The Flower- a sonnet

Grey field laid out beyond my eye’s own scope

The grass beneath my feet crunches, cracks

I look up, skyward, seeking without hope

But how did I come here, where life but lacks?

Ahead: a blinding light upon a stone.

A daisy petal lingers, life still glows.

It tortures us, the grey-dwellers- alone.

Who put it there, who left it, taunting us?

I run towards the petal: no avail.

Its stand recedes; it runs from me, too fast

To catch. But I must chase, though I will fail.

The beauty fades, but I must make it last.

               

The petal hides from me- a spiteful game.

And now I`ve seen it, death won`t be the same.

The Fairy Tale

A daunting task, this climb- no end

And every time I pause I fear

(A greedy, childish horror, mine)

That now’s the top, there is no more

The view is beauty, cornered, no screen

To shield from hungry eyes, I want

Next rise we’ll wait, and cease to want?

We’ll take it all, and choose to end

The journey. Upwards, sideways, fear

Incarnate: down leaves me and mine

All bruised and battered, gasp: once more

To heaven, round us keep a screen.

To save us helpless things, our screen

We’ll deny it. Precious things want

A fairy tale has (lie) no end

We gather whimsy round in fear

So they don’t spoil- can’t take mine

Won’t let them rob me anymore

I’ve been trapped in that desolate moor

Lived life abandoned, with no screen

From colds winds. Shook, I turned to want

From bleak and endless flats an end

From grey unfeeling dirt to veer:

A thing to carry precious: mine!

And once I had it, it was mine

To watch, with proud eyes wanting more

From harsh and daunting falls to screen

To hold it tight with further want

Pretend that it will have no end

This fairy tale must end, I fear

And now I know this is not fear;

It’s true, tomorrow, me and mine

Might lose ourselves and tumble more

And further than before- no screen

The mountain laughs- how dare we want

To climb it higher than its end?

But will I want to climb it more?

And hide behind that screen of mine?

The fear of truth will end us all.

5 AM

Hey, Ash, hey!

Do you have

Some Advil?

I don’t, mum,

Sorry. Do

The others?

Nope and nope.

She goes out,

Buys some more.

Light goes out.

I’m asleep.

A dream: littleislandswithsomepeopleanda fortressgetinside they’recomingforus!Run!Theyfollow downthestairsI’ve failedmy peop-

Wiffle sword

Hits my face

I’m up, quit

Hitting, Rob!

Yay! I Swayt

Duh Dwagon!

Manifesto- What is a poem?

Poetry ought to make the reader see the world as its author sees it. A poem should make the reader think- “Wow, the world has never looked like this before”.  If the poem does not create the effect the author intends on the intended audience, then I believe it is an ineffective poem. A poem does not need to have mass appeal in order to be successful. If a poem is written for a single person’s consumption, it shouldn’t matter to the poet what the entire world thinks of it. A poem’s form should be deliberate, and have specific purpose. No form of poetry is ‘wrong’. Every line, stress, and shape present in a poem must not distract from its purpose; they ought to strengthen the poem in a visual and/or audial manner. The strength of a poem also lies in the gaps left between the text. It makes the reader’s mind wander and wonder, allowing em to put the poet’s perspective alongside eir own. It also eliminates the frustrating conventions of contemporary English (certain unclear pronouns, for one) and allows the meaning to escape from the tangle of language rules, and even language itself.

P.S. I’m rather fond of the Spivak gender-neutral pronoun, demonstrated above.

The Last of You

`Night

Was the last thing said-

Inane, but what else could it have been?

I remember, beautiful blue eyes

In contrast to the rest:

Yellow, shrunk, grey around the iris;

Angles hellish sharp; a square, not a cheek.

I remember remembering you clearly

The scene, vivid only weeks, days, hours ago.

A Picasso distortion, a dizzy turning blurs your face

An indistinct yellow-pink puddle engulfs my mind

But not your blue eyes.

Stuck, fixed in the center of memory

Last pure anchor, precious sapphire drops perched on my fingertip

I’ll never let your eyes drop from my sight

Or you’ll die.

You’ll die again.

(But they’ll drop

One day.)

P(Y)/P(N)

Does Mikala like Tenzin?
85% chance.
Will Tenzin ask her out?
60%.
Question 6 is about
50/50.
Question 6 can go to
Hell-
'cause Tenzin won't ask her,
not if he knows that.

Too much danger in knowing
A shame- they'd've been great,
if they'd been oblivious.
Homer jumped the gorge
without knowing (or thinking)
broke his everything on the way down
but
it must have been a helluva trip.

Numbers would have frozen me
would have frozen me
Thank [not God, not God!]
they
didn't catch me.

Poisonous Taylor

Fed up with formatting this darn thing, I came up with the ingenious idea of screencapping it. Ta-da!