Measure

In suspended time, I watch
the gears kiss, intertwined, their
teeth fitting into one another
with perfect ease. Metal mouths
in shared labour, producing
objects lesser than the sum of
its parts.

A mind tinkers away at the machine’s
organs, tip-tapping the beating heart
abreast the congested breaths
heaving in an over-boiled temper,
monstrous,
seething in gasps and grunts, a glint
of threatening metallic fangs.

Time swims languidly toward the shore,
Unsure of direction, meaning, chronology,
Biting my flesh, leaving lines for
my recollection.
In laughter, they are clearest,
thrusting their happiness into
my being.

A mirror reveals them, a reflection
that is me, but not me. There but
also here. Reality slips into
a displacement that soothes
my soul, for it finally shows
the chaos I know,
suspended in uncanny
being.

© Kat Manica

Inscrutable

There are words here, pasted on the
walls, dripping onto waste-paper floors,
dissolving into pools of serrated,
gnawing letters at our feet.

Letters that once signified,
lose their thingness as they are
abstracted into nothing but
peas and queues, eyes and
teas.

Dreams lost, meaning
jettisoned
away…

Into that place where secrets
are kept, locked, nuanced and
scented with the sweet perfumed
day dreams of our conspiring
unconsciousness.

Out stumbles hope, to soothe
our tired feet, which have trekked
over bladed pens and sharp-witted
words, with heavy burdens
and little respite.

Our tummies full, fluttering
with gratification–delayed and
fulfilled– Sleep-filled lids drop,
taking us far away from
prescribed meaning to
inscrutable delight
to be.

 

© Kat Manica

Number the Stars

O! that I could but count the stars,
Like the the sparkle of thine eyes,
An accountant of the highest order
Would fail to account for their beauty,
Their infinite capability to see
Goodness, where I have only seen
Pain, decimation, and abuse.

Constellations vie to amuse this pen,
As though Heracles vanquishing dragons
Could embolden the wittiest thinkers
Past cosmetic literary contrivance,
When, in your eyes, dawns ebullient
Metaphysics and epistemological truths
that inspire at their core.
O! what a muse are these eyes,
That alight from temporal existence
To celestial spheres.

Fluttering amber light unfolds,
Deep pools of reflective light,
O’er which fairies dance in exultant delight,
As pleasure decants in mellifluous tones,
Roses unroll their coiled petals,
A fragrant dance of perennial buds,
And sweet perfume intoxicates,
The inscrutable chasm between us that
Binds us in our reticence as incessant
Mortal hearts thud on.

O! that I had but immortality to
Stare into the skies evermore,
And see the sharp glare of thine eyes
For hours, days, and years;
The sweet taste of five minutes
Is a rationed sup over which I relish
In perpetuity.

O! that I could but count the stars
On this cold, cold night.

© Kat Manica 2017

Vivification

And from the throes of deepest slumber,
Mine body was awoken as a viscous smoke
oozed under doors, through unconscious
splendour, polluting their peace with prickled
corruption, an oppressive tyranny over the senses.

A window yet provides deep solace to mine
fired-filled flesh, flung open, shifting spheres
from private longing to civic determination,
A cool wind kisses my strainèd brow, easing
tension that rises from my heart, a heart whose
beat wishes to reign over time by killing me
with anguished speed and by setting a new pace for
the fastest ticking clocks. Oh! my breath is but shallow,
as a temptress wind splashes ephemeral relief
upon my furrowed brow. The reviving draught
is but medicine for my disobliging body.

Breath imbibes, percolating lustfully into my
being, drinking deeply, I gulp the crisp, snow-
filled air. How I long to be floating in the aether
among the burning-cold stars, the curd-like
moon, and the lone bird, who, too early, looks
to sup upon the worms that will turn my
tempestuous body into soil.

 

©Kat Manica 2017

A clouded weight…

I have not been here for a while,
and this feeling is neither
new, nor nostalgic, but elemental.
As sleep evades mine dusted eyes,
An agonistic beat marches nonstop,
Left, right, right, left,
Enchanted by the militaristic
might of my dreamless phantasms,
Stoney fingers, waltzing over
dew-kissed leaves that serve
as chalices to thirsty
butterflies, are poised in
the certitude of my ache
to create.

Pressed against the spaces
between
touch.
The heavens’ eternal sigh,
a clouded weight upon my
wingéd soul, entreats me
to deny the pleasures of
the sickly sweet, saccharine
devotion of the immortal nectar,
For sweet ambrosia, once tasted,
yields intoxicated madness
in this mortal toil,
where this union is but
a fairy’s dance upon a stage.

Ah, but fairies dance upon the
soft dew that butterflies imbibe,
and there, in the moment of
atomic touch, is markéd the
the greatest of all consummation,
The delicate wings that embolden flight,
ripple like soft tides against a sun-kissed
shore, Oh! those lips betide of honeyed
hours yet to come.
The drum’s beat winks away rigidity,
and the fairy’s dance
enchants.

[fin]

©Kat Manica 2017

[part of a project to create when I can’t sleep.]

Gobble Spiders

I wish there was a ghost
who would walk beside me,
gobbling up spiders
into the ether, quietly.

I don’t wish the spiders to be dead,
Okay, it’s complicated,
but maybe
I do.

