the tumbling sky.

Your sultry black
Is velveted over
The arch of my thoughts,
And softly a poem is
Whispering there,
Cool beam in the dark night,
A flickering ray
In the mellow sky.

...


Goodnight stars,
My glittering masters,
My tumbling muses
Reflecting my madness
In millions there:
Oh fine, falling heavens,
Wheel me a dance
In the whispering sky.


Modern Patriot

Those red flags,
What do they mean?
They stir a feeling in me:
Proud
To be on my own path,
Proud
To be living free.
Free from the binds of actionless shame,
Shame things didn't work out that way,
For those were the days, those were the days,
But we are brighter than memory's grey.
Bold pigment,
Luscious time,
Who stole my heart?
'Not I, not I'
Raise your flag for the colour of today,
Buccaneer of love and pride,
I'll keep you still inside.


The Pudding

It pours forth like
Hot custard, this inspiration.
Where does it come from?
From the oven of my heart.
I give it to you, prepared,
On a plate.
It is sweet and warm,
My love.
It runs slowly through you
And fills the cracks.
When it sets you will become
A full creature,
Complete
And replenished,
And in the satiety of your perfection
You will rest.


Immaterial: 5am pt 2: In prose

The sun dances in my dreams, inspired by the daytime. It dances melancholy and wise through my night thoughts as they reflect off the pearly walls and ballroom parades of memories unspent. Dawn protrudes, and the cricket call a warning siren: marble flame, cold stone heat restless, to wither on the morning like the unfaithful flesh from my dream, some wicked, beautiful blossom torn. You are the sun, you dance in my dreams, and the dawn breathes a silver sigh; calls me back home to you.

Scrapbook of thoughts

#1

O for a muse... Be my candle: love, hate, longing, sorrow. Grow me a dream and I will writhe in its fertile waters, its unforgiving womb.


#2

The mad witch screams. She laughs like a jackal into the blood stained night and it hears her call, a dog to her command, dressed in black it trails after her flight.

#3

I stir my milk and the universe peers back at me, a galaxy scattered on the walls of a glass prison.

Publication Date: 12-20-2009

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