You Ought To Travel, Delhi

Beyond Banal Brainscapes

The Bloody Beautiful | Peraliya

I understand what you are now.
You are my translator.
I want to show you everything I’ve had in mind, ever
And have you explain it to me, in your clear, crisp analytical summations.
I want to understand through your narrative.
That northern bell that cuts through the misty cool
Mystical, of my mind.
I want to fall on quivered knee in front of statues your words will decimate.
I wish to sob before idols that you can intellectually crumble.
I long to drag you through gallery halls and gardens and antiquated capitals of yesteryear 
And listen to that New World whipping, the sharp stabs of the unromantic, 
The calculated, cruel consideration - 
The slaying that you’ll give it
(that will flog me from nostalgia)
(that will turn me instead, a giddy peasant, in humble servitude to you). 


northern exposure

Sound Counsel

bubble, bubble, it’s too subtle
slow burn with a grace that bear no trouble
where the rapture?
where the torture?
where the ripping, rending all-night stalker? 
midnight talker, the heart-wrangled ramble
this feel too measured! where the gamble?
witches conjure
witches conjure
makin’ problems where they no longer
makin’ waves on stillwater
capricious creature, mother’s daughter
keep it up, you stay a spinster
alone you be dragged ‘long a cold winter
with bowed back of burdens be
keep the peace 
keep the peace 
and marry he
be done with that that that reckless streak
you gone too old to still doomseek!              
           but, where the gunshot!?
where the arrow?
where the loverush through sinew, marrow?
where the train-wreck rattle wild…
where the crazy gone, lovechild? 


© pigelle 2014

Where the Rapture?

And so it goes: Pacific to Atlantic, pack a sweater, pack a panic
Pack a pic-a-nic basket
You don’ told it, he don’ asked it
Yeah, it goes: East coast, West coast, Holiday Inn (say whaaaat?)
Coast to coast love
Gets the most love

YOWza YOWza YOWza

There’re men in them hills, girls
There’re tall ‘uns in the trees
If you go down to the woods today, you might turn ‘em up in threes
Getcha getcha getcha some
Catcha catcha catch ya one
Honeytrapping, honeytrapping
Up late at night just tap, tap, tapping
The chats, oh, the chats we had
We laughed and cried
O, this and that, O
This and that, oh jolly-o
Then three weeks later …Ontario!
YVRy lucky, you know
YVRy vry lucky

Pacific to Atlantic, be specific, be pedantic
Come all this way for half measures?
No, gamble gamble for all the treasures
In tall towers, politicians
In big buildings, statisticians
In the offices with blinking screens, they’re money men
You dairy queens!
There’re men beyond those prairies, see?
Those men need West coast loving
If you go downtown, sweet thing, you’ll find ‘em by the dozen
Getcha getcha getcha some
Catcha catcha catch ya one
Moneytrapping, moneytrapping
On the phone just yap, yap, yapping
Oh the talks we had, oh, the talk
Fastest way to big New York
Yeah, it goes:  West coast, East coast, Hilton Hotel
NYCe and easy


© pigelle 2014

Pacific To Atlantic

There are some days when New York is gonna break your heart.
When you can't get a word in, 
can't get up
can't see the sun for the long-casted shadows that crosshatch the dirty streets.
When the heartrending homess make you wanna scream -
obamawhereareya?!
and that emerald city green visa
seems farther and farther away than 
the end of an unending day.

But there are days when New York holds you shining
like Deco cut-crystal to the brightest light.
Makes a star outta you!
Baptises you anew, your king.

© pigelle 2015

Newyorking

Now, when you set off to travel
they say, 'Get lost'
but, listen, c'mere and listen, 
Don't. Get. Lost. In. NYC.
Don't get "tost" 'mongst the madness & hustle
You won't EVAH claw yourself back from that
The concrete heat will bear down on you and squish you into a splodge of gum on the sidewalk...
This is NOOYAWK!
You'll get slick-coated in the greased sook of the subway
you ears bent by every crooked catchcry
and skyscraped away from your former self in long, pointed shadows
Your skin will be burned by the ash swirling off of flicked cigarettes
still wet from the black tar spit
You will melt your morals in the midday sun
And your faith be burned by a snap freeze
Your eyes will go straight dead with that cold
Your heart will race way too fast for your disoriented body to contain
It'll burst like a main on 54th
You won't hold it together
No way, man! Not never.
Your voice will begin to blare like the frantic sirens that have them throwing themselves from street corners, sailors from islands, pirates from planks
Double the negative then Times Square it, no thanks.
You'll get too real cos shit gets too real
And in this nuwork re-yal-iddy
You get dizy
And too busy, 
That ain't for you, izzy?
Dat ain't for you.

© pigelle 2015

Just Watch Me

I'd like to see you again, Seattle.
Keep your verdant weeds well-watered 
With that misting wisdom
Keep the Yankee naïveté (it's endearing)
By and by, I'll tip you again for your "customers first" hospitality
(It's a business expense, anyways.)
Don't miss me
I won't miss you 
And I expect I'll have used up these complimentary female hygiene products I swiped from the Amazon washrooms before we meet again,
But you'll cross my mind from time to time,  
(I'm guessing at least once a month) 
And in those dim recesses
I'll be cooking up a plan to get back to you, someday.
You're a fairweather town, Seattle;
A fishermans friend;
Minty fresh and gently soothing.
Dewy with that breezy brand of nostalgia.
Perfect for a port city lover, like me.
I'm going to manifest a destiny where you get a cameo appearance
You won't be surprised to see me back
But you won't be sorry either
I like this casual thing we have
Well,
 'til then.

Pigelle | Poet