The Poetic Beauty of Urban Decay

 Matter is plastic in the face of Mind.

— Philip K. Dick

 

_1080819.jpg

 

& dark and dank inside the dream/

of big shivas/ & gleaming icons/

of memories crossing the frontier/

looking for flickering landmarks/

hands above the shadows/ dry

beyond the light/ I summon bright

monsters against the cruel family!/

I summon bright monsters against

some devil’s sinister leer/ & we stroke

mammoth signs on the flowers – – –


Family of Babylon – nature guts
your love of the copious dollar bill
as the fool’s going past in a different light.

 

so dazzling in the grave the demon

has died/ scared/ unseeing/ turning

away/ all his wounds/ in front/ you

excrete a trace of sadness/ as coffins

splinter under the weight of the

curious earth – – –

###

###

###

 

p1080907.jpg

 

***

Peter Bies © 2010

***

 

The Splintering Sky #2

 So everything lingers but a moment, and hastens on to death. — Arthur Schopenhauer

 

_1090023.jpg

 

clouded silent

crossing the frontierbreathless nameless on the edge of the worldlost in broad moonlight& a backward glance a backward glancedown what streets the Mad Poet came singing& talking to himself:

 

_1090010.jpg

 

“In Thy most shallow eyes are things which soothe me –as when the grip of change reveal Thy body holy& ever compromising! –    I hit green keys across the sky!”

 

_1090011.jpg

 

looking for lovein a different light such a manseek shelter backlit shifting & bright beside the grave #########

 

p1090156.jpg

 

***

 

Peter Bies © 2010

 

***

The Splintering Sky

 “I am an immortal soul tied to the body of a dying animal.”

— William Butler Yeats

 

p1090930.jpg

 

 

unsafe

 

translucent

 

out of control

 

the mad poet/

 

drifts aimlessly

 

all through his life/

 

quiet violet within the fire

 

wanting evil big above the land:

 

“I am dark on the splintering sky!”/

 

where the light comes from
all his wounds

in front

 

###

 

###

 

###

 

p1090931.jpg

 

 ***

Peter Bies © 2010

***

 

This Side Of The Grave

“The logic of these cut-ups, he supposed, was that by making one, you could somehow push back at the medium.” — William Gibson, Idoru

 

p1090725_2.jpg

 

 

flash cut

 

to this side

 

of the grave:

 


 

old sky

 

breeding

 

misty spooks

 

a glimpse of defeat

 

flashing past in time-lapse

 

speeding up in a blur

 

fading out of focus

 

the frame froze

 

on your smile

 

grey mirror

 

black bridge

 

shallow

 

canals

 

###

###

###

 

 

p1090900.jpg

 

***

Peter Bies © 2010

 ***

 

 

Past The Clouds

I hate women because they always know where things are.

— Voltaire

 

_1090219.jpg

 

past the clouds
the night will come
cold near the water 

like a quiet dream in the grave

I taste of bitter leeches
all gold beneath their hide

I keep going
scared hungry

trying to read the roads

on my old map

###

###

###

 

p1100023.jpg

 

***

 Peter Bies © 2010

***

How Can You Be Sure?

 

“Why, this is hell; nor am I out of it.”

— Christopher Marlowe

 

p1080870_2.jpg

 

I travel my own way

in between gelid nostalgia

& provincial romanticism:


Watching the LEDs

of my time machine

I heard it start to rain.

The gates closed

& the stage was set.

There was no sound

except that of the distant traffic.

But how can you be sure yet?

You must come and see!

The western wastelands!

 

Too much to take in

all at once.

###

###

###

 

_1090204.jpg

 

***

Peter Bies © 2010

***

On A Broken Plain

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. — T.S. Eliot

 

_10807001.jpg

 

Way cool! my vision

will go

shadowed awake


turning away

a broken promise

& painful regrets

the lovers

come singing

wondering why

our neighbours

take comfort

in strife –

languid neon halo

on a broken plain –
blot out the
silent shadows!

###

###

###

 

_1080693.jpg

 

***

 

Peter Bies © 2010

 

***