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Scott Thomas Outlar – Violins with Falsetto

Scott Thomas Outlar LE P&W March 2019

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Violins with Falsetto, and other poems by Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar lives and writes in the suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia. He hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. He began hosting a weekly radio podcast, Songs of Selah, in 2018. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His poem “Kingdom of Chaos” won the 2016 Nibstears Poetry Cave Contest in Nigeria. He was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, French, Italian, Persian, and Serbian. His books include: Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015); Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2016); Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016); Poison in Paradise (Alien Buddha Press, 2017); and Abstract Visions of Light (Alien Buddha Press, 2018).


Violins with Falsetto

There is only this dream of liquid crystal
melted porcelain wings, a breath of the cherub

Stalwart at the gates with a heavy heart
rings of fire, a smile molded with wax

Yours was the dance that never missed a step
long are the hours, a clock of ticking ribs

There is only this platter of flesh and blood
silver harps tuning, a feast for the choir

Stoic when the lions roar from their mountain
lakes of lava, a star set to the north

Yours was the voice resounding in echo
orbs painted of yellow, a prayer whispered in winter

There is only this shadow stained by the sun
twilight of the idols, a moment born in reprieve

Of Sweat and Blood

silver and sanguine

metallic

these spells are whetted

the last bead
of sweat

dripping through the ether
your cheek
my brow

our burdens have been laid down

the final drop
of blood

sacrificed at the altar
your knife
my flesh

fresh wounds won’t seem to heal


Fault Lines

I run my hand
across your skeleton key;

finger the wounds
where secrets are stored.

I hold your image high
during fits of ecstasy;

lose my balance
with each schism and tremor.

I carve your golden name
into tree bark with rust;

silence the palpitations
of an organ grown weary.

I lick what is left
after your cup runs dry;

lament in the night
over what never was born.


© Scott Thomas Outlar