VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Giulio Magrini

MY UNCLEVER POETRY OR JUST DON’T GIVE ME THE LOOK

Begging apology my submission

Knocks clumsily at your door

Rat-a-tat interrogatives follow

I offer this droll rejoinder

In lyrical form 

To the sponge of cerebral linguists

Flashes of suffering 

Weary listening 

Follow with patience 

And excruciating tolerance

To unartful and greedy word-roaches

Scampering in chaos 

Through darkening vibrato pages

Just after the propaganda of emoticons

And creases of exclamation

I get the nodding looks

The horrific and pitiable glances

Dreams of flaming purgatory

The burning and flashing teeth 

Glisten and await 

At the expiration and tether 

Of my articulations

The poem got the look

A cuddly dependent puppy

Whimpering embarrassing public howls

Would not conform

And they left the poop 

For all to see or step in

I got the look as my poem

Receives whiffs of farce

Louie Normale assessed 

By the Maraschino Elite

My weak retort a sneaking toot

To the tedious elite

Somewhere an ethereal florist

A splendor broker

Will populate my latest indulgence

Housebroken by now

In virtuosity ornamental and complete

With illusory whims uncommon in plebeians

My shit will be so good 

It will be incomprehensible

Advancing the mission of art

NOT DANCING IN THE ASHES OF DREAMS

Unable to dance

They slosh

Trudge in the ashes of dreams

The pace inexorably withdraws

Backwards

Cruel voyeurs

Examine deteriorating

Expectation’s limp and gasp

Clutching the golden years

And the LPN asked

What was it this time?

They stretch desperately

Reach for recollection

Embrace the retrospect

And see the bygone dances

We told them that

If it were ever thus

And they had noticed

What was present

Where had they been?

They continue adrift

Through the cognitive fog

Cuddling the images

When they emerge

And vanish in the clouds

When they disappear

Ponder the frustration

Of everyone

Outside their dance

As there is no pleasure

Caressing the dead

TURNING THE CHANNEL FROM YOUR LOVELY POSE TO THE HATE PICNIC

The fatigue of my body

Sighs through my eyes

I am the zealous recidivist

Guilty of every offense

Semi-lucid and bungling

Told that I am born to do this.

I scrutinize the tenderness

Of your coconut hair

The grit on its shell

And the sour unknown milk

Hidden inside

I am consigned to the 

Shortened bus of masculinity

I ride in rainy muted silence

Drops on the window fall and roll

As wet curtains 

Weaving through my vision

The riddle of your company

Pursues me

Through your public definitions

I am the sad parade 

Forced to proceed before you

Trudging your penance

Not unlike the tedium of menstruation

You are hammered

To the cross of men

Through me

You are deluged with delight

In the sympathy and compassion

Of your sex

While you take the time

To pose for the birdie

And thank all the little people

Who have made our coupling

An audience for your chosen life choice

I scrutinize your performance

Through laugh tracks and screams

We have a winner!

We have a winner!

And you turn with benevolent sweetness

In your puppy voice

And preset smile

So coy and delightful

And proclaim that the husband character

Reminds you of me and you

Laugh and laugh and laugh

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