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#1 darci

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Posted 21 June 2019 - 01:40 AM

Some music I might listen to while writing.  Youtube will play several of their songs in a row, and I suppose if you like them, you'll let them play through while you read:
 
 
I discovered this band not too many months ago and find them to be quite brilliant, though admittedly not everyone's cup of tea.  When I listen to them, I hear angels, but some hear something else.  Either way, love it or hate it, there it is.
 
As far as what's below - I suppose these are most of the poems I have written that I would say are any "good."  At least, good when compared to what I have written that is also garbage, but worse.  Eh, maybe I'm being too self-critical.  I think sometimes it would take a real literary critic to even begin to try to make sense of what I'm doing here.  Doesn't matter anyway, most people don't give a shit about poetry and of those that do, most of them are idiots anyway.  I'm just posting this here because ... well, because.
 
Of course, this material reveals clues to my psychology which are utterly embarrassing and shameful, and though I might consume my mental bandwidth worrying about how an astute reader would dissect my motivations, contemplations, and feeble attempts at artistry, my lameness stands itself as a testament as if it were itself art.  And knowing this, one might wonder if I'm not just playing a game and seeing who I can fool.  Good luck, it's a puzzle, even to myself.
 
I can admit it's difficult reading, if only that I present my ideas in a convoluted fashion, but moreso that the essence exists as an analysis of a lot of hurtful emotions.  I followed that advice of "write what you know" in the beginning, although I'm working very hard to move past this and use my imagination and faith to construct a new life, a new understanding of the world, and a new future for myself and everything and everyone I interact with.  It's hard.  But I'm trying.  Anyway, here are the literary moments of before up until the "now."
 
If (BIG IF) you're one of the type of people who can read all of this and not lose interest or try your patience, GOD I'd love to hear from you.
 
 
 
 
 
~ Glimpse ~
 
He pulled aside the curtain and
stepped into my realm like an
angel whose wing brushed
against the world.
 
I found him on a beach
among the ancient, insensible
poetry of the waves
calling in verses not sung, but
imagined.
 
There was wisdom in the sound
of his heartbeat, like the swell of a tide
I surfed along the threshold
of eternal ocean and infinite sky.
 
Near the fire the man said
"you are here"
and held out a grain of sand
 
Smiling, and by unnoticed
footsteps
he drifted away
as I examined the mirror;
The sparkling little
gem of nothingness
gleaming with the light of 
the name of God
and all our children’s.
 
All songs were sung,
All sights were seen,
But the wind, without permission,
drew the flake from my hand.
 
Though I know where to search,
I know
I shall never find it again.
 
 
 
 
~ House Once Home ~
 
This curious room
Locked in stillness
In memory-clouded
dust-circumferenced space,
Shafts brilliant spill through windows
soaking hands, defining face
 
Creaks speak
of would-be trysts
With lightest footsteps
on wooden floors
Or rain-soaked strangers
never kissed
Beside the way of opened doors
 
Or a litter of letters upon a desk
scrawled ink on pages fading
Accident: words, too-soon spoken
beyond the brink of memory's wading
 
In the myriad of mystery
and hidden emotion contained
With every book, a library
of heartbreak pained,
 
Oblique, shiny moments cascade
through the memory-stained glass
Confessing walls of gray I pass,
Then fade.
 
Evaded love
Eluded me
Darkness close behind.
 
 
 
 
~ Rough Idle ~
 
He wasn't trying;
He really was that way.
The black leather jacket
And fingernails dirty with oil.
 
Two-wheeled excitement
Pouring like smoke, and wrong whiskey
Over stretches serpentine;
That bottle that shattered over asphalt
Broke my world.  A world I can only
crawl over on my knees.
 
Fucking him
Was like fucking a loaded gun
And the only way to come
Was with my finger on the trigger.
 
But all is wrong.
What mama taught me
Tells me to forget
 
That is not the problem
When I scratch this knee.
 
 
 
 
~ Stubble ~
 
his smell whirled
in perfumes and pheromones
like subdued hurricanes;
my lungs pickpocket his jacket.
 
i am forever incomplete:
oxygen without lust asphyxiates;
nothing reminds me
of home, like his does.
 
alone and lost among eons
with every tick of the clock
a life sentence
 
further, i bear the clock
ticking at the strop
sharpening the blade of thought
the hairs of tomorrow
from yesterday split.  i slip,
and learn which wound is more grave:
 
the bleeding palm
or the bitten lip.
 
