Doldrums Poems 2
(or A deal with the Dreemeeters)
and drink a toast to ending;
looking long across the
ashes of a freshly ravaged land.
and watch the dim stars bending
to it, tattered, tired and
powerless against its broad command.
Bottoms up and see it there,
the melancholy map stripped bare
and white, like chalk-dust on the air
the bands of blank-slate ruin scare
all difference back until the last strange things refuse to stand.
Capacity of Same to swallow
oddities that cannot follow
sad and stretched and dry and hollow
pallid tombs of thought and call: âOh,
let one final unique vein escape the purging sand!â
Fresh-pressed smooth like linen, bleached
the clean gigantic arms then reached
across the sky and, laughing, leached
the brighter colors pale and screeched
the finer music mute and bleak on that offending strand.
The people saw it; massive, gray
and glowing faintly with decay;
they bid it, begged it might obey
their fervent wishes
The Doldrums poem 1
They came to the height of the boolian hill as the people there slumbered en masse
They came like a flash fire of pipes oil and slag that blackened the rooftops and shattered the glass
of the chapel corroded now past recognition with half statues roiling in sulfurous gas
and waking up startled the matchstick folk fled as the dreemeeters sucked back the roots of the world
In plumes of red smoke sank the town from the middle; the landscape ripped violently down
The dreemeeters feasted on fresh ruined real while the sky belched out smog of a sickening brown
like the rust on a beach-bed bound pig iron truck with an odor of burnt salt and burial mounds
And grinning, far back on the newly gnashed hill was a man, Mr. Six, with a banner unfurled
âTo the marrow!â he cried to his servants with glee as he watched the world break to its core
and all of the people got syphoned away to the dreemeeterâs gullets, which always want more
I have no intention of explaining why I do what I do, or see what I see. Nor do I care to give an opinion of the state of Art in America or anywhere else for that matter. Suffice to say that I, as an Artist, believe that the only way forward is away. What follows is a brief description of a world that is intended to give the necessary context to my work.Â To say it came to me in a dream would be simplistic. So I'll say it came to me, and still comes, over a lifetime of dreaming.
Welcome to the Doldrums ...
Mulligatawny: We all fled here; fled when the Dreemeeters came. Fled from the relative calm of our respective worlds to this: the eye of the storm. Weâre all citizens of the Doldrums now, for better or for worse. Quiet? No. Calm? Never. But better here on this shifting funnel than in some Siphon's gullet. Better to flee the crashing of the Sprawl upon the belly of the Deadpan or d