Untitled 10/8 (mix of two poems written together)

When I do not love the world I will be alive
And no one will see me awaken
Barefoot and bare like a bloody newborn
I do believe things are impossible
Like a baby whistling in the Arctic –

To love a world that loves no one
But its self loving another is crazy
Afterwards it was odd to be trained in certain
Ways these freaks in pinstripes crucified
Screaming 'I want to die,'

Meaning 'I want to love,' travelling thru oceans
Of red and purple clouds of hot evening sunshine –
Because what beautiful things
Are so beautiful they are possible –

Above geometric black shadows of houses,
And priceless armies of women expanding
Like Lycra begin to sing while batting
Eyelashes thru a concentration of rainbows

And this world stops being a soup of death
And becomes miles and miles of old veridian,
In you love hung like rubies in a cave,
Upside-down like bats their faces odd like pumpkins –

My heart beats thru its skin
All I am is skin, skeleton and a heart,
I am almost nothing; hot petals fall and burn white,
Forces the bells to recede,

Why am I given back the moments of your stillborn?
And no one but me can see miles above
A rock with moss, or an atom in the dust.

Automatic Writing 10/8

I am now the old blame
There is no more ale
There is no more pain.

The path he takes up there
A bar of organs
Internal flesh questions.


*** I did this using automatic writing technique with eyes closed. My little sister came up with some of the first stanza. The first stanza was scribbles at first. We came up with:

I am the
El blahe
m cd ale
a pain.

And tried again for:

I am the
G L blame
No and ale
O pale.

I then re-wrote it to what it is now and did some automatic writing to get the second stanza.

Anger

Raging Raging
Black fury burning
A fight;
I had arguments,
I had viewpoint from
Rooftop -
Oh, such beautiful anger,

Begin to drink
Than think;
Unable to eat -
Punch wall and break fist;
I wait for ladies
To atack me,
With thoughts of babies, stealers of toes -
Oh, such gorgeous anger,

Dying, burning,
Reeking of old energy
Fuming pores to ooze hot sweat
And veins like tunnels
Of lava;
No perfect silver limbo,
I am the rabbit-man,
Oh, such electric anger,

I burn inside-out
Upside I am fierce
I snarl and bare all
Whiskers flaring up and
I steal beauty
Oh, such perfect anger!

Metallica And A Cup Of Tea - And Poets

Heavy metal helps to get you in the mood for writing. Or that, it helps when your pissed off.. either way, I had Metallica on loud (with a cup of tea, lol) and I was reading some poems and sorting out the poets and authors I read.

I reaslise I am a fan of Plath and Bukowski. Also the beat poets. Two French poets. And some who are still alive. They are (other than the French ones) pretty much American and British.

Poets: Sylvia Plath, charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, William s Burroughs, Philip Larkin, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Rimbaud, Guillaume Appolinaire, Frank O'Hara, Brion Gysin, Heathcote Williams, John Sinclair, Ted Berrigan, John Giorno, Harris Schiff, D.H. Lawrence, Wilfred Own, Siegried Sassoon.

I finished my story called 'Spider.' It's weird but interesting, and kinda crappy since it seems kind of rushed, which is the reason I'd be crap writing a novel, I'd just lose all patience and write the end.

I'm going to write some poems now. What I think is good I will post on here. I start my Masters at University next month, so I need all the practise I can get. I don't know how good I am, but I want to be better.

Spider - And Language

I'm in the middle of writing a short story called Spider, which will be longer than most of my pieces. It's about fear and the meaning of fear. I came up with it at work, I was looking at a girl who is one of the cleaners there, and I didn't have the nerve to talk to her. So I thought to myself "She probably more scared of me than I am of her," like a spider. And I began making notes on a piece of paper. The girl character becomes quite controlling, but fear and power keeps switching between the two characters.

Haven't written much poetry in a while. But I've been reading Sylvia Plath, Charles Bukowski, and a little bit of DH Laurence. And I listen to some, inc. Frank O'Hara on www.ubu.com

Also, I had a weird comment on this blog today which said "I am not a child." Thought that sounded funny, becuase I didn't know what it meant. But at the end of my post I'd written "thanks for readin kiddehs." Kiddeh (kidder) or kid, is slang for friend. Like saying "mate" or "lad." That latter, usually for males, and can sound like "la," like the Merseybeat band The La's. Just thought it was interesting on the whole language barrier; ame language, different words. Kind of like poetry.