Semi-edited possible portfolio pieces.
Below are a few pieces of prose & poetry I've finally collected from throughout my livejournal, & begun editing - with the hopes of building a creative portfolio (to use in applying to courses etc). If you feel so inclined I would really love to hear any thoughts/ideas you have regarding how to improve them. I know how raw/rough they are & I greatly value criticism, so be brutal & don't be afraid to point out as many flaws as you can spot. Each piece was originally a journal entry (albeit a cryptic one lol) - so they detail specifics as well as generalisations; extended metaphors. It's a cathartic way to share secrets & truths, without becoming transparent.
1)
Once upon a time, there lived a girl. Inside of whom there grew a great ocean. Down the steepest hill, in that park, by that creek, she sat so still; awe struck by the tiny pool of water that trickled & streamed. The delicate tinkering of liquid, dripping into & onto misshapen rocks & fallen debris. The white horses within her, she wished could be similarly so gentle; equally as peaceful. But there festered this violent storm, residing in her chest, daring to rage. Drowned in fears, she would suddenly jump to her feet & scream at the top of her lungs; the ocean, she whimpered, was engulfing her soul. The tallest of oak trees all turned their backs to her fervent cries, which echoed through their great masses; rattled their thousands of leaves. & so, inevitably, the white squall swelled. The tide then rose & swallowed her whole. Once upon this peculiar time, there lived this single girl, who slid deep into darkness. Ever graceful though it was.
2)
Oh sweet, sing sorry.
Whisper gently, blue lights to beam blissfully by my ear. It was cold that day.
That year reeked of heat that left our hands bleeding, our feet numb. You saw me near, drenched in amber. I had thistles in my hair.
It mattered not that the void brought us together. Your voice like hot glue, webbed between my fingertips. I prayed for absolution. You held your breath.
The trees listened to our story & wept. Winds swept by us, just then; their tentacles licking at our backs. Oblivious, we sway like listless lilies.
Lapping up the dull sun that burns & cries. Crystals splintered & melted across our palms.
But all was well when we were there.
That wet & wonderful winter.
3)
Light-weight & listless,
Slight feathery fingers steal down my spine.
Bright breath like clear water slices through the air;
Its hilt sharp & heavy. Blade; silky, slender, fine.
Burnt lanterns leering through crystalline ice,
& fierce silver beads threaded through twine.
(yell. scream. flounder.
i'm counting the colours,
at the tips of my feet).
(yearn. ache. hanker.
you're swimming in blackness;
its white noise, on repeat).
4)
Languid lines,
Of mottled skin.
Wispy, braided, lapse of lustre.
Tell me your heart doesn't ache…
For both coarse
& fine.
I know those sills, that veil & hum;
Blurring your wells, a racing rapid.
Skin on skin, instead.
& I hate you.
(How I hold it harsh).
It'll break outwards forever,
From behind my ribs.
You're my beginning, obviously.
You; are the end of me.
Hurl, cry,
For you make me ill.
But razor sharp, I see you.
Resting
Behind my eyelids.
You reside to the side of my soul.
A decade before myself.
I'll yell, for lesser repulsion:
Resentment came
& went in guise.
Denial, translucent once before.
Please again. (Please, never).
5)
This rich little lass; rich in dreams, (and lass, because she liked it). She smoothed her skirt a thousand times, so as not to let anyone know that she was made of more than sticks & tartan. To be human, was scary. She spent all day checking, rechecking, 'Do I look human yet?'. So she wanted both it seemed; she wanted to be part of something bigger than herself, but also to appear untouched & unsquallored: impossibly infallible. Areas of her body that ached, they niggled at her all day long. So she itched, scratched, clawed. Little lass bled & she cried but it didn’t stop the aching itch, somewhere concealed inside. That place, she felt it; dank, dark, hidden.
