Fragile Plates

Giorgio di Chiricho

Down the fifty drawn vacuum pipes
His last run was timed out
It made him drown up the sacred crown
Longing for glory again
Nothing got swayed – nothing of note
Tired of the decrepit drone ballads
He took a trip lying down in an oval-shaped plain
In the next life it would be a sapphire bowl
Of purple fruit low hanging in cryptic labyrinths
The gutter bites
The knife and then the swipes
Locked doors and slashed faces
Ships re-built in bombed out yards
The grain now the high gain
The shooting crafts on mercy street
The brawls of crimson faded grey
Distraught lovers laugh
Even though it is no game
Crazy hearse-chamber minds
Sabotaging time
Like a miner dealt the worst hand
His next mission is to kill now the thrill is botched
Until the lever breaks
And all kings, paupers, astronauts and pitchforks
Are strewn on a level field of play

 

By Nicholas Peart

Written on 2nd May 2018

(c)All Rights Reserved 

 

Image: Painting by Giorgio de Chirico

 

Natural Blues (A Reassessment)

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reeds scraping gristle

sound of thick pillar refinement

synergy going dilapidated

mattress excitement in

a formation

(ethereal ring)

 

all sacred buds and dominant postures

to wrangle the rise of suit equipment

barge jumping off a wooden bridge

high jump mental insanity

peacock suit of twisted…

revitalising exhaust turbine

polluted with low pick ups

and the same ricocheting chords

the lads chorus follows shortly

and stadium bang

white dwarf collapse of plan B

open protective fusion

two reptilian eyes

bloodstream corrupt

now falling

soil and poison

 

evil stench and dead sun

(sub human electricity)

grind hurl TV rock star abuse

on a motorcycle doing 180

distinction in the shape

of the level the sound and the person

and now we hark back to Earls Court 75

and the high fat content

at the expense of the dole originators

bow down Charlie Patton and Son House

(with Blind Lemon in the ante room)

humble cotton field afterglow

the stadium was non existent

and they knew

Sonny Boy knew

Honeyboy Edwards knew

and the bliss of a Kronenberg and snuff

after the pioneering devil enigma

white hot

 

a nihilist at Three Folks

beats a nihilist at Knebworth

 

 

By Nicholas Peart

Taken from the poetry collection; ‘In Arctic Measure (Poems 2004-7)’

©All Rights Reserved

Image: Angular Visions (2015) by Nicholas Peart

 

 

All Strong In A Silent Plain

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Lion channels low under solemn crow glides

the real beast crashing too hard

I saw marks all over the parish floor

the uniform conformed emotion

risks like snake bites

an area of fear untouched

perhaps locked for eternity

as ever I see death in countless eyes

I muster all physical and mental strength to pray

and on top in the most tender of ways

spiritual inter-cosmic multitasking

until my brain collapses and candles surround me

an unusual death to dwell on

where grains have no meaning and screams are forever muted

love vanishing to the naked eye

but to the third eye only so much one can stand

it cannot be but walking on air with his breath the key

all signals unfurl and unleash the dreams of golden days

but journeys back can rock the core too much

even if all risks must stain and fear be embraced.

Arms to fruitless mother milk

with four white pristine horses ready to glow a shade of bright blinding white

an eclipse purity

my loving sometimes got in the way

and my chains were my companions in disguise

my dangerous impulses not so strong anymore

purple skies appear when they want

but every phenomenon is a more profound gift

my new responsibility is to sharpen my listening

my most cherished love

I am here and I won’t bolt

by my bedside my heart and refreshed brain wait

I have nothing but time

To read our lines

our back spaces

these holy chests most people bury

mine are in the public domain

don’t be scared and don’t try

after all

everybody makes tunnel love

but many make war light-bright

private love

public war

a duality of insanity

a unity of nothing

I shut my eyes and roll to the next day

every meaningful marble with me always

tall lightweight pendulum rocks

each swing a new interval

but my mind is a landscape the same as it ever was

I don’t leave the hill

I feign no emotion

like a statue still

only the pouring acid rain can shift me

yet electric minds can fix and propel me

all the while pouring out the hole

old laws applied to obtuse staccato barrel drones

no motion

for the fuel to rise above the needle of colour-sound

the brakes are off

multiple claw-ladders await and before I ask the first top-sphere question

I become part of the full uni-vertigo trip

top bop-trad-time-forte

meta-moves (a web of new coordinates)

all strong in a silent plain

 

by Nicholas Peart

17th January 2016

©All rights reserved

Image: Driftwood (2012) by Nicholas Peart

Only You

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The uni-vow
no sacred hill needed
no prominent monument
only you
and the you inside of you
the message stays the same
and the sharp neon points remain to be found
all a quest but seldom in vein
by the end fame and glory are of no hold
the process and the filth and the fire and the heat;
are the gains of wild imagination
the friendly ghosts and faithful angles of truth and beauty
of song and dance
measures and corners shot
the limit snapped
tall tree sanctuaries
tall tellers
smoothing the way from blue
polishing the dirt
making a full body and gem of you

 

by Nicholas Peart

24th January 2016

(All rights reserved)

 

Image: Electric Blue (after Dan Favin) (2013) by Nicholas Peart

Crowland

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pulsating hornets brew on growth mutations

around the stuck up stations

immense in time revered around the world

calling across the fine lines

separating the shielded divide

from the unruly philistines penetrated by the big eyed rays from Venus

settling debts on broken chimney tops

a stretch

unicorn and leprechaun dreams

on the psychedelic reel

of the next year of the horse in junction

with the insatiable beat

of the sound of hollow cries

defending the name

to go by then breaking their necks over

counter pleasures for real

really had to make the grain

in track to be when you let it out

scaling orange sunsets reflecting maggots

a plenty on hooks

to fry

and worthless degree of harm no crime

posing fatal marks

dripping red on polluted greens

something to tell your grandchildren to go by

and reassess what’s done

to predict impossible to say

get once you sterilzed

on every bit of bark

coming close to caving in

projectile promises airbrush

the scope of needs and well being

intact

diving through the combative

vertigo waving the sky

in time to the rhythm

perceived along stained riverbanks

to the holes of the crows counting rapid fire

and innovative skill burning white hot

waiting for the end to get nearer.

 

By Nicholas Peart

Taken from the poetry collection In Arctic Measure (poems 2004-7)

(All rights reserved)

 

Image: A Winter In Crowland (2008) by Nicholas Peart

Loops of Drilled Cave Blood

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Sold upside fritter down-town
Hold him to blame
Don’t smash his capsicum brain
Like a motor blown to levels beyond fantasy
Small tests deviated from whole grounds
Gone and can’t be gotten
And know they pin the head of knowledge
Heavy foliage and hard alkaline pools
To drool and be baseless
Air and nothing
Spawned beyond space and time
No area
No clock
Only “is”
No words
Only pictures
Heads smashed
But the vision crisp
Floating in perfect rich equilibrium
That’ll be the day

 

 

Poem by Nicholas Peart

Image by DeviantArt

©All rights reserved