earworm

I cannot think. I cannot do

Anything- I cannot reach

Beyond the forcing luxury

Music escalates with a transparency

That sods my thoughts to a severe trod

They can't drop nor detract from clodding.

I can't articulate more than

A cluttering of loitered winds,

Which buzzing bursts and bows do strive

To where an orchestra of clammy clefts

Have brimmed the streets in a fermenting hive;

All scenes evinced by pacing noticing,

Are glutted by a constipated slur

From bars that bode each step with detailed fugues,

Indifferently in delay

On the inevitable climax

That sparks the tremolo the arches shed

To straw the dawning life they burn to wed.

 

I can no more just abandon

The wriggling worms of rippled waves,

That root the buildings' heights toward the sea,

And continue with the thought

I will brook the hours and the river

In the reins of other poems; now

Music dooms the seeping front

With its eclipsing dominance,

And the surge of my sensations

Withers, turning expectations bitter,

As time is tarried by an elegance

That trims no pulses of its dance

For thoughts that pause on sweeping colours

To graft the granting of their swimming contours.

 

It chases me, this external doxa

Of a beauty that dictates its coax

By the defeat of inward-doting drifts transfixed.

I see, the characters that girt a page,

That lay their frail lament to be fleshed

By a body that intones their measures

With syllables encased in trembling lips,

But not like mine- Volumnia's plea

Avers for me a Coriolanus

Dazzled by the blows of bassoons;

And when I almost have portended

How for once Cleopatra won't 

Abandon Antony's fleet twice,

And have given vent to the triumphant speech

Of idleness on raging Rome, I,

By the trumpet of adverse circumstances

That teem the ether without order,

Must have my ears of dreaming barren-

The march resumes its stomping drama;

There are no arias left to draw

A boyed ardour above the throng

Of yesterday's yearning song.

 

And if I seek some shelter in

The delighted ditties that the Degus

Exchange to reach each other in embrace,

I can't herald a vacant head

To impregnate with vaunted verse

The diminished circumference

Whose moan would touch the whole universe,

Were it not that a background drum rocks

And racks my bones to grinding rings

That, with an ever weltering recess,

Throb my depths incessantly,

Till the benumbing of the bubbling sway

Has blurred the bellows of my seething clay.

 

I should have just given it all up,

And deem this swelling diapason

What is needed to be reeked with joy;

Then I could meet the popular demand

That wants art to be the craft

Of biting criticism, videos and reviews,

That in their arguments define

The essence of a work is their defence.

Thus, talent is so easily transferred,

From creation to have commented

How the last flaw was refined in saying,

Without the fear that carves new intervals

Where ideas might sieve the wasting void

Of unmetted melodies,

For a solid arabesque

In which desires their mirrored dendrites met

With a capillary exchange,

And spawn their branched intricacies

As reasoning indents unaided

The clatters of its swerving metres

On the spangled fires that it quenched-

Sceptic of the stresses and emotions

From products that parley precisely 

The unremitting layering of truth

In a parcelled track for thoughts to pivot on uncouth

(it surely takes the pressure off

To be convinced passive pasturing

Of the degrees that sublimate rumours,

Approaches wisdoms better cleared

By Kanye West than Beethoven).

      

How relaxing it would be

To be convinced that cinema

Knows how well to show man to man

Better than Shakespeare ever had:

No more of conjuring from words

The corresponding crowds of elements

That crown the images cuddled on a page. 

Let the screen tell me who is Macbeth,

And how his fiendish lineaments,

As they gush in wild amazement 

At the blank response of his tomorrows,

Possess no other frowning but Fassbender's;

So Timon's timed apostrophe,

For summoning from Athens woods

Famine and syphilis in raw humours

That shroud his tomb by the sea bosom,

Must rest within a pageantry

Of CGI and greedy pixels,

That with their sharpness steal the rants

By steady nature rendered insecure;

And Portia's solemn trickery-

That what engenders life and love sprouts from

Forfeitures and rings that graft no choice

But to escape them not- be portrayed

With a smile the audience can accept

To be her redeeming jest, 

Instead of leaving unresolved the doubts

If welcomes flout the fallen guise;

Just like viola and Antonio 

Whose final pairing in the carnival

Must please th' agenda of the genders,

To suit in the image of the body

The immaterial norms of desire,

That words render free when no actors

Claim their passions for construed intentions.

 

This and much more I would think if

If a devouring cord were not

Burrowing through my interiors,

Asking me to be inert while notes

Inherit th' events that i

Would englobe into a whole

To forget of their discord-

Now encapsulated by

The allure of ready-loading frames,

To bury in a rifling symphony

What otherwise would need envisioning.

Why don't I switch to Nolan or Villuene

And defend their pompous brilliancy

As cheap philosophers? Is it

Because the mindfulness they advocate

Comes at the cost of imposing a rhythm 

Of contemplated frames and angles with

No interest to let distractions be their smith,

That wants to be wooed first, and then

Define the new by repeating the view?

 

If I was to allot my vital growl-

Which tells me to enhance the glows

That falls behind the rushing feet

With the ethereal parallels

Of wails undaunted by a steady beat-

In the neat proceeding of a drone

That eases progress into doze,

So that I would be freed from researching

The more that lends its substance

To the empty vessel of experience

For future draughts of bliss, I would applaud

The jarring chimes of weary talks

And the cheap immediacy of care

That dating dons to gluttonous egos,

That I might bear the presence of a face

Without questioning where to trace

Its fallen state, that once was called

Divine -whose boring nods communicate

Interchanges are unworthy fixes

To retard the intended climaxes

That fade with the spent need to masturbate-,

And actively demand the mindless rumble

That leads into a disco club,

Where man's innate diastole blends

With the grouping brawl for morrows' deaf wake,

Which gnarl from hammering jaws grovels

In the narrow marrow of the organ

Of fancy, promising that every day,

Effortlessly as the previous,

Propels the same monotony-

Of movements, moments and ambitions-

That serves to bear no relevance

On the immured interception

Of buried time with the clearance

Of unhinged imagination-

Just wasted by the dissonance

That wires frivolous lust upon 

Wisdom laboured in impotence.

 

So sweet and yet...no. I still cannot

Refrain my choleric strains

From roaring for depleted shores,

Where the quickening revolving

Of my humour renders ripe

The rowed grains of wrestling fronts 

With the sieved transparency of light

In a throbbing husk that clots its shed repose,

To be by any other music but mine 

Deterred oblivious to what I can't do.

This gentle cuddle of feeble lulls

Extols a living by the way

Of death: if beauty must be beauty

To be reproduced immutable

By instruments that interrupt

The unanswered payer to brooding Poesy

That she might visit th' echoing reproach

And rim the dull notes with the budded pitches

That at her touch arrange a harmony

Never before sought for in reality,

Then I have no more refuge

In hoping my confounded voice

Might spur th' angelic choir above

To dawn on the mire where I lie,

And clap these constipated bells,

That they might form a chariot 

To the cinders of the stars

From which seat I might contemplate

The orders I create to sound the verse

That the darkest silence far from me redounds

Through orbs on their wing'd orbits where is bound

Alignments of lights, always diverse-

And I had better fade together with my peers

In all that is to be collectively 

Emitted from a prerecorded wail

Of categorical beliefs and values,

That crump sterility where they profess 

Their best intents; repeating what was said,

With faint contempt to add ‘no more can be said’

To bring to nought all that will ever be said.