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Alabaster Angel Wings The search for alabaster angel wings leads to a flight inside my head to wash unclean things discovered there, living there, forever dying there. So, Spirit, hold my hand, lead the way into a realm of make-believe, a hallucination called today, a brain grave I’ll never leave. There’s a lonely ringing, whistling, screaming soprano screeching inside my skull. Out! Out! Trying to escape. I don’t know the note, the pitch, but it’s steady, unrelenting no matter what I do. I want to hammer it, stab it, shoot it, re-tune it, drown it, kill it in its own slimy blue-red blood, scoop out all the gray screams and bury them in a great ocean of salty tears. My hair roots scratch their off-white brain-home – colored like a dirty week-old dog bone stripped of marrow and marred by tartar-stained teeth, fangs that stripped skin, membranes, flesh – a skull not yet pure, not clean and gleaming like alabaster angel wings. From jowls comes a drooling, bloody tongue snake to lap redness from the bone, purify it, make it white like alabaster angel wings. The screams and screeches are real, outside stuff all fake – imitations, distractions. The real world is always there; the other world visits on occasion then retreats to its vacation in the nothingness of night. Electric shock for a disconnect, a supercharge? Should I reside inside or outside as I dream of alabaster angel wings? |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-07-07 00:02:32
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.91304
Lovely and evocative –the rhythm of this poem rises, dips and then soars.
I like the uneven but ballanced rhyme also.
The search for alabaster angel wings
leads to a flight inside my head
to wash unclean things
discovered there, living there,
forever dying there.
The life- in death construct is amazing
So, Spirit, hold my hand, lead the way
into a realm of make-believe,
The word –“Make- believe” seems a little weak for the seriousness of this poem
A hallucination called today, [ah, yes]
a brain grave I’ll never leave.
really interesting use of internal rhyme and fresh language here
There’s a lonely ringing, whistling,
screaming soprano screeching
inside my skull.
[ah, the tintinnabulation of life, life, life – extraordinary!]
Out! Out! Trying to escape.
I don’t know the note,
the pitch, but it’s steady,
unrelenting no matter what I do.
[Have you ever read Oliver Sack’s book on the human brain and the phenomenon of auditory hallucination? I am reminded of that remarkable piece by this poem ]
I want to hammer it,
stab it, shoot it, re-tune it,
drown it, kill it in its
own slimy blue-red blood,
scoop out all the gray screams
and bury them in a great
ocean of salty tears.
[a little ordinary a phrase for this extraordinary piece even though it does evoke the liquid of the inner ear.
My hair roots scratch
their off-white brain-home – colored
like a dirty week-old dog bone [wow]
stripped of marrow and marred
by tartar-stained teeth, fangs
that stripped skin, membranes, flesh –
a skull not yet pure,
not clean and gleaming
like alabaster angel wings.
what a leap!
From jowls comes
a drooling, bloody tongue snake
to lap redness from the bone,
purify it, make it white
like alabaster angel wings.
The rhythm of the chorus pick up here in an ominous foreshadowing
The screams and screeches are real,
outside stuff all fake –
imitations, distractions.
The real world is always there;
the other world visits on occasion
then retreats to its vacation
in the nothingness of night.
Electric shock for a disconnect,
a supercharge?
Should I reside inside or outside
as I dream of
alabaster angel wings?
Another amazing poem, Wayne. Thank you