Tramp-led Dreams

He could have torn off
the ad flogging the
fish n chip shop but not understood the
emptiness of a whistling queue and fullness of a wallet of ghosts.

But a borrowed monocle covers only
one faded eye and in a bent circle of smashed glass
he knew of half blindness...and one-eyed sightedness and
the blimp of sadness ever hovering overhead.

He would have only void-looked through his pavement reckoning, smelling inner famine; shit-stained wishes a urine-framed paper plate and not enough food lately for even a modest puke

And he spat vinegar visions and salt and
thought of once crisp newspapers now delivering greasy gossip; splotched under dime headlines while the coy haddock belching curled
and the French Fries fail-crinkled to deliver him from a tasteless desire.

Oily fingers fifed, fumbled and crumbled and the slick-balled
Sunday Times Food Supplement echoed all print-told misery when it bounced into a rat-bossed dustbin where all his rubbish-tossed dreams seemed to thrive in ashed darkness.

He'd move on in a phalanx trench coat...a wraparound of
rags but his rage was contained in a piggy bank yet unsmashed and perilously edged on the mantel of another crazy thought.
Money and madness caught in a China jail...waiting for Uncle Avarice to reach behind a stern back and deliverance
a claw hammer's swipe away. So near an infant meal.
Washers and pennies clink metal rancor
and hidden within a winter's grim ricochet

Tramp apparitions bide hobos where hubris
bred nothings and pride bled a spirit, a leeching became.
The flow gained in pressure, the leak stained in measure
as the long fall to gutters drained forth his life.
But he picks up a suckling bottle and nurses an infant
squalling in hunger...he grabs titless fancies and screams
at the gain of a pointless loss.

But appetence prevails, storming demanding he stumbles
and spies the good table, aplenty of defeat.
He gorges and stuffs---trouncing and gobbling,
the juice-routed feast of vagrants...the dinner mirage
of a floater's forfeit sanctity. Grubbed failure!

Gagging and gasping the surfeit-sad excess kills a wretch
born from the ever-presiding womb of misery,
the afterbirth of mean expectation expires
an outcast in an indifferent glutton's society.

Comments

Aphasic -

Hi La-shout - first, an afterthought...clever title, a dash of ambiguity.

I found this very entertaining, smiles and murmured approbation as I reeled between associations and tropes [thanks Ryan]. By the end I was overwhelmed, a feeling that reminded me of aftermath in having overdone the self-medication I was left with an impression of self-indulgence, and a need to faithfully record every detailed breath of creativity that inspired this poem, as if you felt the reader would have experienced deprivation with anything less than a complete account of your imagination, reflected in the flood of delivery. That may not be an accurate assessment, but it does reflect my own tendencies (which I'm trying, with limited success, to inhibit) and which I think I recognise here.

I feel distictly unqualified to comment on the poetic aspects of this piece, because I've yet to learn how to practice what I'm tempted to preach about that stuff - and I hope someone who is, does.

And I'll be very happy if I've got this completely wrong, because I did enjoy the rollercoaster ride through your mind - there are so many individual lines and phrases that appealed to me - I'm just not convinced that, as a whole, it constitutes 'good' poetry, particularly having read the poetry, discussion threads and articles, with related comments, of others on this site. Perhaps that's not a big thing; I guess it depends on the reasons for writing and posting? Does the "La-shout" pseudonym have implications that make these words completely superfluous - that's usually the case with me
I don't mean to be mean - that's not my intention, but if I come across as such I won't be surprised, because I'm neither confident nor well-versed in applying the art of 'constructive criticism'

Aphasic -
[note to myself: a surfeit of smiles - looks like an apology]

La-shout -

Thank you (I think) for a candid review. The whole exercise was geared up to make one do exactly that. I'd not really call this poetry (good or not? Well...ummm...hmmm ) I must leave that solely to the reader but this is more in the vein of prosetry I suppose. The things I write about tend to be completely off the wall at times...I do this deliberately of course so my stuff is not easy to read or understand and that puts a rather large strain on the reader and that in turn doesn't create any favours for me as a poet! My poetry does give cause for reflection sometimes though and if even one person felt they were entertained or titivated then at least I have accomplished something positive.

Many thanx

~Flash~

Aphasic -

"I do this deliberately of course so my stuff is not easy to read or understand and that puts a rather large strain on the reader and that in turn doesn't create any favours for me as a poet!"

I didn't experience any strain in reading La-shout - I was entertained, titivated, and ultimately dishevelled. I had no difficulty in extracting meaning, though perhaps that's just down to the way my mind operates. I guess that's what I was alluding to - in some ways, your writing seemed to be explicit - with no requirement on my part to expend effort beyond adding 'physical' depth to your picture on the page. That's ok, but I also enjoy having to 'work' to extract (a) meaning - a significance, the point - where some ideas are merely implied, obscured or left 'unsaid'. Maybe that's how poetry distinguishes itself from 'entertainment'? I have no reservations in applauding an enjoyable read La-shout

La-shout -

Your observations are very coherent... (I suspect from one of a young but not so tender age...am I correct?) the thing about writing poetry in particular (apart from the following clichés) is it's all subjective and abstract really. You know (and I) when words translate to ideas and the probing flash-light beam begins to emit light from a different source. There is an enlightened knowing; a feeling and a wanting to be better than good of what was read and, more importantly, the inspiration to improve one's own craft too! . And, more significantly, to develop at each outing! Impossible dreams but a goal at the very least.

How many poems have I read on how many sites? Sometimes one stands out and it can be sheer brilliance. These are far and few to be hold but from what I've looked at here, I might even be more than presently surprised. This piece actually echoes a few things I'd been wanting to air on public platform for some time. I hide a lot within the words and it's like a paper (or word) trail with bits of clues tagged here and there. I thank you again for your time (and patience)

~Flash~

Aphasic -
UK resident? Aside from specific references (fish n chip shop, Sunday Times), there's something about the way you deliver words and phrases - familiar fingers of speech...