Writings
I tend to be very guarded about my writing and poetry specfically, so to have it up here is quite a step for me. I have journals full of writings that I've never showed to anyone from as far back as high school, where my penchant for loquacious melodrama first took root. Much of my writing was deeply personal and was therapeutic at the time, so it often sounded dark, or sad, or intensely introspective. Shakespeare and Poe were two of my biggest influences looking back, and truly, still are. I developed a fixation on form poetry in college, specifically Shakespearean sonnets, though I have other forms I'd like to explore, such as sestinas. As if this doesn't make me geeky enough, I've always enjoyed writing essays. I'm sick like that. At any rate, I've put up a sampling of some of my most recent adventures with words, as well as some pieces gathered from my old journals that had never before seen the light of day.
Hamlet Humor & Song Parodies
These are all grouped on my Hamlet paper doll page,
click through to peruse them here.
Bad Goth Haiku and Imaginary Song Lyrics
Sonnets
Ceci n'est pas un sonnet 2022
"But are you real?" Uncertain as her hand
Caused butterflies where she would have it land.
Adjusting wings, the Sphinx doubled in size
And laughing violet bubbles from his eyes
Then teased with doors appearing on the air,
Their singing keys alighting here and there.
He yawned dirigibles until she spun,
And eyeing her bemused once this was done,
Sat, face on paws, his enigmatic smile
conjuring tiny fish with saucy guile.
"Please answer me..." her voice edged on distress.
With tilt of head, he starts to acquiesce:
"A misplaced question, Dear, for you should know
That I am real because you made me so."
Borderlands 2013
Funambulist along a ragged spine,
I navigate this strange periphery.
In constant twilight dancing on a line
as home remains intangible to me.
Astride two worlds that can't afford me peace;
Constrained in one, as other's charms beguile.
Belonging not and yearning for release,
yet evanescence proves too volatile.
It is a false dichotomy to choose,
as one is looking glass for other's face.
Forsaking this for that one is to lose,
and by that losing, giving up my place.
Perhaps it's not in WHICH I wish to be,
but that I try to live them both, through me?
Loki Sonnet 2012 - When no one is looking
Lie to me, oh mirror, and be kind.
Pretend that this monstrosity is fair,
and being not unwanted, left behind
in snow nor spurned by those who feign to care.
Home is a fiction I cannot abide
in mind, nor heart, nor bitter, empty space.
Accuse me now of tears? I turn aside.
Allow my shifting shape to hide this face.
Permit me smile that I may make them cower.
Embattled, taking up my arms again
though armor weighs too much. Despite its power
raw sentiment cuts through with blinding pain.
The serpent eats its tail, such is my fate.
So lie to me, look on me not with hate.
A Riddle 2013-14
The very name of me is hidden here;
A riddle so proportioned to my size.
To a man who minds the letters I am clear
But not to those still looking otherwise.
Guess and ponder on my nature true.
My self takes not the shape of concrete thing.
I fashion on the leaves an autumn hue
And resurrect their verdance in the spring.
As death I'm oft' mistaken, though not grim.
My nemesis and rival is stagnation,
Th' only constant serves as synonym,
While a phoenix undergoes this conflagration.
A chrysalis is opened, left as token.
Word yet unknown? My letters all seem broken.
Masquerade or Mirror 9/25/12
I choose this frozen portrait as my face;
A place where all my honesty I hide.
Mistaken though, believing I erase
the underlying self that does abide.
But in my vain attempt that I conceal,
My nature thus betrays this flimsy guile.
And so by hiding further I reveal
the characters who dwell beneath my smile.
How covering myself with this disguise
gives freedom to that which I long to be.
Thus, facade becomes a tool to recognize.
It mocks my shyness with this irony.
What lies behinds this visage needs no guess
Know that you see me more, instead of less.
Seven and Thirty 2/9/12
So time returns to mark itself on me;
I pause to catch the orbit of its hands.
Still mapping out my heart's trajectory,
while sifting through the ruins of these lands.
