Philip Byron Oakes


Charnel euphemised to suit pictures
framed for fraud. The march through
a spiral of years come to harvest.
Growing up a tree without a paddle to
row the boat back to shore. Dormancy
spoiling for a fight with the fallow, in
the amorphous wash of sequence
cleared to breathe. A travel memoir
of the goalposts. To purge the
chafing under the weight of atmospheres
slowly sinking to earth. Battle hymns in
nutshells to resonate as caricature of
the redundancy. Spitting out tomorrows
shedding years for whom there is no
lover waiting in the dark. Tippy toeing
to obscure origins on a leash as they
evolve into something special
beyond repair.

Handbooking It

Elastic philosophies inducing micro-nostalgia
for the fleeting fuss, commemorative at the
molecular level of grunts and hisses for the
opportunity to estrange the moments silence
relies upon for sustenance. Duty free
wordsworth edgewise strewn over a muttering
mixing malice, with mocha espresso delivering
the godawful equivalence for lack of butter
making the bread the center of detention in the
faith. The illustrious smidgeon mooting
behemoths making faces stretch limits,
conveying accommodations of the mess made
looking to form a recalcitrance fit to live in till
the mood passes muster in the hidey-ho of
dosey-do and more. Much much the mewlier
for ducking the edge from the center of feeling
safe cracked in combinations, filtered through
the abacus and drink and smoke till the air’s
clear of complicity in the inability to breathe.
Putting the onus on us wee little creatures
puffed beyond recognition, before it’s over
the trauma and off to work it off as penance
for ever having thought it possible that heads
might rear children of their own.

A Blip

Fractional relevance superseding the absurd
by a whisker, garnishing a chin taking all
comers. Mind and barely matter making a
difference all the same. Mooting contusions
in allegiance to the rainbow, through gospels
of color to the story ascribed to the pain.
A he who yawns put to sleep as a trophy,
breaking the shelf with the weight of
slumber gilded for show. Perfecting liens
on the estates of mutant echoes. Put
to the resonance test of dots and dashing
hopes of a wall built to feed an army
the importance for which they came.

In Words or Less

Tit’s need for tat in solving symmetry’s sway,
over the crumb’s claim on tasty born of
possibilities. The light lending flavor to the
tasteless at a premium. Well above the norm
reserved for rare occasions. Age old men
queueing when circles do the job. Milling in
the aisles that run the length of epics. Tried
and blue to the touch of heartstrings,
resonating just out of earshot in the dark
failings of color. Best last first to gather round.
Limps in the eyebrow arched to allow for the
way people are. Beneath gaudy stretches of
sky paraphrased to supplement. Silhouettes
as lump sums, made easy to read around
what goes upon the opaque glories of
the infinite sea.

Philip Byron Oakes is a poet living in Austin, Texas. His work has appeared in BlazeVox, E∙ratio, and Cordite Poetry Review, among other journals. His third volume of poetry, ptyx and stone, (white sky ebooks) was released in December.
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home