Writings.

[frisson]

When I get bored I'll write things in this thread.

1.

luminary pathfinder,
posthumous sins of the grieving philanthropist.
mirror world objections to unwanted proclamations,
cant persuade a reality of unrequited love,

strike at the heart of chastity,
revel in the chivalrous facade,

avant garde!
avant garde!

embrace the inconvenient uncertainties,
yet familial bonds limply escape in moments of weakness.
please don't forget him,
forgive his hostility,
when he pushes you away he's silently screaming;
"come closer"
"come back"
regretfully,
full of regret.

regret.
regret.

excuse me while I,
subsiding into my own failures,

regret.

 

[frisson]

2 .

i'm already dead
but you keep pulverising the mangled carcass
lacerating
mutilating
carve out the lifeless heart
it perishes like ash in your blackened fingertips
try to lick the wounds
with your daggertongue words of silence
you only make it worse
in this empty room of expectations
your despairing eyes
would sooner turn me to stone
than bereave me of my sympathy.

look at what you've done
you can't cheat me this time
im in fucking pieces
you fucking piece of shit
im in fucking pieces
you fucking piece of shit
you fucking piece of shit.

if it means you'll never leave me
i'll endure it
again and again.

it's not your fault.

 

[frisson]

3 .

burdened the inability,
distracted the cognitive scenarios;
fingertips through eyelids,
femur proximal,
cold,
lifeless,
cyclic and unprogressive,
unassuming yet needed;
needed so much.
warmth drawn,
the closer you get,
feel you,
breathing my breathing,
life shared between them,
one sleeps while the other wakes,
such overwhelming guilt;
a flawed existence that persists,
undeserving.
wanting.
not wanting.
never sure.
cyclic and unprogressive,
unassuming yet needed;
needed so much.
distracted by persistent scenarios,
burdened by the inability.
needed so much.
unassuming yet needed;
unprogressive.

cyclic.
so cyclic.

so much.

 

[frisson]

4 .

unresting
you take the greatest part of me
and render me to nihility
everything you ever said
all those times i fucking listened
i bet you're happy now that you have
everything
forgot i'm still breathing?
forgot i'm still here?
you didn't finish the job
my friend
my raison d'etre
you're not fucking done yet
get back here and finish the job
you're not fucking done yet
i'm unresting on the surface
i still have more to give
you still have more to take
take my final breath
if i keep it i can't sink
why keep it?
why keep anything?
if you have
all i am
all i ever can be
then maybe


i'll have you.

 

[frisson]

5 .

desire,
or need?
chemical imbalances,
irrevocable longing for the unobtainable,
love,
hate.
catalyst.
characterisation for infinitely variable reverberations.

the siren's scream;
the banshee's song,
hand clutches neck,
thighs trace the hips,
indiscriminate unions,
indirect displays of affection.
there's no blame when it simply comes to,
riding the wavelength.

it's ok,
i get it.
but,

at times i find myself just,
sitting there,
not breathing,
involuntarily holding my breath,
as if my body is telling me,
to just give up already,

just give up.

 

[Hidden]

When you write poetry like this and then read it back to yourself--what do you find in it?

 

[frisson]

Things I need to remember, but would like to forget, I guess.

 

[Hidden]

With such intensely personal writing, it seems necessary to be able to get inside the speaker's voice in order to connect to the piece in any significant way. I rarely can do this, however, and so find myself somehow outside of the poem. I guess I was curious what it looked like to a reader from the inside, though I doubt one could describe the experience.

 

[frisson]

With such intensely personal writing, it seems necessary to be able to get inside the speaker's voice in order to connect to the piece in any significant way. I rarely can do this, however, and so find myself somehow outside of the poem. I guess I was curious what it looked like to a reader from the inside, though I doubt one could describe the experience.

You're right,
I can see it's not reaching out to anyone,
not connecting with them,
which is probably why nobody responds to it.
But I think you can connect to it, when it's right to.
I'm not really into poetry, because a lot of it is very forward
and structured
and rhymes unnecessarily.
I want people to pick at it,
try and crack it open,
because if someone's getting that involved with words,
it's like there's this relationship between the person and a foreign experience.
And they don't have to go through it to eventually understand it.
Like a stop sign dressed in christmas wrapping,
or something.
And I want people to get engaged with the sounds and the shape of it,
rather than the actual content.
I want to write a poem that makes absolutely no sense,
until you read it aloud.
Every hiss,
every syllable,
as it rolls off the reader's tongue and out to the proverbial skyway,
read in its entirety;
creating a feeling that destroys meaning,
and re-creates it,
because I feel aesthetics are instinctive rather than an intellectually acquired taste.
And I'd like to exemplify that.
But it has little to do with the scenarios I write about.
It's very personal,
yes,
but I couldn't write about anything else as passionately.



EDIT: to continue, below.

 

[frisson]

6 .

vocifer esthetics
the "cellar door"
shapes
and images
cornering the sight-line
birthing apprehension
ritualistic tendencies that lead to
abrasive abhor;

not of others,
but of self.

it's sensation
ardour
it can't be seen
doesn't even want to
beyond the arms length
beyond dimensionality
yet not beyond reach

you.
shower.
thirty-three minutes.

eyes removed
what remains?
only rhythmic
liquid vociferation

vociferation.

haven't you ever wondered why the living cry?

 

[frisson]

7 .

the surreal...

gone too far,
in the age
of...

love not,
tears all apart,
it's all...
herein.

primordial trace-lines...
ornery-spite birthmark...
on his... frostlain hands.
transcending the once,
eclipsing the always,
a work towards the indistinguishable.

causebe,

don't we have that right?
the right to seizures?
to...
motley-tone carrion...

to...
chloroform imposed colours?


out of all the names they could have gave him...

 

[frisson]

doot .

 

[frisson]

8 .

the shadow of doubt stands at our feet, against the light. it grows heavy and disfigured as the sun touches the horizon and spills its risen bile against the landscape. it has spent the day engorging on our fears and insecurities, desperately shielding them from the oppressive gazes of circling vultures in cliques and clothing. but it can only eat so much.
As the day rains shards of criticisms, it grows intoxicated on outrageous hopes and unrealistic expectations,
and as the harsh rays of burden beam down on its form, its legs give way to fatigue and atrophy,
and as it passes into the world of dreams it finally explodes in a tumultuous torrent of formless beauty. never to be seen...

all to eat again come morning.




our greatest foe stands on the shadow's feet; in the light.