Thursday, 11 December 2014

Next Pinocchio Poem.

Pinocchio’s eyes 

Twin opals, hard black cores
that have waded through the wooden years 
when time fell in drops that dripped, 
slow as honey, 
off Geppetto’s tarnished silver spoon. 

Undisclosed, in the darkness between 
the two shapes of tree, the amber eyes waited. 
Geppetto’s blade, urgent as a lover’s thigh, 
slid between bark’s exposed ripples 
and the soft, tender wood of secret desire, 
licked the two hard shells of resin  
formed over two small woodpecker wounds
that had captured two lost flies that flew 
in with an insect’s hungry curiosity eons ago.

Geppetto plucked them free of the tree,
gently shaped them, took an oiled rag and
polished them so the amber shone and the black specks
of what once flew began to drink in the light,
and placed them back
into the newly shaved head of me.

These eyes see everything at the speed 
of an insect; a flood of the senses 
condemned by the choice 
the savage, armoured warriors of the micro-world
made when they selected tubes 
over lungs and themselves condemned 
to a fleeting, Achillean existence.

These eyes force time to gush like water 
forced out of a hose, body pushed 
and pulled, a puppet dancing 
at the String Master’s whim - to combat 
the constant sensual attack 
mind must concentrate on a single point 
and leave the larger flow of life 
to other forces. 

These eyes are not gentle,
do not guide towards the light,
are blind to the magic of just being.

These eyes, formed by greed,
remain trapped in that act of need,
seek not to see but to feast.

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