February 2012
25 posts
5 tags
“Here are the two states in which you may exist: person who writes, or person who...”
– 25 Things I Want To Say To So-Called “Aspiring” Writers
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Nib
You confer far too much
in the ends of lines,
through pens that bloody pages.
By design, some rhyme must be internal
just like this hemorrhage.
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Or, Rather,
The shimmers hand-play cardamom.
Felt Father flooded France. Go page!
The whoas censure blood working (for free rage).
Cocoa warmer 3, same page.
The play, she her Co-worker,
all her searching - franchise, go.
The shimmers hand the same.
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Understanding
We were particles
entrenched,
swiftly-shattered spires
of meaning,
a trough and crest
that swept to shore
long latitudes below
the rest.
Our encounters — just
unlikely metaphors.
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blazing skin
Audacious rays heat sand.
Polar-carbon rage
drawn phage ablaze.
She wielded phages
in salacious skins.
Beneath the roans feet;
broken polar screams…
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Molten Corps
The work of the cuckoo was to find the scent absent their knees. It went with bars horizontal like ladders, but lacking portability.
Like bars, but lacking drink.
Like lacking, but imbued.
Amplified, the rungs slung closer to the center, melting successful polarized attractants. Rust began to formal, bow and tied to otter slides. It waited like Paris’s quiver, bowing for mortal...
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Considered
It’s murder in the end.
All related plates
are stained
and, given that
the helix
is our fate,
grasping grates
and crescent wax,
traits pertaining
to a glacial pace
should be portrayed.
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Mercury Elixir
He’s more than sane.
He brought sustain,
He bought clay clocks
to watch them wane.
As the prophets set
an armistice ablaze,
He stalks their daughters.
He’s more than sane.
He drowns their fathers.
He scries the pitch
for blackened waters.
His daughters flee
the madness at His gates.
He’s more than sane.
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To the Hilt
Bureau crazy measures doled
in spoonfuls
by convincing slick —
surfaces so soundly underway
(our first foray).
Restless at
their measures,
the back room sort
of jester gestures,
cross word indications
now in play.
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How to Survive the Tumblr Writing Community
The only way to play is not to win.
Seriously, diversify. Find the best - people who inspire you. Find the prodigies - people you want to see grow and succeed. Find friends.
Don’t follow someone back if they make you hate your dash. Don’t think that selling books to each other is a reasonable business model. Don’t pretend that following people who write what you like to read...
Mind's Eye Doctor
As a child, I remember reading that cellophane could be made to sound like a fire…
Having never seen cellophane, I imagined some sort of almost magical liquid with bizarre sound properties…
1 tag
onnothingandeverything replied to your post: On Cut-ups (Or Why *Jist* is My Favorite Piece in Months) thank you for breaking down your writing process! i’m going to have a play with the DPG :)
You’re welcome.
If you’re like me, you have fragments sitting around that you love, but that won’t proceed to completion. Sometimes injecting a bit of chaos can deliver a single...
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On Cut-ups (Or Why *Jist* is My Favorite Piece in...
Yesterday I started the morning with two fragments rolling around in my text drawer.
Piece 1:
A latent allure,
assured asides
muttered at hats
on brazen brims
a madam’s whim
implied.
And Piece 2:
Beneath the cut
is hoary bone,
swiveling teeth
and vulture beaks
Neither one seemed to want to go anywhere, content to sit and stagnate. When this happens, I...
4 tags
WatchThe dark side of the moon…
1 tag
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On Edge
The bow he tied
into your lace
can stay.
The sugar in
your hourglass
must wait,
to tempt the fates.
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Jist
“Allure,”
a whim implied.
“Beneath its teeth, allure,”
an aside of a whim,
“and beaks.”
Muttering bone,
swiveling muttered
to brazen boys,
“The vulture
is latent beneath…”
“…beneath the bone
and teeth.”
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From These to There
Tears fall, lacking.
His fall,
the tears clear
as past
compresses vision.
Caressed compression of
her back in time.
Transgressions without time.
And today,
his knife’s suspicions —
fingering caresses
in her pictures,
not his pictures—
Suspicious.
Never laughter.
Pictures on the ground.
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Far From These Things
Beholden,
she backs away
till the stars
compress around
his vision.
Pictures throw themselves
to the ground,
or hang
in suspicious effigy.
A knife’s edge
tears and falls away
with Time’s division.
His aria fails, expression in
flute fingering caresses,
to recall
the sound of her steps
or the sense of her shape
draped in darkness.
