repost: revelations

Outside the window, in grey streets at dusk
that spread all across a jilted nation,
people tune into the white noise station;
the new catatonia, the Fear,
as it sneaks up and peers through the front door
with lobotomy smiles and nerve gas.

From the gutter, up the high rise towers;
corruption climbs the concrete like ivy.
The depressed onlookers all stop to stare as
the last book is thrown from the window and
hits the floor, cracking in two, exploding,
sending sparks in every direction.

Down shaded alleys at the red sky dusk,
where the blood graffiti of Ginsberg lies,
a kid first sees the confusion of truth,
with the low cobweb roof blown off his head,
opens his glazed grey eyes to the sunrise
and the poet screams out loud ‘it is done‘

 

 

villanelle

villanelle. so i had not heard of this term until about three hours ago, and even now i am a bit baffled by it. compared to many forms of poetry, which are quite open, the villanelle is heavily structured. now, this is a double edged sword as it makes writing it a much narrower corridor than some forms, but it is also quite difficult to fill with interesting subject matter, given that each stanza is only three lines, and the poem is very repetitive.

this is very much inspired by requiem for a dream, and the idea of emptiness and addiction that i am currently planning a novel around.

—————-

The Habit

You can offer me relief
silicon, shining curves of satisfaction
and come Sabbath Sunday, I shall have no belief

Something beautiful, something I can sink into; with teeth
my hand that feeds, my hazy vision
you can offer me relief.

Clutching at you in the gale, my leaf,
troublesome mistress, my love, my addiction
and come Sabbath Sunday, I shall have no belief.

Looking back on life, you’re a theme, a motif
a breeze in the morning, destructive in the evening
you can offer me relief

My empty wallet, your problematique,
your kiss on my arm, your sweet injection
and come Sabbath Sunday, I shall have no belief

This rich tapestry, this sordid boutique,
this terrible hole, this natural affliction,
you can offer me relief
and come Sabbath Sunday, I shall have no belief.

———–

as always, this is an early draft. please criticise the hell out of it. it also might change as i slowly edit it before submission on tuesday. thanks !

 

tonnes.

this week’s task was to write a sonnet. now, i wasn’t at the seminar this week so i’m not entirely sure about the specifics. i do know that a sonnet is fourteen lines. however, i am not sure how they are meant to be divided (is the eight and six thing essential…?) or rhyming etc. but rules are meant to be broken, right? here is mine, i hope you like.

———–

Bastard ideas outside the window,
those ninjas and gunslingers
all distracting me as I swallow
their myriad ideas, multiplying like bacteria,
stealing my mind from the matter at hand.
Now, send pen to paper; in anticipation,
and frantic electricity to the inspiration gland.
So here, for your delectation; my chemical reaction.

I see you tracing the patterns of rainbows
finding the meaning in between the words,
and trying to fill your ‘furnished’ soul,
but in spite of what you heard,
there is not tonnes of weight
to this song, this sonnet.

 

revelations.

so…we’ve moved onto poetry in creative writing. sigh. while i have dabbled in poetry before (see the poetry link in the menu if you are interested), i’ve never had to do it with such a focus on technique…it feels the exact same way as when i started learning guitar theory and it completely messing with my perceptions of how to do things. it made things hard initially, but in time it’s helped me a lot. i can only hope the same is true of poetic theory.

long story short, here is a poem. please criticise it to the nth degree, i really would appreciate the criticism and advice.

———-

In empty streets of every sick town,
all across the jilted nation, people
are tuned into the white noise station;
the rising catatonia, the Fear,
as it drills and peers through the front door
all lobotomy smiles and nerve gas.

Up from the gutter and high rise towers,
corruption climbs the brick walls like ivy,
when the last book, thrown out from the window
hits the floor and cracks in two, exploding,
and sends sparks in every direction.

Down shaded alleys at the red sky dusk,
where lies the blood grafitti of Ginsberg,
a kid first sees the confusion of truth,
with the low cobweb roof blown off his head,
opens his glazed grey eyes to the sunrise
and the poet screams out loud ‘it is done‘

 

onelongsentence

some poem/prose thing that kinda just kept going…so i went with it. thoughts? does anyone actually read this blog? if you like it, tell your friends. if you don’t like it, tell them anyways, they might have different tastes to you!

we are wicked children, full of regrets and clumsy conversation, yet with elation our words rise and fall like the cracked sound of the radio, and we ride these air waves high, and my, my what it’s like to fall without a parachute, as we press mute on the television, finding it easier to think, drinking a sip and placing a well kept wink and nod to the thoughts hiding behind the corner, hiding on the border of our sight, all white like deer in traffic, and i have to ask why you are there anyways; i knock you down and keep on driving, pushing all the thoughts thriving around us.

onelongsentence, curling like caterpillars and string, you want to know where it’s been all your life in your misplaced and distracted thoughts; make no mistake, this is the first day of the rest of your life.

 

for lack of anything better;

seeing as i have nothing else to post, here are two new poems for your consumption.

little plans.

i wake up each morning
and drink down the cool summer
air,
like it is sweet sweet wine.
i suck it up,
then blow it out, like smoke
from a cigarette,
and it dissipates
like the little thoughts
and plans
of men

——

flux

a trail of blurred light
the stream of someone else’s breath
on a cold night
whiskey on the rocks,
now just ice in a glass
the cold of winter,
the heat of summer,
a decade of inaction,
a day of motion,
an empty plate of food,
a feast well earnt,
a promise that you would,
but something is here,
and now it’s gone
i was here just moments ago
now i’m gone.

enjoy! x

 

HI

As I said in my first entry, I am an aspiring writer, and this extends of poems of sorts, as well as rambley prosey blog entries.

they lied to you,
your mum and dad,
the man on the TV
the people on the street,
and all around you.
They fed you on white lies
they filled you to the brim
with hopes and dreams
I’d rather be broken
a man who knows experience
than a lamb, blind
but what I would give
for the first time
you lay your soul on the road
before your soul,
and sole were worn down
But who am I,
but a troubled man,
with lofty dreams
watching the terror
on the TV screens;
And all along
there  was nothing I could say
stuck on this string
forever and a day.