6)
Just the once, within an immeasurable moment, a young girl with green eyes and tresses of white hair, lived inside a cage. It was a beautiful parisienne cage, and from where she stood, with her arm wrapped firmly around her swing, she could see the world in pure panoramic splendour. The girl, that caged girl, she was loved; too much, too hard, too strong. Right and wrong. She was cherished, exultantly. Often, the cleaners would take her out to be buffed and polished, so that everyone else would see how beautiful she was; what a fabulous charm she made. But this one time, when her world was less than eleven, the suds entered her eyes. She held them tightly together as they seared off her eyelashes. Her body ached with the constant strain it bore to fasten her eyes shut. Her arms grew weary from fastidious efforts to keep clean the precious cage and the many helpless figurines, (her uncertain but unrelenting companions); all whilst seeing nothing but the innards of her eyelids. Many days later she warily opened them, And the world was changed. How disillusioned she grew, as insidious residue slide down her weighted brow, festering in and under the emerald of each iris. The bubbles foamed and soaped & lathered. The girl, the one in the beautiful cage, now watched the world through a film of muck. And everything was ugly.
7)
Chaotic flailing;
Ignited masses of crimson fireflies.
& their eyes, they sung of something so brightly elusive:
The lissom shadow eclipsing the flower, & the space between two feet.
Its lips sharp as wit, fell on lucid tremors in slivers of green.
So walk with the hooded truths that wax & wan.
With sights kept on animate lights, sadly
Being colourlessly poor; lupine
Chords will play.
8) - work in progress...
We will commence at the demise.
Render it useless, wantless & frail.
The ending & the beginning of lies.
Feel it break; space, dot, dot, dot, flail.
9)
I stare. Inhale; sharp, like daggers down my throat.
I expel; dusty breath, heavy… weighted down by remorse.
Translucent red wool lying limp 'cross brass bars. (I'm looking at our downfall).
Thoughts of condemnation plough my brow. Briskly swept away by viscous currents; hope, despair.
We wallow. Why I let myself resign to sheer tactless uselessness. Equivocally forgive, but shan’t forget.
& so, rusty vines will claw, up trunk, branches, shelves. Hooks fired into valves, nooks & crannies.
I wonder when sheer sunshine’s brilliance will cast itself across your face.
A shame, I saw your heart, plastered pallid in my basin.
10)
Moments ago, seconds away.
Shattered stems & see through vases. Caged but not blinded & loved but not held.
It’s in the reverberation; the tickling of leaves. Its feet across bodies of water; pools of sunshine & dark light.
Pleasantly slow but stealthily so. I beg, sob, whimper. But bright iris’ glare past vacant pupils. Ache, twist, & loathe.
(How brown ashes littered the doorway, & that jeering laughter sank the ships in my name). Schools of chatter linger, fondling my eyelashes.
My cheeks, a brilliant shade of rouge. Alone, but utterly surrounded. Trapped infinitely by spellbound bells that chime to the hour.
It’s remembering to forget. I yell myself to sleep at night. With no one to hear those odium beads implode.
I caught the moon on the tip of my tongue, but those fiery golden tresses took me under.
11)
Observe the
Ineffable empty cavern
Over which she presides. (Keeper of
The colourless). & the music barely fondles the sides.
Words that lather the soul. & those notes; those strums
That steal away her air… In, through, over, under.
Still how I found you. Traumatic, & I loved,
Peacefully. You were there that
Night. (& ever after).
12)
Once upon a girl,
Two bluebells caught in ocean eyes
& tresses of gold. An illusion of softness,
Whispered in blank voids. But oh how mistaken,
Those outstretched limbs were sneeringly cold.
Once upon a girl, I grew sad.
How very disappointing.
13)
Half suns over Tigerlily.
& I find rings snaking around my toes, whistling in my ear, hiding in my hair.
Pink fingernails, & you; you made the floor light up with drum beats of red.
Follow the dregs. Another time, another place; we would melt into the staircase.
With upside down frowns &
X's on our chests.
14)
I give up my smile
To her from you, that lay light
On my soul as threads silk within a dress.
This broke my core, the pumping & bloodied mass;
Bound, it's mortal sounding silence, my morbid diathesis.
15) - I'm going to scribble this one in lecture notes style font either across a photo of a surreal work I've done or across ruled lined paper, which I'll then submit a photograph of hanging from the bottom of a display easel. Hmm I think so atleast.
