An Internal Slant Rhyming Ballad from 1972
A Former US Marine [1971-1972] ~
by John Gregory Evans
© 5/14/2020 8:00:23 AM
(5) 11 Line Stanzas, (1) 5 Line Envoi, the last line for each stanza a refrain. Envoi ddedE and the lines rhyme scheme = ababceddedE
I am fire fanning the flames of crucified flesh ~
Unduly forsaken, hot, red, hallowed blood flow
burns through a teen’s guiltless veins upon the cervical mesh,
I am the warrior drawn of courage ink wells scribing pains,
where death is not darkness but shooting darts, drop by drop for a liquified line discerning of all said rhymes, or not, but a hunger strikes each hungered note, creating leverage, making it mine. I am the illusive firing-squad that bears no plot. This hosting flame of cloistered nights, of frozen time, of swollen veins.
I am the oppression of nights as darkness falls, this hidden feast, I am this mirrored silence with bitter echoes that cannot be trained
These sacred weavings for a secular lunar sky, to say the least,
I am this pen-aged ink and virgin white, that liquifies the entire page.
I am the stony cracks of ancient ruins, sand dunes where bleeding rain-
drops do not fall, and, I am the broken glass of windows just a stone’s
throw away. I am, the iambic soul print, a page of slate, an altruistic embrace.
The troubadour quakes from within this written art to taste.
I am the inkwells that await their present tense writing these verbal tones.
I am the digital airwaves, dimensional windows, traveling nomad’s ancient bones.
This hosting flame of cloistered nights, of swollen blood, of swollen veins.
I am the dust of nature and nocturnal sweat, the night-tide’s thirst, a naked beast
of fire and flesh. I am the pulsing burn wrapped around these sacred curves, reigned
in as this fevered burn, a bursting flared inferno in the night, down home east
among the pines, kissed the fragmented steel a million times, a bloody mess pained.
The issue of dog-tags depends on you, a tattoo wrapped around your fuck’g neck,
ninety days have completed their run, onward into scenarios of combat zones,
Fire-fights, explosive blasts, M-60 cartridges spent their gutted shells
to their intended target, how then upon a perfect training, one of the best of the best
Gets hit, shit! My cervical spine upon an uncertain time of duties, laying till emptied blood vessels and organ tissues cry out in an anguished flood of tears, fragmented blast effects
Forced upon my neck with blood and sweat, snaking down my nerve-damaged spine.
By not taking care of their own I’m taking it home to where the treasure lay, that is in the truth.
Paralyzed by reddening thoughts dripping line for line, and word for word
Of concussion by the spent cartridge
that waited its time striking my spine
as I lay frozen in a field of dirt. This hosting flame of cloistered nights, of frozen time, of swollen veins.