I ferried through the darkness on my own
though boat capsized itself so far from shore.
In disillusion, thought I was alone
But found myself attended all the more.
My forward aspect glances backwards though,
eyes catching on the sediment so strange.
I am not who I was a year ago.
She was relinquished in the face of change.
My hands revolve, my path I pioneer;
Still resolute, still standing and still here.
Surrealist Sonnet 2005
The effervescent sandal breaks the green
as merry shade encounters evening frost,
yet verily jaguar does spot unseen.
Plantagenet must shoe at bitter cost.
Mightily asphalt and leather sky
abandon left unframed and shadows bend.
Purported yet exclusive fountain dry
expands the brick cacophony to end.
Underneath my sallow mirror’s gaze
The yo-yo sinks a swiftly striping pose
but twice it causes fires in his days
and black uncharges liquor unlike those.
Whose poison table fragrance is addressed
find monstrous form and better left unrest.
Surrealist Sonnet #2 2005?
The anvil of the locus farthers near
Like any pedant in the ripe brigade.
Not swarthy statue likely then to sneer.
Alas, the shoebox misses his parade.
Blue and blue the leopard swings me down
to fall so petty on this dull unrest,
and eating pastry so defiles the crown.
I think the skunk file better left undressed.
But carrot boxes misery unclear
and if so fortune green and faxing true
there shall be clocked the water of this beer.
So you shall be remained from six plus two.
Like molten cow erupted into glass
No more is sad that falls in this morass.
Unrest, a sonnet from 2004?
The light contained, this vessel renders sad,
Unreasonably distracted from itself
by piling thought thus making actions mad.
It rends its skin, so perilous its health.
And none to trust for voices all are stone
which scream the walls to box in untamed shrine.
Vast empty crowd and hiding so alone,
its seeks to name the vacant silence "mine".
A livid pool of swiftly shifting shapes
behind the windows shut - but not from sight,
form theta vehicles that launch escapes
in deep trees whose normal realm is night.
Thus nothing answers this awakened call,
And fills with glow the "is", that which is ALL.
The Man in Black
I found this in a sketchbook, circa '06 next to the last sketch of my recurring "Man in Black" previous to Violent Grace. I had drawn myself approaching him as he had finally taken off his mask. Still not entirely sure who is speaking to whom here though.
Cast off this night, this heavy cloak you bear
whose dark oppression seeks to gaol your soul.
Pain courses 'neath the visage that you wear;
A vain concealment of a gaping hole.
The broken trust so shattered at your feet
You sharpen just to cut yourself anew.
With murderous despair you are replete,
The lash of memories still are wounding you.
Let sorrow not persuade you to the floor,
Though its trespass be all that you've ever known
For you have always been worth so much more.
Know this, and tarry nevermore alone.
Let hope unburden this unwieldy toll;
With me you shall again be rendered whole.
Appeal to the Shadow
This is again a poem to the Man in Black,
a prequel to the above. I was trying to make peace with him for some time in my journals. There are other poems of this ilk, but this one
in particular reveals his character and my fear
of him at the time.
This courting ritual herein ensues;
A prisoner with pockets emptied out
weeps daggers to avenge those who abuse.
Heart's bitter half besieging me with doubt.
The cold moon's mask a canvas for his tears
so black they drown and cloak his form with night.
My love he has extorted all these years
but stinging words denied him any light.
His eyes, the looking glass of all my pain,
I fear, and yet I pine for his embrace.
Should my heart bare itself, my love made plain,
I could restore the beauty to his face.
To you that I have feared I offer this;
I end this war with one forgiving kiss.
I Can Hear You
I'm completing the Man in Black trifecta
with an even older poem, where creepily,
I discovered that he was addressing me.
I swim beneath the surface of your eyes
but blind you do not recognize my face.
Your tarnished scapegoat is my fair disguise
that also builds your barricade from grace.
How often you my speaking voice deny,
because your "better" elders do demand
but listen - THIS you do and so belie
That you are not witness to my command.
Your dim oppression falters when the light
Falls short behind your form beyond the door.