The way I see it, there are two types of people: those who get pissed off by surrealism, & those who love surrealism for how much it pisses the others off. I was the first, & now I'm the latter. I used to despise surrealism; I loathed its utter lack of aesthetic cohesiveness. I refused to appreciate surrealism, because for me, it was a try hard attempt to create something overtly ugly. & I couldn't understand why any artist would want to fabricate anything other than beauty. But now, now I can see that beauty doesnt have to go hand in hand with realism or that which autonomously make sense. Beauty can be found in anything & everything; in the intention, in the construction, in the aftermath. These days I love the abstract, the question mark, the confusion, the dream like state. I can see now that surrealism doesnt 'create beauty' because its purpose is to deconstruct... which infers a sense of destructiveness, but really, surrealism only destroys that which it believes to be confining our imaginations (& ultimately, the way we view the real world). Surrealism broadens every spectrum. Its intriguing, & I find it fabulous (even though I still don't find surrealism, as an umbrella term, to be typically 'attractive').
16)
Sharp shelves & a dusty mind;
Flickering voices, butterfly pages.
Rigid limbs, silent tears; icy hands
Around my throat. Pallid flesh &
Wasted years. Ghost like cars as
I float, & elbows on my ribcage.
17)
A hare.
Bounds frantically, ears heavied & paws wettened.
Wounded game melts. Mesmorisingly gaze; when he plays across the sweetened carpet; but beaten, & but thickened
By the surreal. Oh, ever purposelessly. Yet absurdly weightless, how it drowns melancholic, down;
A cylindrical vat, as great deep as was bold. & his hip straight into her heart;
It's bones to break the fall.
18) - again, want to present this one if a graphic manner... something coy & oxymoronic.
You try to loose myself fifty thousand times each day. You try falling through your dreams; the creases in your sheets; that hazey gap before you wake. You try melting into pavements & sinking into the grass. You try spiraling yourself through the embroidery on the car seat & then, the double lines on the road. You try (so hard) to loose yourself. Only to find (that in the absence of death) there is no escape. Your body insists on making noises, & it pulses with sensations. Your head persists with thinking like a typewriter coiled out of control. You've tried to turn yourself off, everyday day, for more years then you'd ever dare to acknowledge. It doesn't work. & it never will. It's impossible to ignore that you're real, & in the present. Everything about every moment within everyday threatens to explode all over your silk screen: YOURE ALIVE. Deal with it.
19) - ditto to the preface in 5, I think.
I've run out of things to say. There's only so many words in the english language to explain my thoughts & how I feel. & in the end, there are no words I can utter that you dont already know like your own two hands. You live & breathe my words already. I am not alone in my experiences. I am not unique. I am a composite effort of everyone I've ever met; I imitate the qualities of those I love & deject the qualities of those I dont. I am not an individual; I am an fluid dynamic everychanging organism. I was someone yesterday, a different person today, & tomorrow I'll have changed all over again. The concept of self is, well, irrelevant. I am lost & my journey is only measured by its impact on others. I think, thats the end of it.
20)
opiate screams
shatters
two windows.
but
deadened by walls
like sharp
jagged
teeth. blackberry
bushes
as fences for
miles
in every direction.
travail
the road out.
21)
Lingering arms
Reach into empty spaces,
And beneath, excessive pipeworks;
Unmovable lead.
Throbbing threads
Entwine rattling cages,
Ontop, stretched sheets a-crawling;
Sunlit lights turn red.
22)
they're raindrops on you lips;
blaringly hot and yet numb with ice cold; & they petter;
to and fro, within the still beating crest, like necklaces chained beyond tight.
gushing from a deeper wood; weeping and whistling through your skin... clear but untranslatable.
theres commodities on the outer side, that pant, bow and whimper; lost & unguided. rendered unstoppable;
(fingers feeble; rest shakily by your hips).
