Joany's Little Poem Vortex.

Seventy Nine.

The light is fading fast and the world looks
to the sky, singing my, oh my.
White flakes cascade and whirl on the ground.
They have never seen snow before.

What amnesia affects us all!
Yet I see you there, permanently
looking at the sky, singing "My God, save me"

through the cold ground and grass and the
dead leaves left rotting in the shallows.
What a devastation, what a weary world
that looks towards the sky, screaming "Oh my!".

You are seventy nine but your heart is silent.
Pulmonary embolisms.
All the doctors are whores, looking at the sky
thinking why can't I save them all?
All the doctors are whores, looking at the sky
thinking "Why can't I save them all?"

As the light fades fast, as the night breaks through.
We are so accustomed to being blinded by white
that when night appears, we must look at the sky
thinking "My, oh my what is this?

The Abyss? But you have been eradicated
Bottled and distilled by our many mills!"
And then they look to the sky and see why oh why
they are wrong.

White Water.

The water was turbid.
Hardly water at all anymore, more of a
dirty dish soup than the washing up.

What a disgrace. The reek
spoke against the walls, reaching
every corner, every syllable

Misplaced. What would you have
made of me, washing my hands in this
filth, this waste, this basin?

Where would your white horse
collapse and let you fall to Earth
as I catapult into the sky.

Far away, where
dimensions meet to drink
that turbid white water

that you wanted me to clean
dishes in where it was
only fit for inhuman consumption.

The Yellows of the Dark

The harem tale is not as bittersweet
as the whore itself, deftly weaving
that fantasy world in dirty, black

silk sheets, covering herself in the darkness.
How fragile it is, the hymen life she leads!
How small indeed it was and is and will be.

The lipstick is too bright a red, it's not
the enhancement of her own lips,
it’s the projection of wax, cold and lifelike.

"Are you a widow?" the wind howls
as it bares her pale skin under the yellow
yellow sulphur lights.

"A mother of an unborn son?" callous voices
seep though the anxious singing. I can see her
clutching at the seams of her

satin dress. Frictionless in the cold and the rain.
Fictionless as a spelling mistake.
What would she make of my life and it's

pathetic voyeurism dressed as an
intelligent yet morbid curiosity?
Of the pale walls of no particular shade.

Of the blue eyes and yellow teeth and the
peculiar bruises on breasts of shades
of a vile and foul nature?

I am no superior and neither is she.
We are one against the wind,
separated by an unyielding glass shield.

Fear.

I cannot contemplate the Apocalypse
without some minor
side effects of the mind.

This psychiatry is not completely
off-the-wall or induced by chemical
compounds of varying degrees.

I can see her, the angel that the
Priory spoke of. The end
is nigh for so

long in my consciousness
I feel it trapezing
from the rooftops.

Fly...fly! Fie, my lord, fie!
Fear her! The angel! She is
the homeless girl on the street

who doesn't understand geometry.
What a pity.
I need some mathematical equations

to understand, to understand
your common, underhand
wrestling with angels.

Joan Greenwood:

Seventy Nine.

I love the way you repeat certain phrases in this one, like "Oh my", and the general idea of forboding i got from it made me shudder. I love the imagery, and the loss of hope that i got from it.

All the doctors are whores, looking at the sky
thinking why can't I save them all?
All the doctors are whores, looking at the sky
thinking "Why can't I save them all?"
For me this was the best phrase, and the way you repeated it stuck the feeling in my mind.

Joan Greenwood:

White Water.

This one's really good, the way you played with the lines and the spacing made it interesting and caught my attention making me reread it several times. The pauses you put in are in perfect spots. You're a really good poet.