Dread could not
He simply began
from the black sand;
with no purpose,
Like a human,
This oscillatory state
took its toll
on his weary flesh.
He knew little of men,
only order and obedience.
It took this acceptance–being without choice–
for it to become easier to
trudge and stumble
through the desert he was born of,
following a set of beaconed prints.
to let his body lead
than to form thoughts,
and carve out
a path of his own design.
Sand hissed beneath him
in sync with each misplaced
step of his boots.
They left unmistakable imprints
in the fine granules,
their liquefied buckles
like overeager hounds
lapping at his heels.
Dread had not felt or seen
his toes in quite some time
and wondered faintly if they had melted
into the plastic and laces.
he had left them behind
at the place he had
Although there was no sun in the sky,
only perpetual, drab clouds,
he felt feverish.
Black spots danced
across his line of sight,
disappearing and reappearing
as they pleased,
Petty, mundane thoughts were his sole comfort—and
sometimes even hallucinations
of strange characters
imploring his company
on their journey.
Dread knew he must have appeared
quite the sight:
mumbling into the stale air,
even in the bitter cold of the desert nights
with an unnatural blush
and open wounds
still tainted with blood.
He had begun to limp now,
dragging his left leg behind him forcibly
and ignoring the red stain that shadowed.
Without seeming to have any memories
or previous knowledge of his location,
Dread felt he was close to
What an unnerving fact
that he himself
Owned no memories,
and could rely only on
But what other options did he have?
For miles in all directions
there was nothing
but sprawling desert and
an enduring grey sky.
Nothing to tether him to reality,
only his reflections and
a redolent thought
(That was not his,
and not of him).
CYCLE OF CREATION:
Burn dies a second death
No white light
And eternal, endless nothing
(Strange is the oxygen, that feeds a deprived fire)
A lonely candlestick remains lit
Even when punished
Tragic abuse, a teacher of houses and bolted doors
And her pupil, the melancholic robbed
(Wail, kittens; the carp streamers are still belly-up!)
And you will drown in a traveling bag
You and your kin
Gorging on the grapes of the East and groveling to lick at the dust
Such is The Apparatus, manned by men like Lyov and Rodion
(Did you know a cage went in search of a bird? Or of its findings in the wasteland? The brittle bones?)
Sentiment runs rivers down the cheeks
Of those who answered the first call: TO FEEL
The nipping cold and bittersweet shards of a mirror
Puncture holes in one’s own heart–little pity then, for sociopaths, and those in turn Judas kissed
(Have you seen the crabs in the sailor’s rusted bucket? Or the ‘gulls casting shade? And the catfish?)
What makes fire differ from it’s elemental nature
Is not so different from cardinal vice
A red string, which humans toy with daily
The Dark Triad is incendiary to all flickers of light, still yet in the womb–as is A THOUGHT.
(It’s a shame then,
Burn is doused as easily as
Man, when both endure the cycle of creation)
AND THEN DIE.
Knows of metamorphosis
Knows the judgment
of dogs The stoker
who shovels coal in a colony
Your god who hungers
Listless in hunger
Know our emperor
Acknowledge his desolation The colony
It fell to a stoker
Like your god fell to judgment
In court contemplate what the judge meant
There is no hunger
when you’re flying soaring HIGH but in need of a stoker
There he sits bored our emperor
A shriveled cocoon A metamorphosis
of a broken colony
Resting on a hill a chapel of worshippers in a distant colony
Untouched by your god the judge
Meant to be metamorphic
Meant to be metaphoric of hunger
He sits slumped in his chair our emperor
While you both watch his son the stoker
Maybe you are the stoker
Do you want it lit aflame the colony?
He yawns in his sleeves our emperor
Maybe he thinks it petty judgment
Like blind justice, her self-serving hunger
Lending fools a downward spiral into anti-metamorphosis
Specter chrysalis cracks open denudes wet wings liquid antennas the metamorphosis
Complete in the hands of the stoker
Shivering moth bleats in hunger
Its stomach grows teeth incisors to chew the fat from the colony
Red eye gleam blink away the film of no judgment
And still he is asleep in his chair our emperor
Eroded time, cycled years. You are told our emperor departs. His arms spread wide in revelation of his metamorphosis.
