Sunday, February 4, 2007

Poetry Post

So, I mentioned that I would post some of my writing soon. Here are a couple pieces of poetry that I’ve done. The first one I began working on the other day. This is a first draft and so it will change, I’m quite sure, before the final revision. If anyone has some constructive criticism to offer, I’d love to hear from you. The second is a piece that I’m hoping to have published in the Analecta (Our college undergrad art magazine) this spring.

It’s All in a Dream

Car wreck
It didn’t want to fit
up over the curb
and through the trees
I need a jump

Jonny to my rescue
adoring his Christ image
poised for the crucifix
The gratitude his and mine
felacio on my knees

Over my head two hands
appear, two index fingers
strike their way in through
his nipples, sucking the pleasure,
The force of release from him

Flee, the threat has found you
Across the lacquered boards of the gym floor
Avoid the glass security cage
You fool. Bound over the ropes
Freedom awakes.

Labyrinth - (Our Club in Detroit)

Down the dark stairs into the
safety below; punks, rivet heads,
romantics, elder goths, technos,
industrials and fetish goths swirl
in a sea of black hair and
undulating bodies.

In the shadowed corners candle
wax molds itself to table tops.
Cigarettes spill over ashtrays
soaking up the liquor of half
empty glasses. Black glitter covered walls
dance to the beat of flickering light.

Essence is created in movement
as bodies coast through conversation,
minds benumbed by the sound that
each creature experiences
in their own way,
but comprehends
as an archetypal knowledge.

All know, that here is where they belong.
The existence of a familiar compassion
lingers in the air. The lies within the truth
are exemplified. Death and darkness, mourning for
man’s inhumanity to man are necessary if
we yearn for light.

A culture like no other, shedding intolerance
like old paint. Liberation is the manifestation
of the art,
and it is an art,
all of it.
Caressing the mind with lover’s hands
as the soil swaddles the seed
whispering to it - that it should grow.

Observe the dance as the soul masters
the elegance of gothic beauty
with no intrusion
into another body’s space
boys and ghouls develop into a faction
swallowing all in a corporeal transcendence.

Night lingers in every place but one -
where the glaring lights of the ghoul’s room
contracts the pupils. Instinctively
hands shield faces like vampires in the sun.
Gangs of Dresden Dolls
fix their black lips and eyes
at the reflecting station
because we do reflect. Despite the rumors.

The solace of affinity pulsates like
blood through the veins when you
return to the dark – a peaceful descent
to the tomb. Covenant’s “Deadstars” calls
the body and mind back
into the sanctuary –
where Carpe Mortem is branded
on everyone’s heart.

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