I Distinct in Script


I, in this pit
lit this light,
find this ring in ring
victim in ill writing.
I fight this spirit
spindrift midst high hills.

~~

Its id instils
twisting criticism,
which mimics
wit sighing in rifts.
Still, I insist in this iris,
in I, with limits in signs
which inflict thirst
in sinking wills.

~~

In hindsight,
this fix is bright,
I sift within this sinking.
Bliss in kiss, might I,
with thin lips pin
if in is?

~~

I diminish in width.
I dismiss it,
stirring in nihilism,
firing blight within
this twin’s district.
Drink in this slick schism
its film distils his limit;
his thrill might finish;
his wit it might stir;
still inflicting this victim
with rigid might.



~~

Slight wrists in thin splits –
hindsight spills.
This spirit, high in his pitch
splits I in blight, I in this dividing rift,
I in script's this prism.

--

Nyctalopia

Two eyes looked into me through the darkness;
two shades darker
than the night that drowned them.
The eyes that opened
and the manner in which they opened
disturbed the unmoving night air
with the noumena of fear.

I was unable to
know why they chose me,
or from which distant deeps or skies
it was made, malignant and horribly alive.
No window can frame this,
no epithet can encapsulate
the dark indefinite borders
that ensnare the outlook
that grips me so completely.

When it was given the breath of life
that air must have transfigured
the sepulchral moon into
a melancholic vermillion,
discordant, and cholerically
circling the night.

Unable to see it
as it exists, in itself,
I am left only to assume
all of its essence, because

those mysteries close themselves
pitch drowns the dark vision,
the apparition seals
the window to the soul.
And I am left
unable to know, whether
it meant me any harm,
other than this.

--

The Image of Alterity

a trick knee
is the ultimate blind spot
a snapping from the inside

or this bone spur
a build up of calcium
and discarded grudges

these are the body’s brave faced defectors
the inept entities that are all
concept without form

but all the connective tissue links to –
every relation, this is the definition
this is contraception

the unmaking of the self
through a bee hive of an osteoma
that spreads across your own borders

or finding that your own name
is an anagram
for everything that you hate

the only opposition you can’t see
is yourself

--

Limerick to Irony

My paradise, my favourite windswept bay
is where I thought myself to be, on this morning of May.
But laying in my apartment
the wind only sounds like waves on the escarpment
with the traffic of a busy city.

One Endless Night

Well, it has been quite some time since my last blog. I have had quite a bit going on, inside and outside of school. Needless to say, I have a lot of creative works coming together, it is taking some time to refine them enough. To the point that I'm settled with at least. I'm posting a very old (about a year old now) series I wrote. It is probably a personal favourite of my own, let's see what you think though.

~

One Endless Night:
A Translation




The Epigraph: Apparitions in Apposition
This is the gateway,
the form that I give to you.
It is all I can give
and in the end, all that I have.
Remember that this is a story,
not in feeling or in form
but in what resides
between
the divide being torn:
the devotion to denotation
and the fog of connotative thought.
Remember reality, as a paper
found in the rain;
it is not entirely static.
No definition is.
Here: the dilution of definition
Here:





























One – Insomnia
I lay my head down to sleep.
But I will find rest in unrest.
Stillness, echoes of non-existence.
Life is not defined by death,
may my body not be constrained by soil.
If I must embrace the bodies undeterred needs
then I will escape in the black ink of night.
In the aim of suturing together the dissonance and the skin,
it will be in the filling of an hourglass
where I will glance at my reflection.
This moment has been given like a gift
of deep silence, along the night flooded floor,
still I find no rest.
So I lay, and let another fire cross my skull.
I write my skin across tattered pages
and hear the world with laughter.
Will this night end with the blessing of a bed,
or will the endless scripture of writing be shed?
I cannot see what will be known of me
in the unending eyes of forgetful heirs.


II ~ Prologus Mutationi
I feel it under the surface of skin
and in the matter that makes me
resonating in what I think I am
it gives rise to a tidal wave of dissonance
a side step preference for an effigy
a new transmission of foreclosed flesh
floating unwilling like a buoy on the tide
the twisting of thoughts in the wind
scatter out beyond my reach
I had seen a path, now there is none
but I welcome you, through this wall of white paper,
welcome


Three – Lacerations
Let blood and let loose the livid fever,
and let it affect the limbic system, letting lesser thoughts flood red
spelling out with the severed fluid palms enclosed and incapable.
A part of my pride wakes up and screams, muffled in the memory banks.
Put down the scissors. Let go of self sculpture and sacrifices.
But I must write down
in blood or in none, the definitive lines that line each divide.
The separation of pen and paper, and paper and mind,
and the endless constraints of unalterable flesh
placed upon a new age alter.


