Improv 2 Week 7

My Masters

Where, where are my masters?

In the past they’d appear without even being called.

They’d come before the first peal of bells,

across barren yards: madmen, poets,

alcoholic saints; they’d come from the night marshes,

holding Hungary’s broken peony in their hands.

One of them would come with a flood.

another between clattering tracks,

another limping, with the white frost of Bakony on his back.

And I always read the words

from their motionless lips.

Where might they linger now? Where might they be kept waiting?

With whom do they share their deaths,

the way prisoners of war share a loan potato?

As though they are ashamed

of this fouled landscape that’s sunk into itself,

and their dirtied mission.

                         Sandor Csoori 

Erudite

I learned to succumb to the letter eating

two brained beasts that live inside

the intricate scrolls. The suicide carved

scrolls, deep in the throat of each

beast’s syllabi shadow that

perpetrates suicide on the fingers. Mine

have died at night, like the daylily,

while prodding them down

the rolled flesh tubes, waiting for the

contraction, waiting for the alphabet

soup throw back.  

Those large pupil lenses have raped

my brain, stole my gold, and

impregnated me with bound paper.

A rigid beast told me that the extinct cafeterias that

lined my subconscious school, and the marker stained

satchel that reflected in the apple-eyes of my teachers,

were no more. He told me, “This is real. That was bullshit”.

That stiff beast was cut of board.

Free hand, no template would be made

as difficult to master. I’d call him master,

in exchange for a single quarter

of his mastery. Could he master me?

I’d let him master me. That beast

has given me a new picture frame. 

Initially, it was more like the original piece but there were a few instances that it helped me to create, that I really liked, so I re-wrote my improv to better suit those instances.