Juices Flowing

Speaking of voices, I swallowed a voice,
once mild and merry, laughing and singing.

I didn’t detect the subtle undertones,
and clashing overtones; it’s irony of intent.

This voice knew not the theory of music;
a scale or chord. It merely mocked.

And I choked as it went down.
I chased it with salt water.

I gargled the notes, swishing them about
in my throat. And the voice sank in.

It planted its anchor, docked to shore,
and like a pestilence, settled down to breed.

But the voice is not welcome.
Blindly, it has turned upon itself.

It is disconnected and hangs glumly
by a thread- a mere strand of tone.

Without melody, forgetting words,
the voice is all washed up. Ragged.

It loses face, becoming dryly airborne,
and through self consumption, dissipates.

Jennifer Burnside

Opposition Complex

He approaches you like a tight ball of rubber bands.

Lacking a smile, he greets you with terse resentment.

 

Like the liquid green hue of a flame’s stubborn root,

his eyes shine acid, stinging you with their heat.

 

And you wonder what goes on behind such cruel sockets:

Does he resent you for the person you remind him of?

 

He dismisses your concerns, saying that the stain of words,

splashed across your day, are the least invasive of violations.

 

He claims that the intruder had had every right to enter-

that you are only one side of two stories, you on the inside.

 

He is on the outside and disinterested in your irrelevance,

claiming ironically that your fears are not against the law.

 

And admonishes you for finding fault with the demon

who was once "harmless" but suddenly spells trouble.

 

As he dissects your heart with his doubting gaze,

you realize that he is siding with the enemy.

 

You are up against an ugly beast who hides behind his badge

with all of his stout, bulging, musclebound insecurity.

 

You face him and fight him, and while you don’t win,

you come out even, retreating with a sharp gem of knowledge.

 

Justice. To be served on seedy rye, with remorse on the side.

And a heavy dose of reality to wash it all down.

 

 

Jennifer Burnside

7/28/2014

Implosion

    Have you ever found yourself so deep underwater and disoriented to the extent that you have lost a feel for which direction will lead you to the assurance of the surface?

    Perhaps you have temporarily forgotten that a vital boundary resides somewhere, passively awaiting your need for oxygen and light. There is no such thing as humidity in such a dimension.

    During a sudden and startling lapse of memory, the surface has in fact ceased to exist. And you are simply and stiflingly condensed by the pressure of the sheer depth.

    You sense an overwhelming urgency to become one with the liquid substance that embraces you, molding into your every curve and line like wily putty. You have gone missing.

    Without light, you will eventually lose your sense of sight.

    Lacking stimulation, your nerve endings will fail to remind you when the act of touch or unintentional contact is taking place. Physical matter will grow scarce. Parched.

    You will not be able to confirm your suspicions that distance is gradually stretching you across its medieval torture device. Common sense is absentminded beneath the boundaries of the sea floor.     

    You find yourself in an ocean beneath an ocean.

    Layered, muffled, and unreal, your salt settles.

    Your minerals lose their glimmer and disband like the escapees of pesticide’s harmful intent.

    There is no color in this place; you are tasted by your surroundings, used and discarded.

    Your heart beats with the current of subtle waves, and while you are consciously unaware of this fact, your body lives as a bloodless algae. You ride at the mercy of a mystery.

    A sunken vessel with a new identity.

    This is transition. In the womb of the earth. You will dawn again, someday.

 

10/9/14

Jennifer Burnside

Understatement

I despise you with every furious cell in my body

I abhor you as magnified by the rays of a searing sun

I see you prickle down the tree on your spindly legs,

Clambering belligerently to your inevitable doom

 

Yesterday you were juicy, your fangs oozing venom

You closed in on your perpetual target

Misled by eight opposing points of observation

And fueled by your own dysfunctional greed

 

Now you are shriveled with the drought

Your seemingly abundant resources have expired

And you writhe madly in a sticky web of your own creation

Your entanglement is disgustingly fatal

 

I was paralyzed by your eyes the night I died

You blurred my memory with your octagonal grip

I was consumed and regurgitated, left lying in pieces

But with time, I have taken on a new form

 

I am the owl soaring upon the cool night breeze

I am at once soothed and renewed by a veil of mist

That clings to my wings and boosts my momentum

With grace, I plummet down toward my wily little prey…

 

Gotcha!


Jennifer Burnside

The Other Key to the City

High mountains trip through
pure air gliding past green limbs.
Rushing water, simple yet necessary. 
But we do not stop there.