 
 
 
~ Southern Bound ~
 
kansas, halfway.
my red line plunges
across borders, maps that fold my life into
fear, hope, and dread
 
never mind that smoke coming from underneath.
this is a ‘78; grease and fanbelts are just part
of the traveling equation.
 
never do the tourist brochures say "you'll find love here"
and hotels don't lie enough to say "welcome home"
they just picture happy people and swimming pools.
 
i went for a swim beneath the kind of rain that falls before the feathers,
imagining the half-dollar left in my left pocket could tease a vending machine
out of another food group, but getting home
is the real tease.
 
home is a place imagined.  not where
the word "love" was mixed with emergency rooms and promises
like water and oil. my blood bears witness
to the blind creature who exhales my asphyxiation.
 
and the beer-laden ham with a talking mouth
that promises to solve all my problems, if only
i use my mouth.  i'll tell it carefully
a practiced surgical decline.
(best not to hurt feelings when you don't know
who has a gun)
 
the morning arrives;
chasing the horizon @ 78 mph
the sky opens up as a knife through an envelope
i roll down the manual windows to
see a sunrise bearing promises
like burning motor oil,
and flowers in my teeth.
 
 
 
 
~ Cold Mountain ~
 
My night knows no variation:
Silence follows silence;
A viking skin, still cold and
Untouched beside winter's ashes
 
I dream of warmths I have never known
And ten thousand souls asleep.  Beside them
I am enough to melt the season;
They are the heat in which I burn
And the longing in which I shiver.
 
My bed become a nest of dreams
Where sometimes I meet the iron man
Behind kind eyes, and dark skies
Full of fierce horizons.
 
Hands that write history
Bear down, to work the glowing rod
Where will marks its will upon the lesser metal;
To slake his fire in my deep waters
What anvils would be broken
 
Here, the accumulation of destiny
Purpose plowing through me, trustworthy
Like educated oxen, overturning sod.
My soil now fertile, now meaning and form become
The structure of the clay that is my dreams.
 
But like the fires of winter
I fear of being awakened
Realizing what cannot be.
 
Still a fire haunts me
And I still curl in blankets cold.
 
 
 
 
~ Promise ~
 
came
upon the stone
and waxen altar,
bare and broken
 
making promises of lies.
 
candlelit, the caress
of light is full
of fondness and folly.
 
the echoes of our longing
leaves our chambers bare;
emptiness is the taste
to feed the hungry.
 
that which soothes
brings us pain;
that which satisfies
plants the
seed of longing.
 
 
 
 
~ Ascension ~
 
the falling contemplate,
finding there is verse in gravity:
 
"what undone things were wished
and kisses remain unavenged?”
 
but i will ask Him,
“how could i build
when the timber and nails
of this world have no architecture
but to crucify me?”
 
the last glimpse of holding on
comes an inch past the precipice,
 
and the feeling of being born again
is much the same as dying.
 
will his arms ever find me?
soon i reach the ground.
 
 
 
 
~ House Once Home ~
 
This curious room
Locked in stillness
In memory-clouded
dust-circumferenced space,
Shafts brilliant spill through windows
soaking hands, defining face
 
Creaks speak
of would-be trysts
With lightest footsteps
on wooden floors
Or rain-soaked strangers
never kissed
Beside the way of opened doors
 
Or a litter of letters upon a desk
scrawled ink on pages fading
Accident: words, too-soon spoken
beyond the brink of memory's wading
 
In the myriad of mystery
and hidden emotion contained
With every book, a library
of heartbreak pained,
 
Oblique, shiny moments cascade
through the memory-stained glass
Confessing walls of gray I pass,
Then fade.
 
Evaded love
Eluded me
Darkness close behind.
 
 
 
 
~ Aquamarine ~
 
Subtlety
Writes psalms and scripture;
Your lips scribe poems on my skin.
 
Don't move. Misunderstood,
I will slow myself down to see you.
Taking pause for pernicious time
And wishes, incomplete.
 
Your work is a novel unread.
I cannot write.
I scribble. Relentless.
 
Your beach is a front
I cannot breach.  Frantic,
I scrawl onto the blank sand,
My tiny palms against your tide -
My toil to find your every love
 
And though love is deep,
Desire is a fathom.
 
 
 
 
~ Discovery ~
 
Ink bleeds from the mark
On cellulosic fibers of
A letter that will never be mailed:
 
It is not coincidence when your eyes sing
A threnody full of dim melodies,
I desire to let those sinless words
Have their guilt with me.
 
Let my descent be my own burden
I am no saint, and what Christian
Still believes it is a sin to love?
 
Soon the ghost goes wry, if we are lucky,
Before then we will have something to dream:
 
You, my dark animal, I find lurking
Outside my fire. Those eyes again staring
From the shadows; my skin calls the
Name of your ancient enterprise.
 
