a first draft of poem for Orphée

I will dream I will dream
I will dream I will dream
I will dream I will dream
I will dream I will dream

read it aloud
read it aloud
read it aloud
read it aloud

I will dream I have dreamed
I will dream I have dreamt
I will dream I have dreamed
I will dream I have dreamt

Reed it aloud
Red it aloud
Reed it aloud
Red it aloud

Say it aloud
Say it out loud
Say it aloud
Say it out loud

Reed it Red it Dream it Dreamt it
Read it Read it Dream it Dream’t
Dream it Dream’t
Reed Re’d
Out loud
All ‘oud
Aloud
All out

Dream it Loud it All loud Allow
Dream it Out it Allow loud it
Dream it seem it sound it say it
I dream I dreamed I say I dreamt I said I reed I red I sed
a stream of breath blown across the reed, a tone, a hue I dreamed of dew
fracturing light from dawn’s golden touch, sprayed and splayed in sheets
of told transmissions, received by dreaming listeners, colors, singers
Out loud.

the Text stands for itself it stands alone out loud allow it to stand as freestanding text alone

21 May MMXVII
©2017 Stuart Dummit

three twitter posts, an aside;

Twitter doesn’t allow me enough letters to build the cages needed to contain my thoughts, wild beasts that they are. Beware: danger lurks in    [4 May 8:51am]

Verse with no structure no limits but engineered to grind and slither into places; no hashtags no keywords no marketing, just out there…   [4 May 8:53am]

Will anyone decipher the code transmitted like shortwave signals across moist ether? Will it excite or just fester like an unattended wound?    [4 May 8:57am]

©2017 Stuart Dummit

{there was a post that I deleted before posting. i thought that i had saved it but perhaps not…. the gist was that federal law prohibited me from saying some things that were streaming through my brain, and i thought that was perhaps a good thing. i nullify my actions with the safety valve of deletion}

A Roque of Ixpremiads

Lode, the waining trembles of sentient orthonauts fly! What dreamy and miasmic turnbulls wait in the gnarly wings? One treads not on such dainty, delicate tomes. The festooned reliquaries grumble and hum with unsanitary expectations. One does not suffer such imbrications lightly.

– Stout heart! Fondle knot the tender eggs of men! Your unfiled nails might scratch and tear and summon sanguine leakage upon your hands and the earth between your feet!

Crimson fluids gush from fresh rent flesh and congeal into wrens and rooks and other winged beasties. Clear water, fecund with womanish stuffs wash away the evidence, but the roque remains. Do not fear the ixpremiad, but embrace it. Make it your own. Color it in scents of pastures and loose-clothed mornings like the marmalade of the Sun, sweet up front and bitter at the back.

Centurion! Do you heed the warnings of your sister’s mother? What works for her falls flat for you. Sitting in static at the foot of your birthing bed, Time’s gondola and gambit conspire to dongle to the status quo. Such translations rarely do justice to the anticipation and afterscent of desire’s placenta.

©2017 Stuart Dummit