Here I exist, your aching, onerous night
and revel in the pain that you obscure.
I rule your hand though I am in exile
beneath the mask- your empty tainted smile.
Insomnia
A door locked from the inside by myself
but from outside I wait to exit through.
The dizzy dance does not improve my health,
and waning sanity gets quite worn through.
These walls and their illusion are my cell
where numerals remind me of my stay.
this clay in which I live becomes my hell
and in despair my efforts I betray.
So trapped within- my gaoler and accused
become the carnival's most favorite act-
by their cacophony I am abused
And find unbroken consciousness intact.
So I unwanting often greet the sun
with these red rims whose closing has been none.
Relic
My steps lead me away from stumbling masses,
Whose sleepwalk leaves me wanting for my soul.
They name and tag me through curators glasses
And look at me as broken, though I'm whole.
So I dissect myself to find dysfunction
but find the shards connected all the same.
Now solitude becomes my finest unction.
Here with my silence, excise my own name.
A star heard wishes to be changing faces
but stripped away the lonely mask instead.
So naked to a fault in public places,
I shrink to tiny worlds inside my head.
Submit, betray - the words don't set me free.
the artifact still on display is me.
Kings of Shreds and Patches
Displaying all the colors of your greed,
with bluest nose aloft upon your throne
you chide the masses for their basic need.
Entitlement is YOUR province, alone.
Sad little kings of even sadder hills,
You have no fools but play the part so well.
Accusing US of causing our own ills
deflects the truth the mirror seeks to tell.
The pretentious, poor attempts at which you feign
possession of a scrap of empathy,
are barely painted over with disdain.
We have what you have not; some dignity.
How threadbare and deluded your grandeur.
It is not us, but you who's truly poor.
Captain Marlock's Advice
Essays and Short Stories
And then things got weird
This is an assortment of weird surrealist vignettes that I found in a journal of mine. Little one sentence stories of...well....
The moldy tassels needed replacing.
The window yawned incessantly, but he continued to feign illness.
Marked by the planet's shadow, the shards reverberated.
Hills turn under at the sound of her voice.
Never let a fairy make you lunch.
Brevity causes the ship's sails to unsew themselves.
Violets grew from her eyes so that she did not recognize her home.
Stones led to a chamber lit by feathers.
Markedly, his disgust melted the candle.
Sinking was one of her favorite pastimes, but today it bored her.
It spoke at length of yesterday's color.
It lacked shape, though it's shadow was evident.
Trust not the bells, they gossip when given the chance.
Vexed beyond belief, she hurled the teapot into the vortex.
I cannot carry this rug, it seeks to contend with my value.
The vines laced themselves into my fingers.
A trace of oil upon the wood reflected his sullen eyes.
Vapor billowed and yet they continued to let their axes fall.
Time prevented him from further levity.
"Verily,"she said, and pulled up her gown so the stars wouldn't catch.
She pulled the shroud tighter around her head.
Maps never delineated that particular area, and often became blank when properly consulted.
Luggage fast becomes a nuisance when invisible.
He appeared in the bowl and screamed when she drank it.
To this day, the reasons for its wheels remains unsolved.
A comfortable coffin contains much personality.
Even after the argument, the lamp still swam in vinegar.
A collection of bats formed in his sleeve.
The sycophant tied him up in a black bag and laughed.
I didn't tell him why the perplexity was so obvious.
Many a cloud will follow he who eats rain.
The tracks revolve but lose their state of mind.
Quite vacuous for a unicorn, she thought aloud.
"Stop sealing the bucket!" The king railed at his henchmen.
Lizards seeped out of the edifice's mouth and nostrils.
A three of clubs will get you more than you expect.
She put down the incense burner and faced the stairway.
Blinded ghosts travel little in narrow countries.
Forgetting in an exercise in desiring less.
The statue was only motivated to sit,
and the tree could not convince it otherwise.
Fish swimming through one's ears proves uncomfortable.
He cleared the sand away, but she still refused to speak.
Laughing, the black dragon unzipped his suit to reveal a spray of hyacynths.
