This morning, I raise my glass to those with whom I drink the rising of the sun. I drink in these early hours in the company of the down-trodden, the depressed, the angry, jaded, and bitter. I am celebrating with those debt-ridden, lonely, and sad, with no place and no one to call their own, and I sing to sleep in spinning dirges those who want the light of their eyes to blink out before that sun ever rises. I lift my glass in silence and look around this empty room before I bring that clean bitter to my lips.
Title To Be Determined
I have begun writing a novel. For the first time in almost a year, I have dedicated myself once again to writing. Things have recently become very dark for me, so I need the catharsis of writing and a project to move forward. Hopefully, things will get better and go as I am planning. However, should they not, I will at least have this to keep me sane.
In order to make up for my year of writing absence, I have decided to compose a novel that almost entirely dictates the happenings that occurred within the last year. It will most obviously be a surrealist novel, as I attempt to recreate for the reader this dream that I wish would be over and go back to the dream that I wish would never end.
As of right now, I have completed the prologue entitled “Anecdote” and am beginning work on the first section: The Waxing Moons. The title of this novel (or novella, whichever it should rise itself into being) is yet to be decided upon. I will continue working on it and tweaking it through my nights at work. With as quickly as I have been working, this should very well be finished within the next month or so. I have very high hopes.
Look for news on here (if anyone still even reads this or is bothered to do so) about the continuing process of my novel. Process may also be followed via my Twitter account @We_am_Lunatic.
Release the Mechanism
My work has finally come to a head in the form of Release the Mechanism. I have put together 14 different poetry tracks that are loosely based on a subjective story line. As each track is entirely situational, it is highly recommended that the listener wears headphones.
It is being released as a .rar file with enclosed .mp3s. The album can be found for free at the following link:
The album is free, but donations are greatly appreciated, and if you like what you hear, you can click the donate button at the bottom of this post.
Final Poem (I Miss Her Appalachian Voice)
At two decades, I am finished
I will write no more
These penned phrases will be my last
My words are dumb
and cannot do her justice
Since that state took the best of me
there has been no music
All of my carefully placed metaphors
have done nothing but confuse and bring down
I am through
Every attempt will fail
I cannot be compassionate with myself
It was only ever a childish attempt
at intellect and belonging
Much like this
My random words to illicit images
serve no point
Please forgive me these ambitious years
I’ve tried to write and express each thought
but my words fall short
Speechless
She has finally brought me awestruck
I can conjure no more language
just pure, abject emotion
So strip away my sorry talent
Place and burn it on an altar
for her
I will write no more
Nothing To Be Done
My thumb rolled
across the ridges of your throat
as we sat hidden in the fog:
the thick, opaque breath of the ferns
До свидания, comrade
I have but 15 kopeks to my name
and a belly full of starving
but I would spend every coin
to buy you another drink
How can you lie there
So still
Even the statues shiver
The sky is darker than my grandfather’s uniform
but filled with as much blood
You are so brave
Eyes as beacons against the winter fire
There is no smiling here
You don’t even blink
The concrete is as cold as your skin
The Drift of Creaking Star Boards
The vessel blasted across the moonglade
On its hull of schist
stood a man clad in tattered rags
With a dram glass of calamity
He drove his brig through the tired water
In precision parabolas, he intends to reach Abaco
There was no loss of pulch
For the mast swayed with symphonic purpose
and mercurial journals three hundred years past
Through the cecum of the Mediterranean
He will sail
Until he builds an oblast
From the bucket of epoxy at his hip
You Are My Favorite Color
You have found the thread,
though I fit the needle.
It was unbeknownst to me that I would utter the Franken phrase
that brought you to me.
The moon cascaded in beautiful wax
that circumvented my desperate hands.
I showed you truth
through ambient mumblings
that lulled you to dream
in words of slurred importance.
I am buried in you, bathed in you,
with sundried hair
and hands of exquisite marring.
I’ll keep you from the fires, love,
but I’ll plunge you into heat-death.
You’ve fulfilled the pattern
in such a way as to break the eye.
Your panic taught me how to breathe.
Future Perfekt
If I ever marry, I want to buy a house. We will go shopping for garden equipment. I will buy a rake and name it Orpheus.
Inverse Dedication
Let me dance. My fingers fumble to reach falsetto and the colors of my room are dimmed by the sound of my breathing. The shadow in my face is warbling from the candlelight cast in your eyes. I have a gift for you, but it’s nothing you can hold. However, I can take my gift and paint it across your ridge. Each implosion grants me leave. There is no light here, but the little crystals keep me slipping. There are clock towers that have yet to chime and soften the silence of your delicate cheek. I am in trance, and no words fall from the stained plastic. I have captured Want.
Dedicated to Brown Sugar Orchids
The founder’s barrel has cooled and I have run out of ammunition. Instead, I stand now spinning, having leapt from the last bullet and fallen into her gentle, Bacchanalian caliber. I see in shapes of winter, and the seasons homogenize into perfect spheres of annual Saturnalia. Whispers through struck chords of player pianos have left me in awe and disappointment, as I had left my fear so quickly. The power letters have when sliding through tongue and teeth. These dreams of pastel kings lead through awkward motions and leave in fluid intersections. There will be revelry, and bent pardons shall become whole and hopeful. Locked doors bring change, dear Alice.