And I like to think I can control
The way we feel, but surrender is my 
Only victory when under 
This kind of threat.
 
It can be.  It can be.
 
To say
I merge with thee, to taste the
Knowing of Oblivion, a path
That leads away from the hell of
This damnable existence.
 
And I have reached into the grist
To find you kiss too near the mouth
Of the abyss without fear of falling.
In my fascination I have slipped
A little too far.  I watch still, grasping
The Moment, to remember it 
As the vast and deep hold of 
Infinite longing I have fled from
Has forever found me.
 
 
 
 
~ Scale ~
 
oil on canvas. semen on skin.
i confess i came
every time i saw your creation.
 
the poor plant had no inkling
of its fiber, to become the
substrate of religious scorn
in red, and black, and art.
 
though you, the artist
were merely supplicating
upon the blank and white,
 
i see it.
 
and as you swore,
i wore the strap-on heel like
a viper, the innuendo slithering
up your legs, venom-wielded,
and in the dimension you left behind
(not because you chose, like suicide)
but rather your
seven-hundred-and-fifty
was too obstructed
by pillars of concrete, and fate
and impenetrable veils...
 
so god left you, or speeded you away
to some place where you could
not be more complicated at understanding,
 
the vicissitude which comes
at white tungsten and sixteen
when angels start to cut their wings
so that i could learn to fly -
i would have been your
french curve, but you scored
that road in defiance
 
what is left, but my
longing. i burn.
i am not myself
but a hollow hilt of all
the worlds close to the blade
and now think to pry the secret
from the ancient script
of your bloody palisades,
 
my angel, i ask myself
what you are
without who
am i.
 

Edited by darci, 21 June 2019 - 02:04 AM.

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#2 Skywatcher

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Posted 21 June 2019 - 08:51 AM

You write well Darci, and the baring of your soul makes the prose real. I love what I read the first pass through, but this is deep water, and I will read it several more times to try to understand all the layers.

Thank you for sharing...........



#3 darci

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Posted 29 June 2019 - 02:24 AM

Skywatcher...

 

There is no emoticon that can equate to the hug I want to give you.

 

You're always here, making the room warm, like the fireplace that nobody notices until the wine is all gone and everybody goes to sleep, that need for warmth following them underneath the blankets.

 

I want to thank you for always being here.

 

But

 

You're not the only one.  And if I say much more, I'll be speaking forever to give it all its due.

 

It's just... so many people here on mycotopia that I have read without saying anything in reply (but it affected me) and so many people that I can tell get it and understand but I have never let them know that they meant something to me.

 

I'm not the center of the universe.  I don't know how to say that I see someone standing on their island without breaching their beach, in an unfortunate or impolite way.

 

I'm paralyzed with reverence.  Which to any observer, is no different from being indifferent or insincere.  Which to the court I will use as my excuse for not saying any more, ever, to anyone.


Edited by darci, 29 June 2019 - 02:32 AM.

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#4 Moonless

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Posted 29 June 2019 - 03:08 AM

Hey darci I'm very pleased to have read your beautiful poetry tonight. Not many people can speak on behalf of their heart like you can, thank you for that. I believe that your work, through surface from struggle is illuminating, to share it is to give a gift to whomever the sharer is. I'll join yall at the fireplace.



#5 darci

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Posted 29 June 2019 - 03:23 AM

I'm 34 years old.

 

But even so, I don't feel like a product of my time.

 

I feel alive when I feel the heart of music from songs of yesterday.  I want to thank my father for introducing me to classical, and my cousin for introducing me to what was good since the time of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart:

 

[Direct Link]

 

[Direct Link]

 

[Direct Link]

 

I never thought of fucking so much as when I saw a guy dancing at a bar once.  Too bad he was with another guy.  I've run that moment through my mind ten million times, asking myself if my sexual instincts are aligned with the procreative imperative in a world with fractional reserve banking, corporate personhood, capital gains tax, and falling wages for those who work their asses off, declaring dignity in their labors while being paid wages less than what it takes to survive.  That man and woman think they are at odds with each other, though we are each the other side of the same coin.  We live in a world of slavery, with extra steps.  And the heartache that befalls the millions and masses in so many innumerable, intolerable, existential, and voluminous autobiographical ways...

 

Not to mention the wars, the human trafficking, the school shootings, the lying politicians, the robber barons, the evil alchemists (ala oppenheimer, et. al,)  the propagandists, the secret-keepers, the underground city builders, the priests which commune with the ethereal and tell us less-than-truths... and the meaning of life which eludes us so long as we are inundated by commercials and war bonds and red white and blue...

 

Don't you love?  Don't we love each other, all?  Have any of the hearts filled with hatred glimpsed even a moment of the unfathomable time we are swimming in?