January 2012
22 posts
2 tags
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anec-donts replied to your post: Gutter Strays this is about me
You know, I hadn’t thought of that in the context of your recent post. :)
I think there’s an aspect that could apply, but it applies to most of us. There’s a chain around each poet’s neck and the links rotate (like self-reblogging). Those links are, alternately - pride, humility, self-confidence,...
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Gutter Strays
A worm proceeds
“Look at Me!
The Lowly, Wriggling
Earth Scroll Quill,
scribing deep
in Clay and Slate.”
His tragedy beneath;
bright wings are folded
clipped by
stubborn need.
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Kangaroo Courtesans
“Thus,”
the macabre
swabs sobbed,
“it’s just.”
Taken as written,
this plea amounts
to pence.
Mastiffs looming
o’er assail as
spies survey
the rigging.
Great gavels grovel
and bailiffs have
no sense.
But she, an orderly,
winced through
the proceeding.
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Fickle
The collapse,
once done,
spun glass
across our brow.
Quicksilver cascades
caressed her cheek.
In smoke and flame
fair faces play
through pools
of recognition
and retreat.
One is just
the same.
Neither needed
northern graces.
Identities rephrased.
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Arch Text
Contorted resorts,
a gabled court—
baffles sate the blaze.
Solace for stair steps,
oak grown emphatic,
chimneys for the chaise.
Winds ascend toward
dark screen doors,
flues forsake the flame.
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Fame
It falls from his eyes
with the patience
of a midwife,
like the beard from his chin —
His headstone fixed
long before
it comes to rest.
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Atuned
The room is let,
the strings rent.
We fret along branches,
chord rapt,
undiminished.
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Tuning
When the strings are cut
they curdle in suspension.
In this way
notes are taken,
driven crying into silence.
Consumed, augmented
self-regard,
betraying fair attentions.
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Page 4, Paragraph 1
“A horse, on course,”
he muttered and
split the binding,
severed the syllabus spine.
“Wide rule, wide rule
and only ink.”
A cautious way to think.
For the brink of
sadness sails
far past an asses’ braying,
assaying risks there
for the taking
and mists that fill
the bay to breaking.
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Say It Back
Tell my kids
I stole a sampo
in my heady days
of youth.
Killed a beast
and beat a deadly
rhythm on its bones.
Swallowed, shipwrecked,
swept away by eagles
if we were running late…
A better fate than this,
better far than
toiling in a mist
of mediocrity.
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Yggdrasil
We wrote it down,
untwisting mists
around our minds.
Across the steppes,
along the staircase,
upon the branches.
Knee deep in reeds
past sleeping jaws,
on death of silence.
In search of the brilliance
stolen ages before.
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White-washed Tombs
The bleeding reached
our ceiling with a leap,
seeping up the cracks,
tracing shades on palisades.
The impact shook our racks
and left us seeming
leached of every tint,
never a hint at scheming
or anything off-color.
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Here Comes Guilt
Intentions would be
ever so much
more promising
if they could be gripped,
caught by their fur,
held by their scales
or plates of chitin
instead of glaring like
staring salamanders,
wriggling polywogs peddling
a promised change.
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Mettle
Why are we so wound?
Astounding sounds confront
our bobbins as they fall
to ground and take us all
beneath the moss and heath
to breathe a grainy haze
and coat our lungs
with dust of ancient
days, raging souls
that bore the rack
while we beg for reprieve.
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Trot
Poles reverse,
hearse entrances.
File attraction,
as learners reflect.
A child smiled
set swinging.
A gilded child
enchantment.
Horseshoes
stretched past attraction
feign wakeful hate.
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Abrasion
A beast in recess
crouches beneath
our nest.
And we apprehend
our reasonable fears.
Hackles lift
to pirouhettes, twisting
comprehension
around our neck.
Forsaking sense
for survival
has us
dead to rights.
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Dermal
The text neglects
to assert
the hurts
she was prescribed.
The cure
was worse
by far —
frigid ever-afters,
naked for want
of a spindle.
A New Year
I wanted to thank everyone for the nice messages and likes of my last post. There’s been a ton going on with the holidays, work and my five-year anniversary.
It’s been a great 6-7 months on tumblr, I’ve greatly enjoyed getting to know many of you. I hope to do more of that in 2012…
Billy
December 2011
41 posts
3 tags
Base Thoughts
She hurls her hurt
underhand.
Sick spin
sets it sinking.
Abandoned, he flails
mind-battered
frail, thoughts freshly
stricken.
Three times, they
rewound.
Four times,
gone to ground.
Calamity set
in a picture frame
with no glass.
Absence
I was sick again this weekend. Ridiculous.
And this week is inventory. :)
Hope you’re all surviving the crush…