23)
Racing breath, & ruby studded. I'll keep it close, hidden left of centre. The sullen clapping of hands a feather from your face; alive, liquid silk in desperate dissipation. It was her wont to rise at the fall; in the morning I was delirium. So deprived the heat of the base, bathe; in the tarnished drain of steely grace; the munted cripple from power as you pool. Head was light, and heart was faint. (Perhaps the other way). To bow, to curtsy, to smile, to nod... to scowl. To see pains face. The hounding hurt; more for beauty in rapture that way. & so, I'll keep it with me so earthly raw. But you need never know (& really how could you?) It's blind to knives for the wooden block; transparent gleam to blaze aside you. Curdle my spirit, & sugar kept from here. I, to be murderer & hell. Slew your hands, your strings; your glaze fired out, piercing rotted & sunken. Squandered, bitten and held; I wore you weathered & amorously tattered. Sullied but strikingly visceral, for bright with luminescence. Two cups in perfect balance, two mounds of cloudy grains, tinkering on the verge; tap tap raged bullets hit the counter. Plunging off kilter, an ashy wave, tshhh across the marble. Should you peel back the dermals; a sea monster silenced & still. Stores closed for business, and then what’s the point, where's the cordial value? Teddy bears rot on dusty shelves, sapphires raped of their glimmer. It's a sad (little) existence, so much more so without you. I'll keep it, because you deserve to scorn, resent, despise. To hate. It's your right, & your will.
24)
Melon shaped, on an auburn palette, without rhyme. But reason:
Pleasurable disposition. It bedazzled me, splintered a spark in each cool eye.
My presence begun; tiny tungsten hands tiptoed the seconds. & I engulfed it like a bomb.
How I was enervated that dawn by radiant streams of violet waves, & howling shrowded day. Dormancy,
& a Being beyond myself slavishly plastered a soul of sorts across my interior. I thought
I'd been promised a bay of footprints, sound & traveled. Instead, powdery
Snow grew lugubriously around each sprinting articulation;
Freezing stone hard each lofty claw.
N.B. I actually don't like poetry all that much, as a general rule of thumb. I'm an all time lover of poetic prose though... & beautifully written novels & memoirs. I find poetry too... structured I guess; uncaptivating. It doesn't seem to spiral & flow the same way other writings do. Lyrics however, I adore. Pink, dear god, Pink... & Amy Lee & Ella Hooper & Alanis Morisette - theirs poems I love. Nevertheless, my favourite poets are Cummings, Plath, Thoreau, Byron & Jack London. Verse wise, Shakespeare has my undivided attention - it's structured & lyrical but somehow still organic & unpredictable. If you're talking inspiration wise though, whilst I really value & respect written works, I find my inspiration elsewhere; films, visual arts, performing arts, flora & fauna, the Wild (in every capacity) & times of heightened sensations. I don't know.. I guess I look at words as the accumulated by-product; the final say.
1)
Once upon a time, there lived a girl. Inside of whom there grew a great ocean. Down the steepest hill, in that park, by that creek, she sat so still; awe struck by the tiny pool of water that trickled & streamed. The delicate tinkering of liquid, dripping into & onto misshapen rocks & fallen debris. The white horses within her, she wished could be similarly so gentle; equally as peaceful. But there festered this violent storm, residing in her chest, daring to rage. Drowned in fears, she would suddenly jump to her feet & scream at the top of her lungs; the ocean, she whimpered, was engulfing her soul. The tallest of oak trees all turned their backs to her fervent cries, which echoed through their great masses; rattled their thousands of leaves. & so, inevitably, the white squall swelled. The tide then rose & swallowed her whole. Once upon this peculiar time, there lived this single girl, who slid deep into darkness. Ever graceful though it was.
2)
Oh sweet, sing sorry.
Whisper gently, blue lights to beam blissfully by my ear. It was cold that day.
That year reeked of heat that left our hands bleeding, our feet numb. You saw me near, drenched in amber. I had thistles in my hair.
It mattered not that the void brought us together. Your voice like hot glue, webbed between my fingertips. I prayed for absolution. You held your breath.
The trees listened to our story & wept. Winds swept by us, just then; their tentacles licking at our backs. Oblivious, we sway like listless lilies.
Lapping up the dull sun that burns & cries. Crystals splintered & melted across our palms.
But all was well when we were there.
That wet & wonderful winter.
3)
Light-weight & listless,
Slight feathery fingers steal down my spine.
Bright breath like clear water slices through the air;
Its hilt sharp & heavy. Blade; silky, slender, fine.
Burnt lanterns leering through crystalline ice,
& fierce silver beads threaded through twine.
(yell. scream. flounder.
i'm counting the colours,
at the tips of my feet).
