Transelating "The Waste Land"
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Aly Wong
Peeled, nails defaming, terror gone
Slide back the dead bracken,
The dead have gone, silently.
it captured our dirty lines, willing the rhymes and leaving the arms beside.
Closing hearts in rotting rousing softness
Illuminati weeds
that degrade wayward down and out
we sacrificed for each other
when the endings ended, grounded and black
the rank sheets with holes retained no moisture
Gritty ramblings, of a straying era
that lies behind.
My knees shaking the man inside.
Dead. Steep cliff
The bowers are leaning and leaning.
Mountain rains exhales and
transportation walks away
we are couched in the trees and supressing nature
Gods in the dripping under-pinings, sobbing
onto the broken structures, seeping. unnatrual.
The candles are burnt and awaiting destruction, lonesomely in the forest night.
Empathy and sins, masking glossy mirrors.
A mother dying, her brother's hips poudinging the ground
with a misdirected feat of grace, his
face and feet shallow the
moutaintops whole
Shadows sink with delight and then
die expired.
Compact and pressurized,
Burnt.
Fleeing and fleeing from the
irises, the mythical creatures
the lost parts failing to reveal
the frozen rust forms with the old familiar faces
the sighing and winding
lose the battles and the whiteness
Such savage attempting backbone hardness of
Red.
The rust kept them together.
Thick linear shoots, banished and
nude in the night.
There eyes are obsessed, yet elderly.
Simple racking hate, the
hissing seeps into the soil with groans of
despair
Only the bees, with their flight and mock hairs
can worship the sun's ladies.
Replaced by delight or perhaps it has fallen
apart
too fast.
Ogres collapsing on the opposite sides of my wringing hands.
Born breech, crying from me.
The somber silent singing off key.
Sulking the sounds that eschew my heart.
Oh, green equilibrium,
carry me and sing me into a slow hymn:
give us the grace we deserve.
Reeling, rotting cities
of buried flesh seeping through the summer's heat.
Jays high, flapping wings with mitted hands, leading thunder
to the sleek cross of gold.
Locusts are crying, derailed farms and berated children,
the meadow knows the hollow grounds,
A single sting from the bee,
forward to unearth the crimes of our fathers,
slightly despairing the bees, healing the toxicating ground, the berries
rot together in their seek to flee the sun.
Cross-bred and tired, they
dissect the red in order to betray
the earth.
Recall the putrid air and foul stink
"we refuse the buds, beating the crowd," the rattling comes again
Quite different, not the worst,
Her hands, warped and lined, melodic harmonies
high and shrill, whimpering at the first
songs playing the night, one high, one low,
and with knitted stupor flying, soars.
(biting my tongue, I trace her pains)
troubled times in hell, the wracking gates below
resurrecting fallen angels and unborn babies
damning the unwise, cursing the foolish,
touching and caressing the undeserved favor, blackened grace
wrapped ivory and shrouded with smoke
the doors are leaving their duties and letting in
the prophecies—
glue it shut, and press against the cracks with
wandering eyes, the dark fur on the dark animal
outside will not come in unless you invite it
that sunken song written in fire on rock,
like a cat purring on a coffin,
offering a soft place to rest your head before
your flesh is fodder for the worms-
lean and sinewy, covering the whitened bone,
in which the crowds once pushed past
resenting the substance in their path,
starved off the oblique,
underpaid throes of senile smiles,
a filthy heart beats the same as a clean one,
only crudely squished along side the diseased liver,
stealing the distant oxygen,
stirring the muddy fears, the world
pulses—
plugging your ears
and withering the fleshy rhymes,
hidden in cracks in the wood,
waiting to be gleaned, but for the shouts and the bursting
of the groom and bride,
their anger stiffs my flesh, my hair
I feel light, and conquer the steps one by one—
a fire in my feet,
inward seeking, outward ravaging the conquest.
Poor Merve is bad to-day. Yes, bad. Leave with me.
'Talk more. Why do you never take a leak? Meek.
'Why are you blinking like that? What blinking? What?
'I cannot tell what you are seeking. Seek.'
I wish we were in the bat's haven
Where the living men find their skulls.
'Where are those boys?'
Under the windy door.
'Where are those boys? What are they doing?'
Something always something.
'You know something? Do you? Do you remember
'Something?'
I remember
Those curls that rounded her face.
