John Thomas Allen is a 38 year old poet who really likes the idea of language as some liberatory power within the lost rooms of the human psyche. Some of his influences are writers like John Olson and Peter O Leary.
The Mirror Has My Head
I watch my reflection bend in the street,in De Chirico’s liminal shadow points, the shadeand bordered lights’ snaking columns betweenthese cubed bees, my atoms, these pinwheel sigils.My face sifts in points of singing sand dunes in the lone funhouse mirror in a melting desert. I am the dark diction, the dream marginalia codedin the Ringmaster’s three ouroboros, blazingin astral electrons, acoustic cells, drooling on my moldy etheric skin. Tripled in the teaspoon prisms of early morning; De Quincey and his Three Mothers.Ectoplasmic gum and the pale fire in clown’s eyesin the dawn’s paregoric, sad cenobites of wonder, the orange sun’s yin yang, angelogical locks bound in the double’s alchemical hand fasting. In narcotic calligraphy writ in cursive pale green, smoking in her papyri body of gold, candelabras of Mayan marquees split in diamond light. In the mirror there smokes my shadow.I walk around and long for it in nature’s ringinghallways. I hold the mirror on walks at nighttime beneath the church bazaars, lit from withineyes of peacock ore asleep in Stonehenge’s yawning cells, lunar masses in oceans yawning in the phantasmic skulls studdedon the stigmatic’s bone scimitar, the peepshow eyes closing in dropsy blue. The maze’s music begins, echoes of abandoned chambers winding in corridorsof pinched flame, pinwheels of ringing monks lit with facesin footlights, the escapee’s tune of flight and flute gunsbetween the reeds, and a phantasm’s aural shards sounding into being of narcotic christabels ringingbeneath their nipples. The halls of ringing bells and starfish jester crowns, light bends, small faces streaking in crags, a dowsing crash of mezzos and triptych sound alarms.I am the dark diction the lost hour the scholar’s somnolentcult of bodiless rain. We study in somnolence with closed hands, eyes egg whitein the shock dialectic of flaming birdhouses, mystic psalmsof grammatology, spells of cabal. Do words fly and fail against this dream ?My head is an orange scarred from courtly reverie.My eyes have grown moon lilies beneath the tilled soil,there are drapes there shifting in angles the geisha’s moon faceof gelato moons in starved black eye socketssimmering in slumping pondsI walk there are cubed bees inside me.And inside my reflections’ trance crypt I am the split lines of this arch mirror shielding me The clown’s shrill whistle their lost phrases barbed wiretheir subjective phantasmagorias the planetary grids,Their accumulated aeons’ alabaster fliesWhere the darkness collects in the mirror’s curtainDo words fly and fail against this dream?
Magma Bunions I suppose at times I have No place under zeitgeist skies No face in occult museums My skin bursts with macular pores gives birth in monochrome sun gloss for late risers to early dawn I spin with plate tectonics blink in the geode’s eye fanged and spun in these quartz moons of hard rain