(yearn. ache. hanker.
you're swimming in blackness;
its white noise, on repeat).
4)
Languid lines,
Of mottled skin.
Wispy, braided, lapse of lustre.
Tell me your heart doesn't ache…
For both coarse
& fine.
I know those sills, that veil & hum;
Blurring your wells, a racing rapid.
Skin on skin, instead.
& I hate you.
(How I hold it harsh).
It'll break outwards forever,
From behind my ribs.
You're my beginning, obviously.
You; are the end of me.
Hurl, cry,
For you make me ill.
But razor sharp, I see you.
Resting
Behind my eyelids.
You reside to the side of my soul.
A decade before myself.
I'll yell, for lesser repulsion:
Resentment came
& went in guise.
Denial, translucent once before.
Please again. (Please, never).
5)
This rich little lass; rich in dreams, (and lass, because she liked it). She smoothed her skirt a thousand times, so as not to let anyone know that she was made of more than sticks & tartan. To be human, was scary. She spent all day checking, rechecking, 'Do I look human yet?'. So she wanted both it seemed; she wanted to be part of something bigger than herself, but also to appear untouched & unsquallored: impossibly infallible. Areas of her body that ached, they niggled at her all day long. So she itched, scratched, clawed. Little lass bled & she cried but it didn’t stop the aching itch, somewhere concealed inside. That place, she felt it; dank, dark, hidden.
6)
Just the once, within an immeasurable moment, a young girl with green eyes and tresses of white hair, lived inside a cage. It was a beautiful parisienne cage, and from where she stood, with her arm wrapped firmly around her swing, she could see the world in pure panoramic splendour. The girl, that caged girl, she was loved; too much, too hard, too strong. Right and wrong. She was cherished, exultantly. Often, the cleaners would take her out to be buffed and polished, so that everyone else would see how beautiful she was; what a fabulous charm she made. But this one time, when her world was less than eleven, the suds entered her eyes. She held them tightly together as they seared off her eyelashes. Her body ached with the constant strain it bore to fasten her eyes shut. Her arms grew weary from fastidious efforts to keep clean the precious cage and the many helpless figurines, (her uncertain but unrelenting companions); all whilst seeing nothing but the innards of her eyelids. Many days later she warily opened them, And the world was changed. How disillusioned she grew, as insidious residue slide down her weighted brow, festering in and under the emerald of each iris. The bubbles foamed and soaped & lathered. The girl, the one in the beautiful cage, now watched the world through a film of muck. And everything was ugly.
7)
Chaotic flailing;
Ignited masses of crimson fireflies.
& their eyes, they sung of something so brightly elusive:
The lissom shadow eclipsing the flower, & the space between two feet.
Its lips sharp as wit, fell on lucid tremors in slivers of green.
So walk with the hooded truths that wax & wan.
With sights kept on animate lights, sadly
Being colourlessly poor; lupine
Chords will play.
8) - work in progress...
We will commence at the demise.
Render it useless, wantless & frail.
The ending & the beginning of lies.
Feel it break; space, dot, dot, dot, flail.
9)
I stare. Inhale; sharp, like daggers down my throat.
I expel; dusty breath, heavy… weighted down by remorse.
Translucent red wool lying limp 'cross brass bars. (I'm looking at our downfall).
Thoughts of condemnation plough my brow. Briskly swept away by viscous currents; hope, despair.
We wallow. Why I let myself resign to sheer tactless uselessness. Equivocally forgive, but shan’t forget.
& so, rusty vines will claw, up trunk, branches, shelves. Hooks fired into valves, nooks & crannies.
I wonder when sheer sunshine’s brilliance will cast itself across your face.
A shame, I saw your heart, plastered pallid in my basin.
10)
Moments ago, seconds away.
Shattered stems & see through vases. Caged but not blinded & loved but not held.
It’s in the reverberation; the tickling of leaves. Its feet across bodies of water; pools of sunshine & dark light.
Pleasantly slow but stealthily so. I beg, sob, whimper. But bright iris’ glare past vacant pupils. Ache, twist, & loathe.
(How brown ashes littered the doorway, & that jeering laughter sank the ships in my name). Schools of chatter linger, fondling my eyelashes.
