Read Ebook: Point Spread Poems by Brown Paul Cameron

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Ebook has 257 lines and 12419 words, and 6 pages

s & a cabalistic moon of May.

FABULIST

Riel veritably in a cockpit-- Gabriel Dumont with his buffalo robe peeking from behind a blind at Duck Lake all ingredients intact, a gallow's walk inevitable given a series of probable givens.

Given Riel is an illusionist figuring 3 days back from the grave --that an early prototype of the Gatling gun is in effect, that a Ghost Dance cannot stop bullets. Superior numbers & discipline' mandate the West will cringe to the Queen's Red Coats; what's more, the iron horse icon "talking leaves" & the superficiality of running a plow over the land's back all take their calculated toll.

ACE OF SPADES

Parable as metaphor-- profile in hard glint of light, buckskin garb merging from shadow & buckboards-- sandwiching of memory being elbowed thru a Deadwood City saloon door.

Noneother. Dead Man's Hand. Cards strewn, last tumbler ... chamber on empty. Yancy Derringer modelling the latest revolver of his namesake, in pit & the palm bullet in the back for Wild Bill, just for a keepsake.

Treasure-trove for the funeral parlour: "they done him up well". Peccadillo as provocation.

WILD CARD

Clayton brothers at the corral, its Earp City today tumbleweed junction for numerous lives, not to mention lies swift-draw artists encased in a memory of stone boots up ... with all the forlorn grace of being pushed in front of a train.

John Dillinger and Baby-Faced Nelson in a dream together --one shooting holes thru theories of his untimely death, the other frying in an old-time Electric Chair with balloons waving, bonbons going off, the crowd in a joyous, boisterous mood.

The marquee reads: "Public Enemy Number One laid to rest in a shallow grave as gravelly as the heart that beat in his stoney chest."

An adjacent sign noted, crime does pay the undertaker but other, good-hearted folks need look no further than the Dempsey-Tunney fight to see which has the bigger box office draw.

CANDLELIGHT IN BLACK

The ghosts are marmalade thin as rinds across toast or the Weeping Willow, whose green beard leans, crane-like, into a child's backyard.

A Morning Cloak butterfly, maroon wet with the paint of morning, cat paws thin filament leaves astride a larder of memories.

Dalliance with the past, smoke grey these architects of memory the privet hedge, lone pine tree, jet black caterpillar poised about a green carrot top trigger laced in emperor's gold like fathoms of the sea held ... in quiet repose.

HIGHGATE

Angel Inn, come off a sign blown sideways in the sugar and ices night.

Old St. Joseph's Cathedral, bottom of the hill, here Andrew Marvell of "coy mistress" fame sports a plaque remembering "time's winged chariot" and farther up a quaint pub gives accolades to the fact, 1666 nefariously was the plague year in London--Parliament Hill, a brief arm stretch away, posited strangled chickens and other assorted heirlooms in vain attempt for poesy to thwart poxy.

A stone's throw off in Hampstead Heath guns could be heard from the Somme, German derigibles dropped incendiaries, the wounded entrained at Charing Cross and a rascallion

drained a draught at Jack Straw's Castle near the Spaniards while Turpin's hanged corpse was soon to resemble good English oaker casks at the Flask.

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE

Poltergeist activity --the sun winding like a staircase onto the pavement, rickety afternoon shooting back thru shawls of the city.

Tippy-toe. Curtains ajar, a face at the cross-roads looking, looking for all the world as pavement stones, greasy & black, a thin oiled compliment to Mrs. Blight registered at Old Inn Road.

PICPUS

The day I went to LaFayette's grave, the concierge became our tour guide amid an old ruin of tombstones including bedraggled de Tocqueville's crypt .

There, too, the odd City of St. Louis tribute Fayettevilles after yet another "Saint" Louis, despoiler of the Jews--both sitting, squat and apparant, in summer dust, so shingle-flat, mindful of Place De La Nation, more blood-letting blocks away . A chapel nun then reached in loud silence for our Lord, her black habit / upraised hands forming a brilliant crucifix against sky and altar.

Some francs exchanged hands , the graves looked so wretched-- death stylized in military formation, row on row, every private carrying a field marshall's baton only this time of mortality's making, crestfallen, no Agile Lapin/Moulin Rouge here, in the joyless, little garden , our old Frenchman narrating/marching on in The Old Guard, Grand Arm?e fashion a little Napoleonic his cemetery, his brandy like his suspender buttons lost to recent antiquity.

Place des Vosges, Place des Vendomes. A dish of plaice at the palais and a royal hippodrome.

ILLUMINAIRE

Elfin & gold bug, genie in the twilight of a cave.

Virgin On The Rocks --Da Vinci's painting-- aura light seeping toward sun-lit crack of day, the Master's Mona Lisa in the Louvre raptured, luminescence amid aging pigment steeping about rapt multitude.

Betwixt pit & pendulum, another canvas-- Da Vinci in a beatific pose , gentle finger pointing upward, a puzzled crowd with nowhere to see.

CARNIVAL AND LENT

Jungle, the cave human reservoir & cistern ... . quagmire and bog, but no alpine meadow, fairest glance of goodness in soiled wildflower under winter snows.

Pebbles into a cesspool, our sometime passions alive in the outback where honey-fuelled ants soothe enemy bones.

My blood, tempest-whipped, ardour drawn to the surface fathom marks the depths sees a spectacle on the roads queues/Carnival & Lent, unbridled raw and raging. Jesus would have nails.

Poison darts, liana and mangrove sounds with footsteps in the distance the blow-gun or bolo knife attache case / cellular phone ... "I'll kick your teeth down your throat, professionally speaking." Nine to five fecal beings perform the toilet-bowl flush.

Tsetse fly with design-- sapient, sand paper rough along the edge, dry rot to the core.

Plague rats cluster in a feeding frenzy sampling tidbits. Swirl of the bull fight, colour and scope, only its a supermarket, freeway.

Wide angle, wild angel, Umbrage of the uppercut. Tough-mindedness, singleness of purpose, the glacial speed of fairness along the sorted, sordid circles of Spitsbergen.

Our species' jailbait reason firing up the flashlight in the dark for a circumspect peek in the woods sleeping. Tell me your adventures in living.

Another hour spent strangling a reindeer on the taiga, boreally-speaking.

TERMINAL LIVING

"Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut." Charles Manson

I The image complete --collapsing corpses, rag dolls with skulls shot away ... ruby-red blood spurting slipstick/eyeshadow/mascara all so reptilian replete.

II The long fingers of the pianist playing rifle fire to a captive audience, stiletto tones; the trance effect, precedes a cobra's strike, summer without smoke.

V "I am not a wallet," but he was someone's son.

VI Mystery .

X Little ripple, then blip on a sonar screen trailing off terminal living. Frame of reference like a gyroscope breading free.

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