 

One thousand years from now will occur in 1/4,500,000th of Earth's history, but that will be 50 generations from now.  Your great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandchildren will be the ones walking this planet in the blink of an eye.

 

Does your life have meaning?

 

What can we say, if anything so faint, that they will hear so far in the future?

 

My god, please somebody click these songs and tell me that you have heard them before and love them something like the way I do.

 

Or,

 

I'll just realize that everybody has these stories and though the songs are different, the tale is the same, and my tears are nothing special to cry.

 

Tired of feeling like I'm lost in the crowd.

 

I know I sound like a drama queen, but that's what drama queens sound like.


Edited by darci, 29 June 2019 - 03:51 AM.

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#6 darci

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Posted 29 June 2019 - 03:48 AM

When I speak what I'm about to speak, there is an element to it that reminds me of my 15 year old self, wanting to slap her, and say "grow up!  stop feeling!  be an adult!  get a job!"

 

And I've done all those things.  And yet, I still hear these songs.

 

Maybe I've made a miscalculation.

 

I think perhaps the operating system of society needs an update, and the hardware needs a reboot.  Because I'm stuck in an infinite loop.

 

The problem is me, or the world.  Which is more likely?  The world is just, and I'm insane, or I am just, and the world is insane.

 

What are the odds...

 

 

[Direct Link]

 

[Direct Link]

 

[Direct Link]

 

[Direct Link]

 

 

 

 

 

"Don't mind her... she's just drunk."

 

SxSDG46p_400x400.jpeg


Edited by darci, 29 June 2019 - 04:06 AM.

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#7 darci

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Posted 29 June 2019 - 03:59 AM

I'm sorry, it's one of those nights.

 

I'm thinking of my cousin.

 

He died in a motorcycle accident.

 

He is and was more than I could ever say, short as his life was, as unknowing as he will always be, and how his existence has affected me.

 

I'm getting shitfaced.  I've smoked what must be a metric ton, and a half bottle of wine is missing the other half.

 

I'm fucking crazy.  I admit it.  Freely.  Lost my shit, entirely.

 

Posting on the internet to strangers, embarrassing myself, praying that my puke won't upset my company's feet.  You, my friends, have the sense not to drink and I stumble inebriated and incontinent about you.  If I were standing in your puke-soaked shoes, I'd be kicking me right now, as well.

 

Nothing worse than an emissary preaching the end is nigh.  I don't believe this, but my god we are in trouble.  The human species.  The human race.  What can I do?  Little ol' me.

 

?

 

Most of the time I tell myself to shut up.  When I've lost all self-control, I post here, so most of you who know anything of me think I'm batshit insane (your opinion is justified) and that I'm an attention whore (justified, 2.0) and though I may have excuses for my behavior, the uncouth is still the uncouth.

 

So what is my point here... eh?

 

Right.

 

I think I'm going to drive to the middle of the desert (ha!  that's PHOENIX) NO I mean, where other people aren't.  And just sit there in the sand and look at the sky, and when I find the answer that I probably already know, I'll come back here and try deleting all my posts, FURIOUSLY, to no avail as they are now set in stone.

 

Darci, you dumbass, there is no redemption in this alliteration, you twat.

 

I guess it's time again.  I have a batch of shrooms poking out from their cakes.  Any day now.

 

Shit's going to be tough, I know it.  Threw up once tonight, on purpose.  I don't want to go back to my bulimia days but it always feels more than appropriate before I hit the shamanic paths.  Ayahuasca makes me do it, anyway.  Not really because I'm upset at food I eat so much as what food has become in my thoughts.

 

I need to speak to the spirits again, instead of dumping all this crap on you guys.

 

Apologies.  I'll update if/when.  You know the drill.


Edited by darci, 29 June 2019 - 04:10 AM.

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#8 Skywatcher

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Posted 29 June 2019 - 09:01 AM

The shores and coves of my island are open and welcoming darci.

I would much rather provide the safe harbor, and risk the occasional pirate and thief, than to ever turn away the potential for a closer, more amiable understanding of another wandering soul. I would not lose that out of fear for a wounding, the gains are too great, and I am not so fragile now as I was in my younger days....................................

 

:hug:


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#9 Moonless

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Posted 30 June 2019 - 01:56 PM

Hey Darci, I just clicked on the first song. It was very nice. I'm typically very sheltered with my time (although I end up wasting it in the end) so I didn't listen to the second batch of songs yet. I know we don't know each other at all but i'm wishing you the best and want to befriend you. We all have these troughs. The spirits will help you, I'll pray for it, I'll think about you.

With light


Edited by Moonless, 30 June 2019 - 02:01 PM.

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