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Two Poems || by Tommie Nelson

by Tommie Nelson


IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW MY ASCENSION

In the days that follow my ascension,

I become a 

son that jettisons his father midair. 

My body

knows not to carry things it came from, 

It is how

a butterfly, partitioned from origin, ascends

onward to

pollinated ends. I supplicate the air, I ask it to

make an 

idiosyncrasy of my diaphragm, transcribe me 

into weightless

things, But the air, like god, is not eager to humor 

mortals. Emancipation

is not difficult to conceive, to birth is the quagmire, 

To remove 

the first blood that wetted longing insides. It is at night 

that day 

comes for me, lending my bed its weight. I go to sleep 

with reincarnated 

pitfalls only to awaken a photoshop of father's tears.

I am not a jeweled

son, eviscerating me is not how you find onyx & amethyst. 

All my body wears

is the color of amorphous carbon.I am how god packages

the dust to dust 

expression. In the days that follow my ascension, my blood forgets its

weight & gravity 

propels me to bliss. Midway through the heavens,my blood remembers 

& I, like raindrops, die a violent death.



A SWANSONG OF SIGHTS

I awaken to a requiem in my mouth, a mournful procession

doused in wet quietude. It is here, on the aisle of my tongue, 


that sacraments meet an end of teeth. It is the day I thrust my 

hands into the mouth of god & from it I collect a slurry of half-


metabolized supplications—I find they reek of a stale abandonment, 

like mother’s prayers—now ammonia-ing a path to my weary nostrils—


sepulchered in an enzymatic death. it is the day I lucifer away from 

god’s silence. I gravity. I plummet. I xerophyte through earth’s swampy 


scalp—cactusing defiant cants in cathedrals brimming with god’s living 

water. the one extant at the infinities preceding us. I peered into prior 


infinities and found that if a man did not feel thirst, he’d robbed god

of design & relinquished the purpose of throatto never be quenched. 


I learned to open my mouth with caution. I learned to fear edifices

where mute deities are worshipped. It is a fearful 


thing to enter into places that cascade into weeping memories.

tears that empty into depths of red seas welling with the sour 


retribution of truncated rameses, lulled to early defiance—the army 

that charged into liquid, as if earth and water had acceded to a swap 


of locality; calling out to longing feet and chariot, first born and beast 

alike—it is such fear that morphs into petered sacraments, preceded


by images where god hitlers a million to command the reverence of ten.


tonight a winged demon will perch on my lip & only brooding

blasphemies will be heard throughout my thoughts. they’ll reek


of sinai’s feet mudded with blood, till all that remains are phantom 

sculptures, molded into dead things. it is here that bodies lay cleaved


in two & guts hang out as if to show that the earth had eaten

flesh and drank blood long before the saints. I pray. I hope that 


heaven accepts what parts of my ethereal self remains at dusk,

but I’m reminded that the closest I’ll get to amethyst clouds 


are enchanted slides; portraits of love and lust, sky and dust, 

painted as moribund eyes splash grim colors atop a receding 


canvass—a swansong of sights-—as my soul disavows my body.


 

Image Credit: © FineArt America


MEET THE POET:

TOMMIE NELSON is a writer, performance poet and a graduate of Pharmacy from the University of Uyo, Nigeria. He writes poetry to express what he considers evasive emotions in himself, as well as others. Tommie enjoys reading historical books and certain novels. His favourite novelist yet is JosƩ Saramago. Find him on Facebook @ Tommie Nelson , and Instagram
@t.o.m.m.i.e.e.e
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6 Comments
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  1. This is a fine write. Absolutely laid out in terms clear with a blend of divinity and motarlity

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  2. Of death and dying. Of something metaphysical. Of questions cursed by what is sacred. Of thought labelled luciferous. Of boundaries uncharted in the light of norm. Seas whose waters hold a depth of pretent "where God Hitler's a million to command the reverence of ten". "A swansong of sights speaks ...Of things that still will remain unspoken.


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  3. Seas whose waters hold a depth of judasical truths termed heresy. Seas whose depths lie confined within a territory ruled by fear, " where god Hitler's a million to command the reverence of ten"

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  4. "the army that charged into liquid, as if earth and water had acceded to a swap of locality; calling out to longing feet and chariot, first born and beast alike"
    the way you put these things together in your own words is astonishing. Pondering out loud fluently the convoluted questions in the back of every overthinker's mind! Genius.
    -Adam

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  5. I'm almost teary reading this. This is absolutely beautiful! Awesome writings!

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  6. This is absolutely beautiful.

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