My cheeks, a brilliant shade of rouge. Alone, but utterly surrounded. Trapped infinitely by spellbound bells that chime to the hour.
It’s remembering to forget. I yell myself to sleep at night. With no one to hear those odium beads implode.
I caught the moon on the tip of my tongue, but those fiery golden tresses took me under.
11)
Observe the
Ineffable empty cavern
Over which she presides. (Keeper of
The colourless). & the music barely fondles the sides.
Words that lather the soul. & those notes; those strums
That steal away her air… In, through, over, under.
Still how I found you. Traumatic, & I loved,
Peacefully. You were there that
Night. (& ever after).
12)
Once upon a girl,
Two bluebells caught in ocean eyes
& tresses of gold. An illusion of softness,
Whispered in blank voids. But oh how mistaken,
Those outstretched limbs were sneeringly cold.
Once upon a girl, I grew sad.
How very disappointing.
13)
Half suns over Tigerlily.
& I find rings snaking around my toes, whistling in my ear, hiding in my hair.
Pink fingernails, & you; you made the floor light up with drum beats of red.
Follow the dregs. Another time, another place; we would melt into the staircase.
With upside down frowns &
X's on our chests.
14)
I give up my smile
To her from you, that lay light
On my soul as threads silk within a dress.
This broke my core, the pumping & bloodied mass;
Bound, it's mortal sounding silence, my morbid diathesis.
15) - I'm going to scribble this one in lecture notes style font either across a photo of a surreal work I've done or across ruled lined paper, which I'll then submit a photograph of hanging from the bottom of a display easel. Hmm I think so atleast.
The way I see it, there are two types of people: those who get pissed off by surrealism, & those who love surrealism for how much it pisses the others off. I was the first, & now I'm the latter. I used to despise surrealism; I loathed its utter lack of aesthetic cohesiveness. I refused to appreciate surrealism, because for me, it was a try hard attempt to create something overtly ugly. & I couldn't understand why any artist would want to fabricate anything other than beauty. But now, now I can see that beauty doesnt have to go hand in hand with realism or that which autonomously make sense. Beauty can be found in anything & everything; in the intention, in the construction, in the aftermath. These days I love the abstract, the question mark, the confusion, the dream like state. I can see now that surrealism doesnt 'create beauty' because its purpose is to deconstruct... which infers a sense of destructiveness, but really, surrealism only destroys that which it believes to be confining our imaginations (& ultimately, the way we view the real world). Surrealism broadens every spectrum. Its intriguing, & I find it fabulous (even though I still don't find surrealism, as an umbrella term, to be typically 'attractive').
16)
Sharp shelves & a dusty mind;
Flickering voices, butterfly pages.
Rigid limbs, silent tears; icy hands
Around my throat. Pallid flesh &
Wasted years. Ghost like cars as
I float, & elbows on my ribcage.
17)
A hare.
Bounds frantically, ears heavied & paws wettened.
Wounded game melts. Mesmorisingly gaze; when he plays across the sweetened carpet; but beaten, & but thickened
By the surreal. Oh, ever purposelessly. Yet absurdly weightless, how it drowns melancholic, down;
A cylindrical vat, as great deep as was bold. & his hip straight into her heart;
It's bones to break the fall.
18) - again, want to present this one if a graphic manner... something coy & oxymoronic.
You try to loose myself fifty thousand times each day. You try falling through your dreams; the creases in your sheets; that hazey gap before you wake. You try melting into pavements & sinking into the grass. You try spiraling yourself through the embroidery on the car seat & then, the double lines on the road. You try (so hard) to loose yourself. Only to find (that in the absence of death) there is no escape. Your body insists on making noises, & it pulses with sensations. Your head persists with thinking like a typewriter coiled out of control. You've tried to turn yourself off, everyday day, for more years then you'd ever dare to acknowledge. It doesn't work. & it never will. It's impossible to ignore that you're real, & in the present. Everything about every moment within everyday threatens to explode all over your silk screen: YOURE ALIVE. Deal with it.
19) - ditto to the preface in 5, I think.