'Are you dead yet? Is there a tumor in your head?
But.
Ah, Ah, Ah Ah that Wordworthian grace--
It's so delightful
Oh so smart
'what shall we do today? Why do we do?'
'I shall heat up the sidewalk, and run down the block
'with wet hair, so. What do you want to do?
'What do we ever want to do?'
Cold tea at eleven.
And if it's sunny, we'll draw the blinds again.
And we shall play othello,
Pressing open eyes with waiting knocks upon facees.
Prayer cannot stop my flesh from burning,
the gas seeping through the tunnels is black,
and thick and it pours into my lungs, my skin.
I think sailboats water fresh baked bread.
I think winter and chemistry class when I learned about
the dangerous of mining. Safe.
My mother was a weaver.
Sweetening and souring the wooden prayers
white and soft in their declination.
Written warm and spoken loud
she could have written books and poems and
created her own light.
If not for the barking dogs
the earth so cruel, the land so dry and scarred and silent.
Sawing our lives in half,
giving us pestilence instead of happiness.
Rusty love, she used to call it.
And now the freezing tide swells
beats down on the once perfect plains,
tick tick tick own bodies thin.
My turbulent soul, ha!
A mild reminder of my poetic youth
sapped away with the realities of life.
Erase my haggard mouth, the broken jaw,
the way I once clasp my hands together in prayer.
Away my sagging stomach filled with water
and come back my youthful spirited eyes.
Rising to match the tongues of my classmates
whipping the words back and forth,
arguments false, yet witty.
My muscles harden
and mouth widens.
Look through the rust,
look past black hearts. Beating,
Tick tick tick Dust.
Oh, die swiftly and let your woven pasts decide,
and let your children bear your name instead,
be proud of your black ties and leather shoes,
swerving into the light, they sparkle like children's eyes.
No cries unheard, no tunes unholy,
cross from the land, undone.
The way is tempered soft and strong,
regale the emperor on your way,
but snatch the red pieces of cloth from your clothes and
present it ripped and destroyed.
No confusion here, don't forget the way
death can penetrate helpless souls.
Depart to the address,
learn their language before you cross the
threshold.
My hands, your hands, sweet sun raisens for your taking,
and sip the wine once, not twice.
Drop down onto the windowpane and knock,
river run soft,
sweet river.
Goodbye.
She'll litter oranges and distill rinds
Clicking past the dowdy pastels of
Tearing sweet clouds, hugged tight
Cracking and seeing, hanging under the
Eves of houses painted black.
One string winding around the neck of a
Little girl or perhaps following the wisps of smoke from fires long gone
Red angry boils cracking and hushing the little
Ones who stare blindly into the night,
Searching for the sun, for the rain, for the doves.
Wings are fluttering as they descent softly into undisturbed neighborhoods and seep into our bloodlines.
"Ignore me" they scream, they taunt us,
Trying to keep us calm, trying to keep the germs that flow that course that hover still.
Swelling the spoons the nooks the holes, filling the graves.
"Please come and mend the ripped coats the torn shirts the missing buttons" the mother say.
But the red tents are already pitched and the white flags are waving.
Undulate the night and let the light settle
Around our chins and between our eyes,
Squeezing our insides and flaring our
Common sense.
Let me hear the charms now, low and light.
While I fly, I let the waves flow upon me, piecewise -
And while I lift my hands above my head, I long for something
That has been sleeping, silently, for years.
The tiny hairs on my arms sigh and flatten, like the arms of a hungry man
Who has just died.
I stop. I am looking,
But I cannot perceive.
Inside the leaves, the bark, the branches,
There are cells, organelles, atoms,
They are moving and searching, photosynthesizing, creating
Destroying.
And I cry because I cannot do the same.
I wither and press my teeth against steel, try to sharpen my hands
On iron,
But I know that my arms like snakes,
Pushed up, and poised, ready to strike.
But I am drunk on wine,
And my aim is off, my venom dried up,
I cannot conceal my womanliness.
I can wail and wail and wail.
I can hear the syllables of my voice
Echoing in the distance,
Calling or ravaging the air.
(this is what I become)
I distort the air.
I can regal the time with my tunes and
Submerge myself into the shapeless mass.
Puking air, eating air.
I am waiting for my blood flow to stop.
Death by another
Silky leaves grey, floating to their graves,
Singing so freely, they bear the weight of the deep sea swells.