IV ~ Febris, Stagnum, Atrāmentum
still hold fast to the forever fever that furiously fends for never ending bed times
still sleeping my mind battles wake filled body of water in a wake of nothingness
still all I do is curse my curse and most of all myself
at night
at night so deep in the night that to sleep is to surface too fast from under the ocean
that dark ocean that ruptures with airy weight in the lungs
black ink colours me all around
and from my fountain pen
tailoring the image of man
pop go my piercing eyes


Five – Malleable Metal; Spores in the Sun
Life has run its course in my heart and in my stomach.
The world once writhed around me like snakes,
and something seeped into my mind. Like black water in the walls.
It took its time, the pathogen in the path, the form fitted mould.
Building the colony, its kingdom of mold.

This tin can is corrugated. Not magnetized. It draws no current.
Caustic casualties with severed casual ties.
Still stiff bends in this still surface still horrify me.
That through the rust and corrosion, the heartbreak and implosions,
have all smeared the ink and tore the page
that my character slept in and aged.


VI ~ Umbrae
murky water with the smell of algae
bright skies on your side, under sub-surface dwellings
a new view of the earth
what if my words bled through the barriers
would they meet your underwater ears
refracted far off my meaning
half reflections in the pond
now an elusive Shade in the silt
how does a man know he is
either hear or there
when no one seems to here
I plunge my hand into the pond -
a fist full of sand
one day a pair of eyes will
turn this body of water
into an ocean




Sketch of the Afterdream: An Intrusion of Extricated Meaning
This, the aside, where the meaning and the matter
make one and reside.

They lay, in fractal offerings and evade
every translation, and the fluid form of definition.

Senses insinuate with sounds too subtle,
silent alarms bring us the signs,

the significance of the shifting weight of a signifier’s decline .
This comes of reason, of multiplicity of mind,

wayward view points and delineated denotation,
and the outcast connotations that avoid translation.

Overcome by hand-me-down languages
something escapes, eluding a solid grip.

In the gap between precept and percept
something is lost































Seven – Within Him, No Army Stirs
It takes one swift motion,
to shake that part of me that glows like a jewel
and tear it out.
The piece that makes me a valuable man,
shining like an incisor, like a candle in the night,
I will bury it, tarnished and tepid.
I will be buried by it, flesh rot and putrid.
Sewn with earth through famine and draught
light will recede from me and time will pass,
and in deluded desolation I will smile and laugh
knowing that nothing will grow.


VIII ~ Geminus et Speculum
this wretched thing writhed and heaved
hauled up from the depths in a bloated net
sea sullen and covered in weeds
it was twisted biology, it was uncharted land
foreign flesh, poisoned spines, fins, fur and femur
this was born of the sea, now it was entangled in nets
heavy eyes fell like hammers
it looked so strange as though it might
in some way have my name


Nine – Correlative
This is a sinking fact that has risen in my mind:
the human that I am is suffocated by empty space.
This space is empty and the thought fills my head.
Now I fill this page with polluted water, too clouded to see through.
I dream of a proximity that will heal open wounds.
A warmth that may come immediately or soon.
Something that can catch me from the ocean of emptiness and pull me through this life, the ever deviating definitions that starve the meaning filled matter that I am, as I spend my daily days which influence and slow my empty heart, all that which feeds my empty brain, emptied by thoughts of an emptied life.
This far off closeness will be felt and fed to me
one shovel at a time.
A summit of soil grants supreme solace
in that I am surrounded in absolute silence of thought.
What once made a man
now makes a lake bed.


X ~ Cephalopod
all of the smiles that I have seen
and all of the subtler poisons in my veins
have ran their course, coarse, coursing in the discourse
is it subhuman to transform, in neglect or rage outworn
it was gravity that pulled me under
sunk under the alter of ink
i sunk so low, less myself in the
misunderstanding, epithetical apathy
strands of flesh strip off like tentacles
unwinding around my humane neck
detached and deployed from my spine
my head descends enveloped in black ink
out of reach in the depths of the black ink

One voice is heard,
“What do they call you?”

long time, no see

Sorry for the lack of updates guys. I've been incredibly busy working with school-related stuff. Here's a relatively new poem!

The Spring

I came upon
a pool of water
sitting silver in the light.
Staring into the still surface,
the unstirred, undisturbed pool,
illumined to the bottom its living underbelly.
Entranced,
as time elapsed
my eyes engaged at first
with the glorified inconstancy and youth
the permeation of cast and calling
synchronized with the intricately cut composition,
the water, the reflection, refraction and
the silver cords of light passing through it all.

Old Fodder

Here's a slightly older one I wrote just before summer started. I'm still waiting on finishing the edits for my series, once I get that done a lot of new work will flow out as well.

Phantom Limbs and Peripheries

The ghost man marches before the gloom of morn,
before the dew settles, and a new world born.
He is many shades of darkness, walking and unable to be caught.
Evaporating in front of eyes which may only visualize
something that resembles an aerated ink blot.
He treads like a visual whisper among the mist.

The ghost man is missing a limb,
walking through the mortuary with one arm.
He gropes at the gap in his missing rib,
but with no eyes, he cannot see that he is condemned.
As he wanders away from the north star,
the wind rises, and with it the dust.
Ignorance is enlightened, out of our reach
heaven stretches infinitely far.

This lost man is only ever found in the corner of one’s eye.
When once his disfigured form meets history
his shadowy body blurs and blends with the sky.