I've run out of things to say. There's only so many words in the english language to explain my thoughts & how I feel. & in the end, there are no words I can utter that you dont already know like your own two hands. You live & breathe my words already. I am not alone in my experiences. I am not unique. I am a composite effort of everyone I've ever met; I imitate the qualities of those I love & deject the qualities of those I dont. I am not an individual; I am an fluid dynamic everychanging organism. I was someone yesterday, a different person today, & tomorrow I'll have changed all over again. The concept of self is, well, irrelevant. I am lost & my journey is only measured by its impact on others. I think, thats the end of it.
20)
opiate screams
shatters
two windows.
but
deadened by walls
like sharp
jagged
teeth. blackberry
bushes
as fences for
miles
in every direction.
travail
the road out.
21)
Lingering arms
Reach into empty spaces,
And beneath, excessive pipeworks;
Unmovable lead.
Throbbing threads
Entwine rattling cages,
Ontop, stretched sheets a-crawling;
Sunlit lights turn red.
22)
they're raindrops on you lips;
blaringly hot and yet numb with ice cold; & they petter;
to and fro, within the still beating crest, like necklaces chained beyond tight.
gushing from a deeper wood; weeping and whistling through your skin... clear but untranslatable.
theres commodities on the outer side, that pant, bow and whimper; lost & unguided. rendered unstoppable;
(fingers feeble; rest shakily by your hips).
23)
Racing breath, & ruby studded. I'll keep it close, hidden left of centre. The sullen clapping of hands a feather from your face; alive, liquid silk in desperate dissipation. It was her wont to rise at the fall; in the morning I was delirium. So deprived the heat of the base, bathe; in the tarnished drain of steely grace; the munted cripple from power as you pool. Head was light, and heart was faint. (Perhaps the other way). To bow, to curtsy, to smile, to nod... to scowl. To see pains face. The hounding hurt; more for beauty in rapture that way. & so, I'll keep it with me so earthly raw. But you need never know (& really how could you?) It's blind to knives for the wooden block; transparent gleam to blaze aside you. Curdle my spirit, & sugar kept from here. I, to be murderer & hell. Slew your hands, your strings; your glaze fired out, piercing rotted & sunken. Squandered, bitten and held; I wore you weathered & amorously tattered. Sullied but strikingly visceral, for bright with luminescence. Two cups in perfect balance, two mounds of cloudy grains, tinkering on the verge; tap tap raged bullets hit the counter. Plunging off kilter, an ashy wave, tshhh across the marble. Should you peel back the dermals; a sea monster silenced & still. Stores closed for business, and then what’s the point, where's the cordial value? Teddy bears rot on dusty shelves, sapphires raped of their glimmer. It's a sad (little) existence, so much more so without you. I'll keep it, because you deserve to scorn, resent, despise. To hate. It's your right, & your will.
24)
Melon shaped, on an auburn palette, without rhyme. But reason:
Pleasurable disposition. It bedazzled me, splintered a spark in each cool eye.
My presence begun; tiny tungsten hands tiptoed the seconds. & I engulfed it like a bomb.
How I was enervated that dawn by radiant streams of violet waves, & howling shrowded day. Dormancy,
& a Being beyond myself slavishly plastered a soul of sorts across my interior. I thought
I'd been promised a bay of footprints, sound & traveled. Instead, powdery
Snow grew lugubriously around each sprinting articulation;
Freezing stone hard each lofty claw.
N.B. I actually don't like poetry all that much, as a general rule of thumb. I'm an all time lover of poetic prose though... & beautifully written novels & memoirs. I find poetry too... structured I guess; uncaptivating. It doesn't seem to spiral & flow the same way other writings do. Lyrics however, I adore. Pink, dear god, Pink... & Amy Lee & Ella Hooper & Alanis Morisette - theirs poems I love. Nevertheless, my favourite poets are Cummings, Plath, Thoreau, Byron & Jack London. Verse wise, Shakespeare has my undivided attention - it's structured & lyrical but somehow still organic & unpredictable. If you're talking inspiration wise though, whilst I really value & respect written works, I find my inspiration elsewhere; films, visual arts, performing arts, flora & fauna, the Wild (in every capacity) & times of heightened sensations. I don't know.. I guess I look at words as the accumulated by-product; the final say.