Star Cryer

Posted on: Thursday, September 19th, 2019

(I.) And I’ve dreamt the dreams of the flowers

      …And they are all really nasty… What are the real rates of the heart, I wonder? If I could dream my heart into slumber, I would dream of the fire that set the next penniless town ablaze and make all my sisters and brothers profit from those which made them not feel, in any space, the safest. Even if our stories were the tragedies of the peonies left uncollected and passionless, I know there is something that opposes the sartorial substraction. Let me weave our fallen petals into something else. Let me metamorphosize us all into chrysanthemums, simpler and honorful.

(II.) And I’ve dreamt the dreams of the models

Didn’t you also had struggles with the pin-up men? Didn’t you also
Abhor the darkness that got sick of you just putting them at bay? Didn’t you also,
And along the alsos of so many others, had your own verdicts put in the bag just collecting dirt
Beneath the bodies beneath the sacks of grain beneath the purifying cloth beneath the back of your truck?
Didn’t you dance before like nobody danced before? Is it time for you, now, to come downtown?
Or is there no time for you no more? No time to dream is the one time to dream.

Star Cryer, Star Cryer, maiden punisher,
Ever not fully loved someone because you can’t flex them?
It is rarely engaging. It is rarely not engaging. And, for that matter,
Nothing is ever more baller than the people arguing by not arguing.

I only ask of you today this one little thing:
That be it when you dance the dance of the stars,
You dance it with your eyes golden and bleeding.

(III.) And I’ve dreamt the dreams of those in the eternally absent light

      …And it is too bright! No one thing that requires this much florescent fighting has ever baited me with the best sips and trods from the fixed templates of jolly from Dionysus’ hands. Gutsy little wharf rat, have you not shamed the chain dismisses the ammunition we prepared for the hour of the denouement? During the wake, we have passed on the booklets and goblets.

      Are you still on the dropped, or are you with the visibles? Are you toppled, bedswerving, remote, and confidential? You know that none of us function any well with the passing of the light over head, but if it passes soon, we will have to have been made more cheerful. I can guarantee you the legged threshold. I can promise you mutual non-incarcerations of the tongues with our helping of answerers of the cloudy suffers who never sipped nor trodded into the wine god’s trap.

(IV.) And, finally, I have dreamt the dreams of those who escaped the curse of the mirror-obsessed

They who reflected but-themselves and but-nothing else: conquer!
They who refracted but-themselves and but-nothing else: surrender!

Time to unpin the chrysanthemum hearts. Time to cling to the time before the lovebirds on our porticos.
Time to be elastic, and time to be adjudged, riled, tried, and naturalized… I have to say this, though,

To the texturing of the mouthier traps. I wished they’d hire me again. I wish they’d groom me this time.
This time, in the sacrarium, groom me. Spirit and soil, and body and mind, groom me.

Saucers and specchio and navels and suggestives– ordained, orbiting the orange and the static
And the sounds of men and truckers in delight. And O’, how we hauled them all–

In the crematory of braeburn with all our press-the-players ignorations. Paw over paw over paw over paw– unspoiled.
I tell you this: We cheat death every second by doing nothing. And I would really like to be flipping, careening,

Screwballing myself by doing something. I wish they’d hire me again, though, even if I’m a submarine man.
I wish they’d sent a post-card from Gipuzkoa, Mr. Up-Terrain One. (The terrain is the time of the oranged dreams

Set against the simpler purples. Time to rehire me– paw over paw over paw of an ironed-off man.) I bet that,
To some, all my dreams sound absurd but I bet to you, my fathers and foreigners and madams,

I bet all of our gods are Absurdists. I bet all of them have heard the cries of a star.
I’ll manage to cry a star out of my eye, too– just you wait, little lordling who takes the shapes of my flowers and shadows.

 
OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Part of the Dream, poetry
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