Subterranean Markings


Watercolors in the human weathering

The luxuriant wetness of selves disintegrating

The cellar paint dissolving into a new wave

The sound of music fills the subterranean cave.

Dripping, drawing patterns on the walls.

Vast collections of familiar discord,

childhood recollections,

various associations of punishment and reward

soon lower their coffins under the floor boards.

The memories house

the Bauhaus

a soundtrack to the first time you sensed fear,

it attacked your senses with a lid shutting kind of creaking,

<releasing a chill down the spine.

You didn’t realize at the time

the significance of this feeling.

Fingers roam cool porcelain

the ceiling

another layer of skin

to gaze at everything

through the mosaic past.


It starts with a flash

a moving flesh of light

shapes surface with the parting aperture

see-through windows

that watch the other blur

into a double exposure.

The vague trace of these markings

linger under the branches

of the banyan veranda.

Scents linked to memory

form faces

rooted in nostalgia.

All the expressions made of tears

pulled apart as opposed to crying

like the Velvets with colors

running through disparate images

appearing as fodder

to the interpretor

of the endlessly turning

large screen projector.

Going backwards through the frames

through portals and parallels

the process remains the same.

The self tries to relate to the whole

subject to paradox

reason obscuring the goal

like fog in a forest

and you’re lost again and again.

A film over the eyes strained

to work thin sheets

stained by abstraction

absorbing the experience

though it lacks protection

from obsession

from cracks that fracture the dream

unbound manuscripts of wind

scattering the scene

you were taught to repeat

again and again.

From the roots you unfold scrolls

in the sleepy knolls of an idle mind.

It controlls the reels and the fiction.

With vast strokes

it creates worlds by hand

words that mime

the sound of the ocean

courting the sand of the shoreline.

Silhouettes of residual spray

break apart

in the ecstacy of its art.

That which is never fully attained,

captured nor explained,

motions to bear witness

to the most transient of masterpieces.



8 thoughts on “Subterranean Markings

  1. Writing Jobs says:

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  2. heffegavel says:

    I misss that subterranean cave of reflection first time I heard joy Division

  3. the cellar studio really is in our blood. music, writing, painting.a vast dungeon of memory to always pull from and always create in. i miss the ceiling.

    • domtakis says:

      The first threshold I cross after a long journey, I know then that I’m home.

      • heffegavel says:

        Was going through some old writings today and found this … Dom turn off the Christmas lights and lock meow meow in the basement. That old square temple with silver heating pipes hanging from the ceiling covered in prophetic voices in a time that seems not so long ago white walls hidden behind stacks of paintings of Hermine and skulls strewn along a river … thought youd get a kick and hi nick

  4. domtakis says:

    I think a part of all of us is locked in that basement, along with meow meow!

  5. Love the effect of the stones in the photo with words to match our imagination. Jim Morrison would love this one. Tweeted this one.

    • domtakis says:

      Thank you for tweeting it, much appreciated. Your comments about Jim make me feel I’m on the right path. Interestingly the subterranean studio that served as the inspiration for this poem was the first place I heard a Doors album in its entirety.

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