Knowing the coasts by heart, the hills by name
they loose their minds to the air and strip their slates, once saturated with seawater
Boiled eggs turning white and solid
ensuring the destruction of the embryo inside.
Defrost the night and blink
once to whet the lids
twice to warm the retina.
As clothes to cover the bulges, let your eyes
blossom and bleed. Let the red
come down and redden as dust.
Let the crevices scream and shriek in the night,
peaceful protestation of a fate,
inescapable.
And the dark distance roaming the wreckage
Pillaging the muscular jewels and the
Womanly curves. I cannot stop the drums,
Their beating in threes, shifting the air and the bodies back and forth
With the whispering tinkling of the fountains
Draining the night
Air.
All in a minute, the bodies stop pulsating and let the ocean take over their
Journey. Ravaging the rivers and riding the tides, stolen
And lost, they ride.
Sobbing their tears, the flocks swoop down,
Screaming into the air, never-ending
Mouths opening and closing,
Ripping with their teeth and gnashing
With a strange warmth and desperation that
Is hidden deep, inside.
And the others come, seeking the crown
Sucking their rotten oranges and limes,
Saying words that I cannot hear.
Red and fading is the
Night as the pain comes, fast,
Delaying that happiness, drawing the tears
Of lies, ranting.
To cry
To flash the inwards
To taste the earth
And break the acorns
Saying hi, how do you do?
The mandrake flies to the east,
His weightless wings give me hope,
He soars, lingers, then
Sinks.
I, separating.
That beat is whitening, sinking my feet
leaving the songs of the sun, crying
manna, manna.
I, yearn inside for my cold son,
his footprints scattered along the lonesome minutes, each flying by, in mine.
Stinging grays on my face, hanging, red and brittle, each undulation
crying. More time,
leaving me behind, pausing from the never ending clashing of the sighs, the fires are coming.
Flattened cotton and more cotton stretching and bending, snapping at the ends.
Oh, do I cut these threads, singe the ends of such small lives already.
My eyes, being
My mind flickering, searching for the lost life inside.
I hear a trumpet in the distance, sending ripples in the air
Flying swimming dancing
Seeing.
The sailboats are coming
Their masts are pointed toward the sun,
And men's faces are screaming fear, drums
And the crews throw their frames against the wind, against the night.
Streaking to open up the doors
They, rusted and wet, their hatred
Flips and moves the pipes
Borrows their power from their reserves, they are black havens
Followed by inimical null bits, waiting to
Rant--a lagging waltz spreading, Slowing to the tossing wind
Sending them one by one to their Sepulchers in the sea.
The burning blows from window to Window on shore, each home Awakening to…
Violent phantoms, sending sparks From their feet to their fingers,
A debt waiting to be paid.
The women cry, perspiring salty Wetness,
Not following not mattering not not Not dishes of
Flesh and puckered organs. A sad Messenger leans back
Sighs and flattens down the hair of the dead
And sends it away on the waves.
Rounds of red come soft,
black creeps along the ground
looking for his son
who lays still,
unbridled in the womb of his mother.
The tissue glows with hurt
SILENCE
wills our souls to hell, or breaks our desperation-
silence comes well rested to cut the
shaking souls that
toil to make a name;
their names only last on their graves.
Deadened oils, brackish paint
covering the tops of their wounds.
The scabs are scarring, clambering up their trucks
rising to meet the heart.
PEELER
The scabs fall off, one by one, as I find the
weakness in their edges,
like socks and belts in need of mending,
they brand my face and back.
Tombs are rotting, hearts are ranting,
the flesh cries out for protection, but the skin stays
entranced by the flames. I see blue.
EYES
Genus, species. Creating the nomenclature of my soul,
I categorize my trunks and my leaves,
I count the rings.
Goading the tissue into submission, I see my skin
smooth, raging, ravished.
The light and the sea and the bees all around.
Nature perseveres at the edges of the hickories.
The monkeys cry,
and I, disinterested in the light, in the honeybees,
in the borders that capture…
I rip myself open instead and take the fusty robes out of
habitation and chew the wasted fooder.
Louder and louder my soul awakens
until the skin prickles and reds
my tongue follows suit,
humming to the buzzing, to the moaning, to the beating of the
woods.
The woods breathe in.
I breathe in.