Poems from Matt Hill’s Pellucid Inferno

High End Dirt

The place had all the looks of Defeat, the faded Idols of the Marketplace having absconded to parts unknown, the place now littered with mid-age outliers amidst the wreckage of rust, posthumous flotsam washed up upon veracity’s shore, affordable garbage still making demands on being a right, not a privilege, the gravity of commerce doppler-shifting towards any and all bogus salvage operations, robust marginalia begging to be casually incinerated as the war for the wallet & its contents of deteriorated money anticipate some freaky financial apocalypse, any suboptimal cash gestures now debased, just as the first rain brings up the acrid smells from the asphalt covering this high end dirt, which does not always equal more hoped-for pay dirt …

Pellucid Inferno

An impermanence sustained by hints of the Irreal, as they wedge themselves back into the cracks; this draining off of the existential contents of false seekings , which has lead to this rare place where the bugs have no names; the severe darkness here now retracts its claws, this nocturnal solitude yields toward a long siege horizon; wondering if these solo hours lived through can be a preparation for further heartbreak?; an alembic of luminous silence envelopes me here, the melancholic ground of late hours becoming a new series of parenthesis; out here in the inexplicable wild, I desperately chew at these broken wings, the ones I can no longer use; there is a mixed prevailing in these solo hours of rusted ruin, where these salad fingers of mine grip the throat of the Impossible; even these moves of desperation are unable to retool this ongoing hermetic lifestyle of mine; casting the eyes upward, the night moves across an opaque sky, while this palpable solitude settles itself down into the glowing embers of this burl fire I tend; these embers are engraved with phantom light, these interior transfers occur within the moments of a cold pristine night; the future calibrates itself out here in the deep woods, in this nocturnal bath of gelid air, and the long night begins to smell faintly old and silent …

Sum Anticdotes

She had sent me postcards of melting glaciers in Kashmir, and sunsets in Antarctica, while the transiting of Venus continued over me out in the far western nights; we began with the odds, but not the chances, as the passion had flared and failed, even as my first offering to her was the illusion of myself; we hoped the passion didn’t involve an unexpected trainwreck, but apparently it did, as her eyes were full of future mirages; an emulsion of love and suffering ensued as we did our desultory traipse through the blue echoes of intrapersonal ruins; the flirtatious overlays started going rancid, then the DNA became unfaithful while the suspicious atmosphere burned around us; and sure enough, the union showed signs of uncivility, but that had really only been the adhesive, until there were thermonuclear meltdowns in the last twilights; we then sailed on through the disputed waters, we stole the days, we defaulted to the secretive ways of our last stands, she with shopping-enabled processes, me with frantic short selling to cover it all, and certainly, it all did go painfully awry as we sowed those careless seeds of such fertile chaos …

Late Momentums

Not rocked by defeat, even with multiple mistakes made, old fangled yet freshly mangled, enduring collapse, yet deflecting much inanity with a firm intent to proceed, kind of like the intrepid initiative of weeds; so why do essential dignities get ignored, while certain indignities get highlighted, although I must say this narrative is not strictly some kind of memoir, nor is it an unscripted fairy tale; nor is it about the wreckage of lost expeditions, or some compelling history of chutzpah; nor is it easier than eating a pear by moonlight, or all about averting the narrow windows of tragedy; no, this is about the strengthening presence of storm clouds, about the up-ahead liquid light of visions, and finally, about making peace with your territory, even if it might be twenty years too late …

Chez Lunatique

Fresh visits to Chez Lunatique, this destiny spot lurking here somewhere in the ruins of the unread leaves, where the reach exceeds the grasp, in this wayward world of no boundaries, this whirled work done in the complicated shadows, by absorbing various ambient influences of lunatic fashion, with vague partners in ambiguity serving as angles of collateral influence, then to fall back upon a unique inventory of scars; and, by some duly diligent promiscuous thinking, we have internal teardowns on fresh errors like you’ve never seen, even as we look rough while talking polished, this done by transparently rewriting ourselves, referencing all that is not-so-obvious by a revived focus made fast and furious, done as we watch the language bleed next to where the shadows intersect, only to smell a blue silence under a fastly fading archaic sky …