I know they eat the other things
that are too small for
us to see.
I also know that centipedes

hunt them, rather–
rather gleefully.
I don’t want the ghost
of a centipede to walk

with me.
Maybe just an arachnologist
who isn’t finished her
work quite yet.

It would be harmony
and synchronicity,
and there would be less
spider corpses

hiding under
the spines of
the brave books
that protected me.

Yes, I wish there was a ghost
who would walk beside me,
Then my cold hands,
Would simply mean

our hands were interlaced,
and the shivers of my spine
would signify a spectre
of warmth hereafter.

 

 

 

 


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Podcast

Waves ⎟ Poem

unnamed-2

Audio of poem:

I don’t remember the day I
fell into the water.
Some legends say the sky was gray,
I’ve heard elders whisper
that is was the bluest of days,
My story begins as I was
birthed to the sea.

From the strong urn of Mother Earth,
Ejected in a cocoon, bobbing
at the water’s top,
An Albatros freed my limbs
from their silken cage.
I did not scream,
I did not cry,
I did not look for warmth.

For the waves are the uneven beats
of my mother’s hearts,
My own heart’s beat is slow
but quite strong.
An eddy forms as my being
sends opposing waves unto
the sea.

Occasionally, I am berthed and ported,
Men have sought to
tell my story,
‘For she is a mermaid, fair, no darker than
the night, richer than the moon,
sweeter than nectar, more enticing
than drink.’
They say they know me,
but it is I, who have known them.

I swallow their boats,
I drink their lives,
I rain upon their masts,
I embrace their crafts.

Men sit at their fires,
hearth to hearth,
as they tell stories of my
vengeance and vitriol,
Their lust and my desire,
My wild hair enrages their
very being.

Men sit at fires and laugh,
For in the heat of safety,
Fear evokes laughter from
the weakest man.

I bob in the water,
I am incarnate
But I am intangible
Untouchable
Unknowable
Unbelievable
Unbelieved.

I exist,
as the sound of my breath
is the loudest sound known
to mankind–
It raises his hairs,
It tears up the earth,
I cry out, ne’er to be
vanquished.

Legends say I am a cruel nymph,
That I ensnare my prey,
But I am merely
A Malthusian force
of female
existence.

Into the sea,
Like sweet succour,
A song reveals all truths
As you drink
the fount of youth
at the base of my
feet.

–fin

Accompanying song to audio version is Keaton Henson, Elevator Song.

¶ Paradiso, Commedia III ⎟ PEA

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As we sat drinking coffees,
We laughed and sighed over dreams:
The ones we shared,
and our waking hours of delight.
Your hand on my leg,
Clouds in my coffee,
Nirvana, a vision of ecstasy.

Walking through parted clouds,
You said I had celestial beauty,
As we metamorphosed into abstract phenomena,
unreservedly cerebral,
We moved bounded by each other–
As One.

We swam through the skies,
Weightless and without form,
Like birds drifting, slowed in time,
Like smoke wafting through the atmosphere,
Higher and higher into astral planes.
Where solemnity paints the
sky blue
And stars burn cold
In our souls.

From lilac petals to apple blossoms,
The sun nestles life into spirited roots,
Reaching higher into the skies,
A deeper longing, into rich soils,
The world seems so far away now,
Tangibility, a construct that ebbs
as we find new meanings,
favourably.

Earth breathes, deeply,
As she asks her sojourners to
remember her before they leave
for nether or other realms,
Mars seems lovely, she supposes,
But is that where you’ll find roses?
To pin in your lover’s hair or upon
their lapel?

I gulp the ocean blue,
As we metaphysically entwine,
Locked in free-spirited desire,
Like the smoke of hell,
Our souls wrap around each other
twisting helically
into new data
from the stuff of which we are made.

 

 

 

–fin

Heaps of love,
Wordplay Xx

 

 

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¶ Purgatorio, Commedia II ⎟ PEA

Screen Shot 2016-04-03 at 9.50.25 PM

There was a time, dear, when
I was led by poets of yore
Through mountainous terrains,
penitent mourners, and the
sins they had cast.
I ascended the Spanish Steps
Heaving sonnets and verse,
trying to find my way to
Love.

On candlelit nights, sweet
with the scent of burning pipes,
You filled my belly with stories,
Rich fruit plucked from fearsome trees;
I seized hold of your words,
Clutching at them, catching at them,
like swirling smoke in my hands.

Seeds grew in my belly,
Ripe apples, plums, pomegranates, and
Intoxicating lyrics that inebriate
reason.
I swooned to your hymn,
And danced in the shadows cast
by the crackling, luminescent fire.

Captive and captivated by your presence,
I lapsed, malnourished,
on a diet of life and knowledge,
Our Hellenic silhouettes dancing upon the wall:
the only truth to comprehend
the only truth of love
the only truth
the only truth
that I may see.

The poets led me past my sins,
and I saw the pain and suffering
that we endure for the pleasure
of proving our devotion,
hoping our wickednesses
will be understood
and forgiven on the alter of
passion,
by one who loves us
completely.

Here I stand, alone,
atop the Spanish Steps,
chilled with
the fire of earthly desires,
I hold handfuls of water
and sand,
fathoming the
steadfast nature of
your fickle love.
–fin

giphy3

Wordplay Xx

 

Links you can click to connect with me: 

Patreon-logo

Want to leave a tip in the hat?

Please consider donating to my Patreon page.

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