Brian Pristoop

Brian Pristoop Poems

The Best Poem Of Brian Pristoop

On Dylan Thomas's Pedestal

On Dylan Thomas's Pedestal
Hark As The Approaching Hour Reflects off the lanterns beared,
And the many-mirrored motion of friendships weathered in firestorm,
Bathing in the Salt-Flat Sun, I felt My youthful breastbone
Like a steambath, unencumbered, the slow course of a halfturned head
Fell upon Joshua's sword, A malignant Spot on the sun,

This everpresent Sabbath reflects off the far wall
And Algae's in slowbloom on The face of Serpent Rock,
These serpent tides decreed nobilities Prideful torrent.
Like hawks asoar, the slipstream murmurs a silent stun.

Awake you burdened beasts, like the Royals you will bay
To a Blue-Blood half stud hound dog
Alas, for this Goliath remained unstoned.
Awaiting at Dawnsgate, he saw Camelots blush
And Searched for any Signs of Notified kin.

In his hipped belt loop buckle, he hitched his thumb
Cleaved from a cudgel of hands upward
Towards the cloud strung hammock and waved goodbye
For well over a fortnight, he upheld the red-lettered faith in such esteem and waited

All the women of his brave new world howl their half-speaks
Bent like crows feet on the twisted shoreline
The uncommon valor returned to the pale springs
And Sang of a song half sung in hushtone swelling
The significant others as they stand naked amongst the stony speckles

Looking for the foul whimperings of the bigger bang

In forth rushed the lionhearted beggar whose one-small victory
Was seen through the eyes of the children for the very first time
It decked there halls of gladhandling with the ragpickers treasures

He is a mealy-mouthed nocturne, appearing nearly half-human
In the Silverlight of the dreams of reason, reapers thrersh their harvest-moon bounty
For Ophelia who remained on to be our only true benefactor
Her feasts of famine, long forgotten, played hosts to the enemies
That rattled in these ribcaged hallways

This certain Rennaisance has no feelings, but ignites the Red dawn
Rising over the wars of contrition whose cold-fire burns the Bar-Speared Budding.
It is finally self-contained in a self imposed conspiracy of hope

But is it wise? Is it wise to whisper to the bent-eared magnolias
Turning their heads towards our gold-cast aura
Brightened by The August spasm

Its Headwinds will always skew the boulders astride
To leeward, where my path drowns in it's own tears of salt
They Slowly drown the passages of brine, turning my feet to stone

Can it be wise to sip this breathtaste and not gasp for the securities of assurance?

The furied fist that flails the sacked grain in deathgrip
To the river-rush I cut loose the rudder of perpetuality
But is it wise to free my only jailer and imprison the clemency plea
An orphan of twisted iron knows just as much as the lemming at the cliff

They bate their inspiration to the freedon trickle as it turns the tidepool
Watching as the shedded molt balms the wound in stitch
Holding the dark-legged throne of grace in check, the messenger
Knocks the marble pedestal off it's dais as he swallows the bellylaugh
And spits out the seed of discontent down the well

It is indeed wise! For now I know that I have stood at the graveside of my killers
Who told me that the same twisted path runs through our hearts

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