Open mic reading
Wednesday night will now be open mic at the goat night (despite the fact that I may have to wait for quite a long time - got there at 8ish got back at 11:30ish).
It turned out to be the (probably read: "among many, the first") requiem. I read this and something by Neruda, because everyone else was punctuating their own work with official poems..ahem. But no more will I indulge in such insecurity. Anyway:
Dear,
I have dragged us into the ocean to bear the silence that was once so intolerable. I knew you would object, but you held your breath when I asked you and went under with (but apart from) me, unsure of where we would surface and only with the promise that I would return when I had exhausted the potential of a monastic, Odyssean solitude.
You had the misfortune to be deserving of my twighlight love and such hyperborean conditions which my frivolous living could barely afford.
I brought to your church of innocent admiration the gods of shame and preached the overcoming of our reckless passion.
I brought to our house the fire of Zarathustra and denigrated our contact - the contact of leaves falling on still waters - as all-too-human.
I drowned our love in the baptismal font and promised the corpse new life.
But my love, absent and fulfilled by this expanse, you are the distant knells which signal the celebration of my becoming. You are what these waves sing, what their depth falls on desparagingly.
I only hope that you follow me when I alter Dostoevsky's pronouncement: "beauty will save the world," and proclaim in full confidence that it is precisely the kind of sorrow which greets us in our exile beneath the waves, the sorrow we perceive in beauty - knowing that it must deteriorate, the sadness which you have collapsed around that will move the world to salvation.
And so I prostitute that muse, our sadness, to write this letter which will never arrive and wonder what gruesome spirit moved me to force us into this awful dialectic. For now there will be no end to days spent in bitter attempt to create for you out of absence something like a blossoming spring with my wintry words.
It turned out to be the (probably read: "among many, the first") requiem. I read this and something by Neruda, because everyone else was punctuating their own work with official poems..ahem. But no more will I indulge in such insecurity. Anyway:
Dear,
I have dragged us into the ocean to bear the silence that was once so intolerable. I knew you would object, but you held your breath when I asked you and went under with (but apart from) me, unsure of where we would surface and only with the promise that I would return when I had exhausted the potential of a monastic, Odyssean solitude.
You had the misfortune to be deserving of my twighlight love and such hyperborean conditions which my frivolous living could barely afford.
I brought to your church of innocent admiration the gods of shame and preached the overcoming of our reckless passion.
I brought to our house the fire of Zarathustra and denigrated our contact - the contact of leaves falling on still waters - as all-too-human.
I drowned our love in the baptismal font and promised the corpse new life.
But my love, absent and fulfilled by this expanse, you are the distant knells which signal the celebration of my becoming. You are what these waves sing, what their depth falls on desparagingly.
I only hope that you follow me when I alter Dostoevsky's pronouncement: "beauty will save the world," and proclaim in full confidence that it is precisely the kind of sorrow which greets us in our exile beneath the waves, the sorrow we perceive in beauty - knowing that it must deteriorate, the sadness which you have collapsed around that will move the world to salvation.
And so I prostitute that muse, our sadness, to write this letter which will never arrive and wonder what gruesome spirit moved me to force us into this awful dialectic. For now there will be no end to days spent in bitter attempt to create for you out of absence something like a blossoming spring with my wintry words.