Voilà

Voilà
     by Cam M. Roberts


"With those unseeing eyes I so begged when alive to look at me."
     — Samuel Beckett, ...but the clouds...


I
A Pledge 
is a benefit 
of the doubt 
under the condition 
of a dream 
as contagious 
as Terror Logic —

It sifts 
through us 
as if 
conduits
still 
awaiting 
some consensus 
in reciprocal 
wilderness.


II
Transference 
is a kind of catharsis 
delivered to the wrong audience:
So keep on raving, 
then survey 
your conspirators
because everyone's 
a Cult Leader
in this country.
 
Phallic contrails 
lacerate the sky —
Walls hood our bane.

How are we actually kindred spirits 
in our virtual world of zeitgeists? 
Are we distinct by subverted limits 
when we ourselves are poltergeists?


III
In view of the burning evening,
this atmosphere turns to grey
as does the time we share together, 
our cigarette silence becomes 
more sensitive by the second:
Underscoring of echoic vespers 
by melancholic starling whispers —

Until darkening
spires on yonder
horizon steep
can no longer
be seen
out of memory - 
Nightfall snatches
it all, under 
a polished claw
half-unsheathed 
the waxing moon.

All withholds the mind's return
in shrouds of ghost-light, now
half-blind, half-holy. So how
will our final tableau recur?

All that is beautiful 
catches the Light 
you allowed yourself 
to shine upon —



© CMR, 2014
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Peer Pressure

Peer Pressure

by Cam M. Roberts
We recent pubescent
public school youth
were barely masculine
specimens albeit uncouth
and hardly gentlemen

So us dudes
during all periods
in each classroom
we went to
were gregarious loquacious
Jackasses

We passed more gas
than we passed tests

© CMR, 2014
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Withhold No Ethos

Withhold No Ethos

by Cam M. Roberts

 

“Persuasion is clearly a sort of demonstration,
since we are most fully persuaded when we
consider a thing to have been demonstrated.”
— Aristotle, Rhetoric

 

He told me:
I only wish
you had more
morals about you
son.

I said unto him:
You seem quite a bit indignant
though don’t fret as I feel mighty sufficient.
What few clutched fistfuls I still hold come from you -
To live and let live, slavish work,
fruitful fucking, inherit dirt,
then die quietly
old man.

 

© CMR, 2014
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The Cult of Domesticity

The Cult of Domesticity

by Cam M. Roberts
dead tree chinqua penn trail

A dead tree under the November overcast.
© Cam M. Roberts, 2013.

All
the night
pray tell me
you will stand
still in reverence
near the clean canvas
off its easel we overturned.

Almost lifeless, mostly dead:
Exhausted by everything
while vulnerable to nothing.

Laid out flat upon the floor:
A common doormat,
so simple that it lacks
such libelous words as
Welcome [what Novelty!
what Luxury!] by the threshold –
Mere generic decorum.

It will all soon be gone.
So says I – The Fallen Idolater.
A wild and witless trifle.

One would be better off to burn some incense
wherefore you begin to scatter rose petals
upon a stifling pile of shit.

An anomaly in exile
either stranded on a porch
or lonely upon the vast linoleum –
A clandestine island banished from the archipelago.

We can’t afford such words
without a home to desecrate.

I’ve never been in tandem
with their sacred emblems –
I am my own Totem.

 

© CMR, 2013
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In Fugue

In Fugue 

by Cam M. Roberts
August Strindberg's The Town (1903)

August Strindberg’s The Town (1903)

I
The Fog is absconded in carriages of bluster
where the wind wills her far away and fading -

II
Amid some semblance of swoon
live those downcast eyes of hazel.
Withheld adornments: Her lashes
like plumage are such marvels
heralded by pastel hues, all this
recurs within a withering mist.
She blushes, nonetheless,
and so much the better for it.
Gone, thereafter, in her dreams
to a soon and secret lover.

III
Upon awakening at the dew point
of the sunken evening, she is crowned
by the crescent moon – Then under
the veil of night she goes, eloping
with her ghostly lover. In pursuit of
scenes where swan and loon are in salon.
They both hasten, swift as stars,
hand-in-hand until they land
out there about the moonlit lake.
In the silence, the bow and curtsy,
anon to a song they forever dance.
In the waltz, regalia apropos is donned,
a coronet of her heart’s countenance,
almost as wings, quantum spirits flown:
She smiles in bloom as all is lifting in the urge.

 

© CMR, 2013
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