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Posts Tagged ‘inspiration’

All I can do this day
is write.
We awoke tangled
but not in the cocoon
of soft feeling we  recognize
from movies and day dreams.
Still sour I was up before
you – without pants and vulnerable.
You are of the breed
who talks to the future
for money, so you sleep late.

Yesterday’s formal attire
is crumpled by the door.
They still smell of power
and so I wash them for you.
You, not knowing,
in these very clothes
had said that I reveal, that I must
because of what I do.
Because it is what you do.
I push the fabric to my nose
and inhale one last time.

You told me that the point
of this was to reveal myself
to others. That this was my gift.
How empty I must feel.
Why can’t I add layers to the world
instead of remove them from myself?
That invitation brought you here,
a cacophony of snores reminds me of this.
Suffice it to say, it did not convince
and I will undoubtedly be the subject
of two poems by this afternoon.

Flattered by the faltering
I watch the machine come to life –
spin and soap and soliloquy.

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Tomorrow I will write 100 poems
Or 12 songs
Or 1 story.
But let that be tomorrow.
And let me sleep tonight.

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A Poem In Silence

She appraises herself in silence
and laughs when I touch her.

What stops your tongue?
From tasting, from twirling?
Ears are gluttonous
and cannot be sated.
Don’t cork them with silence.
Caress them with soft
tyranny, lick them with your
wishes, fill them with your
dreams to make reality.

A list or a catalog.
Alphabetical anatomy,
hypothetical gymnastics,
hyperbolic sensuality
amplified by silence.
Cut the hungry beast
and unleash his hounds
on every inch of
a painter’s fantasy.

Laughter is a coin with two sides;
the blushing face of a beloved
and her soft palpable pitchfork
tail. A coiled tale of insecurity
in comparison to perfection.
Only compared to a painter’s
embellished strokes
made invisible by stillness,
a poet’s envious words
made deaf by an eye’s demand,
and a composer’s romantic hymn
made unbearable by loneliness.

She appraises herself in silence
and laughs when I touch her.

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view previous entry at: http://veritasexlogos.wordpress.com/2008/02/07/stories-told-to-be-forgotten-part-v-a-ghost-caught-in-the-wind/

The massive bronze gates yawned like the mouth of some epic beast. The soft aromatic breath of some ancient deity pouring forth as an invisible insurmountable tide. The ghostly visitor pushed desperately against it using its loot as an anchor. The wind could not be trusted to deliver him, but the soft melodies of a molten hymn could. Grabbing the oars of sheer human will the ghost emerged from the rain and into the light of the Cathedral.

 

He was in the light that made everything appear old. Massive columns whose size could not be perceived but only felt stretched from the floor until it met fantastic arches. In this way each massive column was woven into a network of colossuses. On the backs of these Atlas’ an entirely different world hung. The ceiling was a solid but churning blue with aspects of gold. A sudden flash of her eye as it opened in the dark took control of his mind. His mind raced away from the blue onto the gold capitals and down the ribbed nave ceiling trying to escape the burning memories.

 

The natural fluidity of the architecture brought him to rest on the altar. Its bronze fixtures provided some rest. The soft music suddenly ceased. Unperceivable silence followed for a time unknown to both the ghost and his watcher. Appearing at once from behind the altar he revealed himself to the ghost and at once bone, muscle, sinew, and flesh were thrown back upon him. Simultaneous strength and burden returned and the process was half completed.

 

“Why have you come here, Clay?” First the flesh, now the name. Clay felt the odious return of normality. The father had known him since a boy. ‘Clay’ meant an entirely different person to him. It meant the boy who ceased going to mass after confirmation. It meant the boy who had too often questioned the authority of the elders. It also meant the man who had a peculiar bluntness that manifested itself in his dutiful participation in confession despite his seeming disbelief in God.

 

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been 1 month since my last confession.” His voice sprung forth like an answering machine triggered.

“Hold your horses, Clay.” The father moved toward him, down three stairs, and across the floor to his side. “I’m not even wearing my vestments”.

 

“I do not have the time for your superstitions. Clothes do not give people special powers.”

 

“I am not saying it does. But like a fire fighter needs a uniform, like a policeman needs a uniform, or like a soldier needs a uniform, I need my vestments. Besides you are lucky I am even here. Why don’t you go sit in the confessional and I will be there shortly.”

 

Without waiting for a response the father disappeared once more leaving Clay alone with himself. Stepping into the confessional he immediately greeted by darkness. In his mind he could feel the kudzu growing rapidly as it devoured the feast of memories. All he needed was this one act and he would be free to put his greatest work onto paper – or perhaps his greatest travesty.  

 

 

 

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He is an author writing a poem
in a room where the image of a monitor
reflects off the pupils
containing the universe of the author.
In the poem, the author describes
such conditions in such a way
So that the reader can surmise
a message? Perhaps not so fast
Because so too does the author read
every word, from first to last,
and never does he recognize
the same word.

He sees his face in the digital mirror
A forlorn brow,
a set of limp fingers, bearers
of a message, to himself, to others?
The coffee goes cold from being overlooked
Various books, with permanently bent spines,
are never understood, only elucidated.

He is an author writing a poem
about nothing except,
an author writing a poem
and deciding whose ears he speaks to,
whose eyes he writes for,
whose lips will follow along his path.
He pictures the tiny fingers
of a young girl who should be studying math,
but instead, for only a second,
decides to linger,
Her digits gliding underneath each word of
her favorite poem, his poem.

One day she will find a better poem,
a classic, or a confessional,
but she will always owe him, the author,
for, in his own simple way, he brings
her into a world,
Where a mirror can look into a mirror,
and see infinity.
But not be afraid.

The author smiles at a perfectly white
Sheet of paper, having been dirtied
just so one girl, he’ll never know,
Can find some strange and perfect delight
In the malformed words that grow
From a malformed head,
with malformed eyes,
that gaze at the size
of his head in the haze
of a malformed mirror.

 “She’ll never know my name.”
said the author with some pride.
“But she’ll never be the same.”
Thus being said, he pushed the poem aside.

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Poetry and Irony

Remembering the day I met you
I can’t help but begin to write
Of the act called our love
Or the emotions of our death
Are you still that much better than I?
Or should I explain my poems?

Can you feel the heat in which I write
Or see the flames formed in my “I”
Cold from age has grown our love
So that in its death
Burning poems
Cannot rekindle you

No longer can our love
Be formed into poems
Nor any longer can you
Read the words I write
Now its me, myself, and I
Expecting life after death

Without your name how do I title poems?
How can I survive without your love?
What once drove me to write
Now dots the I
And the decaying stench of death
Rises from the flowers around you

Flowers raging against the summer’s death
Are not that much different than I
For our fortunes, writ on the wall like poems,
Cannot live without the sun’s love!
Their sun is far away, but mine is you
So I can draw close enough for it to burn what I write

You say goodbye, but how can I?
I am not a fool, but nor are you
When you say that what I write
Are more like scribbles than poems.
But while it is another you love
My scribbles eulogize our death.

Even though you call our love death
Who would’ve knew, that I
Still write poems about you.

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