Into the pollution of greed,
smoky walls of the encampment
fail to veil the scent of money,
of unquenchable lust.
 
Intoxicated glow blares madly.
Patterns spiral as though beautiful.
But there is something wrong.
Rhythm lacking. Madness excessive.
 
Deceptive trolls leer between the cards,
rushing the ponies as they prance
from their shabby stables to deliver
concoctions of purebred untruths.
 
Agenda without business.
Invitation minus place.
As the room rekindles flame,
one weary mind melts away.
 
Canned heat, empty music, and
too many bodies lurching, taking.
Without their sense of time,
stars wilt soft by an artificial sun.
 
Bursting out of the chasm,
one figure exhales deeply,
while the other struggles against
the tug of chance's reversal.
 
Beckoning, brainwashing, seducing,
a factory of unattainable dreams
and contagious wealth sucks in the
susceptible wisp of a soul. Vacuumed.
 
There is no harmony in this night.
Fists against walls, spilling red.
Cracked forehead oozing.
Eyes small and to the point. 
 
A body hugs the pubescent gutter
flailing in the street, shyly smudged.
Canary yellow stilettos embarrassed
by the decay of potential joy.
 
Whirlwind pauses, hovers, before
careening off to refresh the sting.
Venomous veins of ineptitude
laid bare to the mouth of a hoax.

Door pings open to explain.
THIS was the reason for dual keys,
two keys in a pod but destined
to go their separate ways.
 
Room inhales shame sharply,
as form shudders against the wall
of windows, seven stories proud.
Street blights wink lechery.
 
A call to the past finds no response.
and horizon is questioned. Something like,
what to do when someone is past saving?
Who will survive if only one of two can?

Small boat rocks at the edge,
tipping with internal frenzy.
Casualties familial like furniture.
A lamp beheaded, weeping.
 
Guards come to take him away,
hollering through the thin door,
But sparrow sits on silent nest,
sighing with newfound secret.
 
Before the hurricane, a breeze,
tearing at branches. Though harmless,
sour intent does nonetheless foul earth
with jagged breath, in and out.
 
Dismembered body of time,
please regard me with compassion.
Though we were not close,
I grew to know you much too well.
 
I was not impressed.

 

 Jennifer Burnside

October 7, 2014

Clockwork

If you stop to wonder
what it is that makes him tick,
what is that makes him chuckle
when the world is fast asleep...
 
You’ll wonder why you’re not surprised,
you’ll wonder why you stayed,
with his conniving entity
in the shadows of his cave
 
Longing, forgetting, deny yourself
the peace of mind, to escape his kind.
As the time approaches,
when it’s time to make your move:
Hold your ground!
Don’t look back!
 
If you stop to doubt his lies
might you improve your fate?
Might you even make a break for it,
and reinvent your days?
 
As each tantrum shakes you,
and you quiver in the wake
of his cursed accusations
that seek to dominate…
 
Longing, forgetting, deny yourself
the peace of mind, to escape his kind.
When the time approaches,
when it’s time to make your move:
Hold your ground!
Don’t look back!
 
Now that you’ve progressed and
found a new life without him,
you still feel your ghost limb
aching, as if upon a whim.
 
Just remember the illusion of
the life you thought you had,
almost broke you, nearly knocked
you down- but you have carried on…
 
Longing, forgetting, deny yourself
the peace of mind, to escape his kind.
When the time approaches,
when it’s time to make your move:
Hold your ground!
Don’t look back!

 

August 2014

Jennifer Burnside

Breathing Partition

Between two walls
An armful of smoky air
Substitutes what would be matter

With barely the room
For an elbow, an ankle
Shrunken candles,
deformed by time
Shed tentative light
Upon a delightful lack of
movement

There is only sound
The organic strobe of flame
Lapping at reality
Until the tiny bowl
is finally empty
And yearning
To be filled anew

With rumbling gears
Dancing to the
Flutter of fanciful gaiety
Both ends of the
Black and white keyboard
Cease to oppose
And blend into blend

Within a dark bubble
Eyes need not see
Scent climbs mysteriously
As creaking pipes
Add charm
To the dominion
Blissfully invisible

Behind the scenes
A gruff flourish
A stubborn whimsy
Concocting 

Imagining
Alone together
Elements are
Faithfully replenished

Cramped but resilient
Two voices form a duet
At the heart of the city


Jennifer Burnside
10/1/14