Lesser Evil

Lesser Evil

by Cam M. Roberts

In moments such as these, it all seems as obvious
as the weight which is still
burning but never resorts to ash,
It envelops me in solitude, and dwells
within my skull: I hang my head further
with every footfall.  

Is it the same heaviness of mind
which from the onset of its wild impending
is astounded by the truth
of things, unfolding themselves
into mere points-of-departure or access-holes
for the sake of man and his vanity, a place
kept in illusion where no mistake is made? – The visage
of happiness cast upon a concrete wall is now unlit by its former light,
When it’s gone, guilt arrives, and with emphasis.

The world will appear
lost, inimical, bereft, and vast in waywardness.

One stays ill-acquainted with an already alienated world.

The flip-side of release
is collapse, not peace.
It’s the letting loose 
as disaster is happening, hinges begin
to break off
from their own scaffolding,
one intake of breath splays another,
crippling the metaphors
from both hemispheres of the brain.  

It’s quite spectacular,  
and I’m still learning as I always will 
the distinctions of fear and wisdom

 

© CMR, 2013
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Keep the Strange Light

Keep the Strange Light

by Cam M. Roberts
"Remembrance of Things Past" by Marcel Proust | Cover Illustration by Andrzej Klimowski

Remembrance of Things Past           by Marcel Proust  |  Cover Illustration by Andrzej Klimowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your face, within a certain oblong
Distance, is catalyzed by a curtained dimness
of hooded light,
Seeming in a way cloistered
like an apprehended simile
or one too many slurs which
expose the wreckage of our words
as they cannot be salvaged
by their having, and the truth
has yet to be reconciled from our mutual desire
to break the chains which bind us in silence.

All things are let go in the grand scheme,
Even one’s own blood
is let,
let go,
blood-letting some call it –
 
It’s the healing that matters.
Imagine
healing as the mimetic image
of unspun or rewound:
A flip-book being flipped in reverse.
Blood being un-let, taken back, carried into, returned
within the inside of the veins. 
 
I see her flowers with their dishonest air,
They implicate the atmosphere in this quiet room.
It is a gravelly night, and our moods are now in explication.
 
Blooming inward
as if we were – Together
being slowly
euthanized
over this one
flicker of life
like a wish
we’d been granted,
or a sanction
we’d been sentenced
to suffer –
 
Without a trace of shame
nor any shred of hesitation,
The world is lensed in clarity.
And so, from the lack of annoyance,
I allow you to astonish
the very life
From my eyes
as opposed to a common avoidance
where I set this head
like the sun behind the larches,
and when all things
absolve to the most
minimum light,
the night falls,
and I crouch
both eyes
downward
in surrender. 
 
I bear up my guilt in dreams
to where
it would beat the very breath
from these ragged lungs. 
 
If there’s a god, then to her I prayed
in a sudden flash, and with such a violence
where I would imagine flowers in their wrath,
And question how by day they go on ignored
to the point of being, at times, stomped upon –
 
The Amen
resembled
the last bit of dirt
recovering the small abscess
of earth we’d exhumed
in hopes of resurrecting
what was once there,
a garden nestled by wilderness:
A collaboration of our own heaven
Which would surround us
as we excelled
in the art of reassembling
everything else –

 

 

© CMR, 2013

Requiems in Fallout

Requiems in Fallout 

by Cam M. Roberts
Billie Whitelaw as Mouth in Samuel Beckett's 'Not I'

Billie Whitelaw as Mouth in Samuel Beckett’s ‘Not I’

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
Spread against the sheets
dark of heavy thoughts lingering
in open wafts –
Pitch shrouds of funeral
veils closing near the torment
of awaking at the brink
shutting of eyelids
on the face
blink
Again.
 
II
Black
sufficing to see
the convection
blood boil within
the concealed ball;
Pressure cooking
coal to diamond
dust like splitting out
of the cocoon born
to devour the air
as some plume
of beauty
too marvelous
to witness
it
Explodes.
 
III
The millionth cigarette crushed
on crystalline trays
burning through to what is protected
underneath.  Pupil perfect hole
in the glassen marble
singes of craters periphery
the moment smoke clears
from engulfing
the bombs
going off
the lights
going out
the trees
going down
the limbs
laid out like
collected horrors
while the awful smile
spreads its euphemism
thinking to itself
this is one big
glorious
Disintegration –  

IV
Insufferable wreckage
of words, into fragmentation hanging
within a formless abattoir now emptied 
of its meaning, a vow of nightmares from
the mausoleum of the mouth, a desolate dwelling 
inhabited by belatedness on a sometimes quiet hill,
if and only if it were a receptacle
ever still. 

V
Some silences
are absolute in their sovereignty. 

 

 

© CMR, 2013

Perish

Perish

by Cam M. Roberts

Act accordingly… was all he spoke,
after adding without condolence, We all are.

She’s on her way out with the departed.

Through a door.
With the trash.
Toward some final resting place.

Love departs us all
onward to catastrophe
as do our dearly beloved
whose fall must live in tragedy.

 

© CMR, 2013