Poems by Antero Alli


 

Time

Time, as in, how we got this way
The disappearing act, the trick tophat lobotomy
The duration and destruction of clocks,
The moment before us, gone but hopefully not forgotten
Wasted Time: the big one that got away, the dream fish!

The girl on the bicycle, her shadow racing across the horizon
Faster than a speeding photon, wiser than pure information
Time, you basket of sparrows, you imposter! Poser!
You supermodel runaway, Armani punchclock, grandfather clock-sucker
Time! How the hell did you end up in bed with commerce?!

Time, the eternal one-night stand with all the money in the world
Ravaging the ultraviolet veils between Babylon and Eden
And still betting the house and coming up snake eyes!
Time...you cleaned up, cashed in, ducked out of town
With your embarrassment of riches and your cul de sac smile,
Who knew ? The deck was stacked with happiness hallucinations.

 

 

The World and The Planet

The world is not the planet -- it’s the fuzz on the peach
The static, not the signal - -the culture, not the truth.
The world is a busy busy busy busy place
Busy with the business of survival on the planet.

The world is burning with business, the hot new buzz of fizzness
The fizzy business of saving the planet but the world is not the planet.
The planet is the signal, not the static -- the truth not the culture.
The planet is in the business of saving itself from the world.

 

 

Bells

If you hear bells
And nectar: if you taste nectar
At the back of your palate
While hearing bells

(Where there are no bells
When there is no nectar)

There's a fair chance
You're about to die
Or, be enlightened.

If you die, there's nothing
You can do about it.
If you are enlightened,
There is nothing you can do about it.

In that split second
Between inhale and exhale
A holy gasp of silence
Spits light from an angel's eye
And you stand there, breathless
When you should run for your life.

The gap widens, dilates and opens
The top of your head, the crown
Touched by heaven, touched
When the angel's arms wrap around
The last sound you see
The light you hear
Before you're gone.

 

 

Anima Shrine

Standing outside your circle, I imagine you
All eyes. Inside unfathomable textures of, is it, light ?
Teasing. No, inflaming, all the dreams of what might be
I step inside your temple and nothing happens
And then, I collapse. Crushed, slamdunked by a hairy chimera
My images. My expectations, my burning house!
Where am I now ? Inside these flames, I am laughing.
While my house burns down, the fences pick up their stakes
And walk away leaving nothing behind but smoke, ashes. Ashes.
I stand alone. Like some charred crucifix, a shadow of past sacrifices.

What now? Midnight visions?! Beached crabs, mouths foaming
Crabwalking. Over fields of broken shells, clamoring up & down
There are tunnels here and tombs, too. Do they die also?
Or is this some kind of sleep that grows its own shelter over time ?
There are no metaphors for this love of yours, only death and surrender.
This love of yours. It has destroyed everything familiar to me.
Have I passed the test ? Am I still attractive ? Do you still want me ?
My sudden shyness ? An attempt to diminish your magnificence
In the face of the only thing I can still call my own, this mask
This mask is the only thing I can call my own.
But truth is...it looks much much better on you.

 

 

To The Gods of the End of the World

O GOD OF THE END OF THE WORLD
I am afraid to take you seriously; tell me you’re only kidding,
Blow my cover to expose my true feelings and then
Make me laugh at death without forgetting my mortality.

O GODDESS OF BEAUTY IS BETTER THAN TRUTH
I am embarrassed by my need to be right all the time.
Send me your most gorgeous dropdead image, the Mother of All Visions,
The vision that outgrows and destroys all other visions (including itself),
So I can see through myself when I am lying.

O WRATHFUL DEITIES OF DOOMSAYING EVANGELICALS
& THE TEN THOUSAND DOGMATIC LITTLE BIGOTS,
I am bored to tears with my intolerances.
Grant me the enchantment to be entertained by the hidden pixie agendas
Behind all dreary, dismal grey-faced warnings so I can stop
Taking myself more seriously than the life I am actually living.

O DEMIGOD OF POETIC TERRORISM,
I am utterly and royally confused.
Make me go crazy in the name of Creation, not Destruction,
So I may freely sabotage the literalist virus immobilizing my imagination
And learn to incite riots in the minds asleep to your splendor and your glory.

O GODS & GODDESSES OF EVERYBODY’S
HOLY GUARDIAN ANGEL
,
I am fucked up beyond all recognition.
Trick me into not knowing whether I am really a good person or really a bad person.
Give me the wisdom to never believe my own PR and what other people think of me,
No matter how much money they pay me.
Deepen my gratitude for being a nobody in an UnWorld
Of wannabe somebodies and hungry ghosts, so I can be touched in the head
By your benevolence and tell your truths
Without wanting the credit.

 

 

Under a Shipwrecked Moon

I am asleep when the first mast snaps with a thunderclap!
A cracking that shakes the skeleton, all bodies bolting upright
Sight suddenly blinded by flashes of lightening speed dancing
Through the portals, calling every detail in the cabin to attention
Until the entire luminous design slowly dissolves, in one piece,
Back to blackness, that sweet blackness, the comfort and terror
Of the Great Mother Sea.

And now, the rushing ? The rushing sounds! I am climbing out the hatch
Onto starboard, there! Two mates screaming, dangling on the grab-rails
Flapping in the squall like shredded sheets, lightening forcing all detail to freeze!
And then, dissolve back to sweet blackness.

We see everything, our faces frozen with astonishment...fifty-foot rollers
Crashing through the gunwhales, flooding the hatches. Now: radio down!
Three men overboard, the dinghies adrift. The hull is bilged.
The vessel flounders and now, finally: capsized.

The terrible sights and sounds of angels, everywhere angels!
Their massive wings battered down by these gails of hell
Swallowed inside the belly of an ungodly tempest.
The lightening bolts! The thunderclaps!

The silence.

The silence, my love, the silence...

 

(2003, Berkeley from the screenplay
"Under a Shipwrecked Moon" )




Other Writings by Antero Alli




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descriptions & excerpts (1986-present)

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