From womb to dust facing judgment from an inferior being who shovels Man in furnace to burn: the stoker.
In a colony that hungers.
you are dead:
timid tremulous year
even born of odd
dryad’ tree to plant in the garden of green adder
ro to your dear
on a coast; she in wait dae by dey
first dore of red rayde
open close & dare
maybe erode your dread:
that fermentation from longing over an era
past & present ode
not future (he is like a sun rey)
in soil i wake wobli—
no fib–to wosh my bowils
wo she does accompany
since i dreamt of a fishbowl
at first the silf’s hands not mine
how i wish i would not sow
what ils i’ve hidden by showl
bow low not to bils unpaid
pretend there’s no hil to climb
i fil no blow against glass
no hol from which water streams
what bo punctures what drink boils
you think it not man’s foli?
Aesthetically, my poetry tends to resemble itself. I use a lot of the same words or phrasing over and over again. This is not necessarily a problem, as it does lend to the fact that someone could pick out my poem in a stack of many others. (However it does mean that my certain brand of uniqueness is matched only by my obvious inability to exit my comfort box). This inability to change or try something new is probably the second biggest problem I have. The first and foremost, is my inability to form an emotional connection with my poetry (or prose). I find myself to be nearly exclusively an intellectual writer. I don’t ever write for sentiment, and I will change the format or wording of a poem if I think it sounds more interesting or complex that way. That’s not to say I don’t put myself into my writing, just that I cannot give myself wholly to my work. To be honest, it’s very disheartening and frustrating. Another unique quality of my poetry is that I never rhyme, and I hardly ever maintain a formulaic rhythm.
Many things motivate me to write. Sometimes I get hit by an instant flash of inspiration for a novel, or an idea that I could contribute to another work or start fresh, or something as simple as a phrase or word that gets stuck in my head. I think the more important questions to ask, however, are “Why keep writing?” and “Why start writing in the first place?”. I, personally, have no idea how to answer both these questions. To be honest, I don’t really enjoy writing: I don’t enjoy taking the time to sit down and struggle over a stanza or a paragraph; I don’t enjoy fighting constantly with myself to stop editing as I’m writing a first draft; and I especially don’t enjoy comparing myself to those who I consider to be true masters, or even friends I know who also write. There is just something, somewhere, inside of me, that requires I keep writing no matter what. You could say, I hate writing…but I love it. And it is, and will always be, a part of who I am.
Some of my poetic and prosaic antecedents are: T.S. Eliot, Franz Kafka, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and John Steinbeck. Personally, I feel my writing style strongly resembles a blend of all four artists. For instance, my poetry usually follows the rhythm and formatting of Eliot; my concepts, story, ambience–overall tone–resembles Kafka’s horrific dreamscapes; my characters are emotionally detached and yet very human and complex like Dostoyevsky’s; and much like Steinbeck, my setting and characters are incredibly detailed to create a more vivid image. Although I am not yet anywhere close to being as great as they are, I can recognize that with more practice and study of their works, I may come close one day. However, I still wish to retain what makes my writing unique and my own.
When it comes to revision, I am a bit excessive. I constantly revise, even when I am supposed to be only working on a rough draft. I don’t seem to have something inside of myself that can compartmentalize when to edit and when to just write. I wish this was a skill I could learn, however, I’ve always operated this way. I think it’s due to the fact that I constantly worry my work isn’t good enough (which is something I feel very strongly about). I’ve always had a problem with thinking my writing is or isn’t “good enough”. I usually feel it’s good enough compared to the average person, but I don’t want to be as good as the average person. I want to be the best. I want to write as well as my favorite writers. But what I think it really comes down to, is I want to fall in love with my writing and my characters. I’ve never felt that way about anything I’ve ever done before.