Mossy rocks blocked the way to her bed.
Deprived of sleep, the chambermaid knitted frogs instead.
It was so unlike caramel that the mere sight of it caused one's ears to swell in a violent manner.
Half past 27 and he was still alone in the courtyard with only his hat.
Blue fell from every direction, even behind the table.
Memory turned to him and said "Oh, don't bother."
"I haven't got any!" the chimera protested.
Fountains spewed every sort of flower petal never known to man.
Rain directed itself at the forest, but decided to soak his shoes first.
The couch was still waiting after a brief noise in the hall.
Harrowing was the tale the breadbox recounted.
Eyes were her path and she left not a footprint.
Please light the water for me as I am unable to reach it.
She did not close the door but a crack.
Had it not been Wednesday, she would have been delighted.
He purchased a small box with no bottom.
Other Poems
This is not a sonnet, but some other poetic form I tried. A very dark piece from a dark time (Jan. 2009, I believe one of the last I wrote before I quit writing), this poem makes references to Sisyphus, and the punishment of both Promethius and Loki.
Bribes and lies and senseless guile,
They all do cultivate this bile
That bubbles upward all the while
And naught can heal the ache.
Here Hope lies raped and stricken blind
As Fear’s seduction drugs the mind
So rapt, that words of any kind
Turn truth that one will take.
Our machinations ruin us
Our thoughts corrode and bleed out pus.
We are our damage, and so thus
Infection spreads unchecked.
Push the stone, and it returns.
Entrap the devil, still he burns.
Yet not a soul among us learns
The dark that we reflect.
So doom upon our table spreads
And gluttonous we fill our heads
With sugared tripe and moldy breads
That poison all the more.
The pointed scowls and gritty screams
Against the enemy, who seems
to throttle all our precious dreams
Yet becomes our favorite whore.
Our entrails eaten every night
Re-form again at morning light
And growing weary of this fight,
The acid burns our eyes.
A suffocating part we play,
In roles from which we long to stray
Yet suffering commands us, stay
Eliciting more cries.
Would I that I could dispossess
And extricate this vile distress
That it would no longer transgress
The sacred soil of soul.
The duelists spar but never fall,
Still circling deadly in their thrall
And still no verdict comes to all
Of ever being whole.
Another Riddle
I can be fleet, but have no feet,
And I do race, but in one place.
The world I label and make you able
to synthesize what fills your eyes.
The answer's here, so make me clear.
What Am I?
Cemetery
After visiting New Orleans and prowling
their vast cemeteries, this one happened.
So gardened with fern and iron,
A sprawling city flaming white-
The denizens all silence and ash.
Time's weary fingers trace again
The incised code of history,
Deciphering each family, each portrait.
Speaking not but through decay,
The stifling brick enclosures
yawning as they fall away.
Descent: a poem from the early oughts.
In reading this, I can see how my health
was already compromised due to some
lovely genetic issues.
Descending into water, sinking fast beneath the floor.
ever drifting from my safety, pulled out far beyond the shore.
Sanity a passing devil, down the greasy rope I slip.
Panic friendly at my heels, pulling till i lose my grip.
Ask me more about my sorrow, follow me into the sea.
I have no choice but drowning, asphyxiate what's left of me.
I know there's something better, but I know not what's its for.
The sinking wreckage soon to be- what I once was before.
Unmoving
A movement slow as stone
Is the sound my heart makes
when thinking on all this.
Weighty, languid, drowning
In the possibilities which should soothe,
Yet are turned against themselves.
Futility alights upon my thoughts
And seeks to make my head its nest.
To feed its squalling children.
I choose not, so bound
In stagnant ooze I still remain.
Why in the apogee of flight
It seems my wings feel leaden
And happy dreams put on
Their nightmare face?
To fight makes quicksand's pull
That much the stronger,
Yet surrender sinks me all the same.
I feel like such a statue with a future,
So carved that I may chisel myself free.
And yet the wielding of my own escape
Lies just outside my perimeter of reach.