So I was expecting my next entry to be Wednesday's Wellness Clinic, but oh no, my body had other plans (blame Mother Nature and all her gifts to womankind). Instead, here we are at Sonnet Sunday and I must admit, the same parts of my anatomy seem to have decided the tone of the poem I chose tonight too.
I originally wrote this piece in June 2018 after going to a poetry reading during the final month of my stay in Plymouth. I'd met some strange characters in the Plymouth poetry scene but none as bizarre and affecting as one Spencer Shute. This poem was written for him (as an inaccurate description).
Roses
He
reposes as he proses,
his
words smell of roses,
yet
the twang of his tone
is
hard on the nose,
like
the unfortunate rose
now
starting to decompose.
He
closes his eyes.
He
sighs.
He
reclines barefoot
now
the toes begin to curl.
Content
he owns the space
his
tongue now unfurls.
He
gesticulates
with
every word he masticates
of
dreams in which he fornicates,
and
poses
for
the scribbler who composes
and
transposes
his
image under the noses
of
the speechless crowd.
On
the page spawns a spider,
an
inked-up outsider,
eyes
closed but mouth wider
in
dreams that he rides her.
He
reaches and retches
fetches
up on the ground
with
a hideous sound
going
around and around
into
the silence.
Eyes
unclose.
Time
to recompose.
As
he rose
they’re
still silent.
A
pressing down of the pants,
no
chance
to
redeem himself.
A
little dance -
just
a glance of the eyes,
but
no surprise –
still
silent.
The
scribbler too is spent
his
dribbling pen laid askance,
entranced
by the event
that
failed in its intent.
The
problem here
what
no one knows is
the
poet as he proses
writes
those decomposing roses
in
a state which simultaneously deposes
the
brain,
allows
the heart and prick to reign,
leaving
a stain on page and pants,
giving
a new name to romance.
He
closes his eyes.
He
sighs.
Toes
curl
Tongue unfurls.
Repeat.
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