Anatomy books and cannibals will tell you the heart is one tough piece of meat,
But everyone here knows despite its’ fibreous tissue,
It is not really made of such stern stuff:
It is mosaic cobbling of glasswork held over heat and harboring the cracks of every other inferno it has hovered over before;
It is ceramic suggestion of a plaster cast, a resemblance of what that ticker looked like last;
It is veins and ventricles sketched in charcoal and left in the rain.
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Posted in Love, Personal, Poetry, Traditional
Eartha harbored an unorthodox digestion that fluttered around the rhythmic syncopation of psychopathy,
That pseudo-science that sought to photograph the soul.
She hummed along with the machine that roiled and bubbled with each breath she took,
Ebullient,
She made mischief in not quieting that wispy part of herself,
Could not,
Kept her spirit soaring outside the vacuous chamber and after half-an-hour of snapping shots of an empty space the researcher cut her loose,
Figured he was never onto something.
A double-dactyl, a prompt from Napowrimo.net for today. Cutting it close to the wire, but got one in today, despite all the other myriad things that had to be done. Feeling rather accomplished, and happy with it, despite the website saying this was a difficult one.
Posted in Fiction, NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Traditional
Tagged dinosaur, double dactyl, poems, poetry, pterodactyl
Prompt from Napowrimo.net Day 21, ha(na)ku: a form consisting of one, two and three lines.
Arts Factory
Beads,
Lit up,
Crawling the tree.
Band,
Playing loudly,
People talk louder.
Flash,
Camera click,
Yet another photo.
Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Traditional
Tagged arts factory, ha(na)ku, Las Vegas, napowrimo, poems, poetry, Saturday night
This is a cento utilizing Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud (translation by John Ashbery); written in response to a disgruntled poet in the Las Vegas community that consistently, remorselessly, digs into other people’s work, claiming that slam poetry is about vanity and that it is not “vital poetry.” Essentially, he is entirely sans sportsmanship, completely uncouth, and cannot get over the sound of his own ego to quiet his damned opinions. Since he won’t listen to anyone in our community, I thought he might listen to some words from Rimbaud – a poet he claims to admire. Let’s see if this has any positive effect.
Spurned As Chaos
Pathetic brother!
Enough had.
This idol, black eyes and yellow mane, without family or court,
were it only for the mask with which you gratified us.
O let us [k]now, we who are so deserving of these torments!
the cannon on which I must hurl myself through the scrum of trees and light air!
Is it possible to become ecstatic amid destruction, rejuvenate oneself through cruelty?
Your fangs gleam.
In the wood there is a bird, his song stops you and makes you blush.
I churned my blood.
to banish tyrannical honesties, so that we might bring forth our very pure love.
When we’re very strong, – who’s backing down?
Derived from the Napowrimo.net prompt for Day 26.
An Elegy to Janus
Ianus Geminus has swung shut and Portus has done his work, locking the seal and signifying an end:
To wars, to all transitions;
Cardea groaned in protest as the doors came to their conclusion,
The hinges had stayed open so long to tell us of the obstacles that stood in our path.
Janus:
You looked to the future and the past, oblivious to what was in front of you,
Too entrenched in possibilites and what had been to see your present place,
Transitions weren’t your strong-suit, even if you presided over them -
They came and went and there you were: somewhere else.
Two-faced, you hid the worse one often,
But it always came out, Janus, and Cardea bore the brunt,
You made the sweetness of the new seem supreme and stretched it out half a year,
But all things rot, Janus, even you, and there came a day when the fruits became fetid and plunged perilously from the tree.
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