Trisphee - Suze Poetry

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- - Suze Poetry (http://www.trisphee.com/forums/showthread.php?t=4837)

*psst* Hey, we're all alone in here... >.>

<.<

Okay, actual post stuff now that I am out of cinnamon cookies.

Quote:

recursive necrosis and the apocalypse of art
like the chisel to the sculptor's skull

In my seminar poetry course we read a paper by (I think) TS Eliot who was commenting how with good poetry, the word that follows is always the only word that could have followed, I guess referring to a natural flow and feel even with all the effort put in to writing it. This makes me think of it, because the part about art and sculpture, I expect to see something about the statue or whatever stone the sculptor is working on. Instead, we get the image of him breaking his own skull, which is a surprise to me, but also fits in perfectly. Well done. :)

Quote:

With passionate masochism as the mother of invention
how can any of us stand it?

I like this last line too, because, given your usual wordy style, it's bluntness gives the impression that the narrator can't find elaborate or artistic words anymore and just flat out states the point.

Indulgence for the Devil

You'd think I'd run out of ways to say I hate myself, eventually. And yet...

This one was kind of fun to write. Not sure what that says.

I would comment here, but I honestly don't know what to say, except to wonder how these lines of yours come into your head.

Well, clearly by a consequential neuro-electric process that I am merely the enslaved observant to.

I don't honestly know, though. I seem to have a singular gift for translating abyssal nihilism into words. My process of writing poetry is... tangentially conscious, I'd say. I have to more or less meditate on concepts until the words crawl to the surface. I'd say, perhaps, that the act of writing these is, for me, a kind of cathartic suicide-by-proxy. An attempt to murder the ego with its own tools.

The bizarre thing is I can't actually write them when I'm depressed. Anyway, I think a lot of the concepts and turns of phrase come from the churning vortex of useless imagery imprinted on my mind -- religious and mythological archetypes and their associated meanings, strands of philosophy that I have abusive relationships to, and my particular obsession the reductionist model of the human condition.

That may be code for being totally insane.

Or possessed by Satan, take your pick.

I like possessed by Satan.

Oh my God why are people posting in my thread? Get out! Leave me to my derangement!

I have to say, the process you describe makes perfect sense to me, and I can say I do something similar, but the product you come up with sort of shocks my inner emotional logic. The words and image combinations are pretty radical, but they still work on some level I perhaps haven't fully connected with but lingers beneath poems about a dog.

Charity Despair

Quote:

Originally Posted by Suzerain of Sheol (Post 1675969)

So let's hear the Armageddon sigh.

That line. That line right there. I love it.

Well, it sadly does not return your affections. Stalker. >_>

You can't call me a stalker when you pester me for replies!

Or you mean the line? No, I have no particular affections for Armageddon outside of superficial eye candy. It may safely sleep with blinds open should it choose to do so.

Catatonia is Catching

Speaking of suffering
an illness of will,
someone told the Tree of Death
that its blossoms fell long ago,
tramped down in dead horse dung.

The Tree said, “I know.
Please take these prophets' dross from my boughs.
They are heavy, and they leak.
Their ichor drips all over lips, carefully
formed to sigh.

“And they sigh, precisely timed
to coincide with closing eyes
so that they never see the sun's pass
over their heads, and their dried carcass
of relevance;

“Rotted off from where artistic intentions hung
from second-hand spears, still sighing,
Still dripping, that low, perfected tone,
and even the vultures tire
of the waiting.”

As I said, much better than that nonsense I posted earlier. :P

That parenthetical line killed me.