Friday, May 23, 2008

Dog Mental Creative Breeze

by the Romantic Calling.
by a Reason to be alone.

I try to live up to it

by scribbling GASH
about my BALLS

hanging 30 years low in domestic warmth.

an Excuse to be ALONE
and something to do when I’m there.

the paper in this pad is for drawing.
this Unipen is for architects.
I brandish it like I am DERANGED,
a Saucepan Man in the Tower of Song,
writing about his BALLS
baggy in bargain pants,

classic as tragedy is.
lushed, struggling,
a tolerated accident;
Functioning Mush.

we are classic Functioning Mush
building towers in the compost.

all dreaming . . .
I chase the MUSE,
any MUSE at all
like my functioning BALLS.

these are no Stateside badlands
I run in;
this is British shotgun marsh.
heavy with the damp muse of melancholy and weak women.
where BALLS walk tall on streets,
Urban and Deserted.

trying to be seduced His bones try an Artist's Dream

because He must
RECORD All Things.
because He must
KEEP All Things.
because All Things

there seems precious else for Him to do
and maybe,
if He READS enough
maybe He will UNDERSTAND . . .maybe
fear will leave and clarity dawn with the wincing birds.
the dawn of the Functioning Mush.

my BALLS are Romantic,
like misty flowers
on an old battlefield
or weakly clenched
like an old fist
out on some memory beach.

I try to live up to it
to lay bare the foggy hours in contraband crystals.
but its horrible TIME
that peels onions here.

Ford Dagenham

1 comment:

Michael Jacobson said...

Great poem Ford--Balls to the wall.