[Quiet Man Cometh]

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

<.<


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

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. :)

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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Indulgence for the Devil

The soul forced to unfold like a nautilus
a reverse of evolution
aspiring to the ocean like lust for Heaven
Prometheus rising from the rock
Ignorance of ashes
I was walking on water

The storm sprayed names like bullets
lightning indictments, one upon the other
but we were deaf to fear
too dead to hear

A cadaver writhing on the slab
jacked into the zeitgeist
leaking moral fiber where the blood ran dry
these scarred bones could spell out the death of purpose

I can scream old thoughts with annihilating fascination
I can dream incineration and aurora
I want to be enthralled by the Sun
I want to raise suicides from their graves

But my feet begin to sink
and existence collapses onto me
my placebo nightmare falling apart
God is over on the shore, masturbating

Now kneeling on the ocean floor
raped by Wisdom until I scream that it is Love
denied my appeal to a coma
too traumatized for tears
a paralyzed smile
Still sinking
It hurts like being born

I would elect a brain-dead king
and vote for my own death-support
I would crawl to Golgotha
only to die before they could raise me to the cross

Wrapped up like a drowning foetus
silently begging for my abortion
I can't hold myself together
Detonating with the cosmos

This soul swimming with a limp
vomited from the eddies
a poor decision
burning the curtain to life's pageantry

They put a tourniquet on Eternity
and I fell off, gasping for blood
the poisoned apple of genius
inspiration to nothing

I remain the death of names
a conscious still-birth
retroactive regret
and a passive genocide

The water was a meaningless metaphor
I subsist by lying to myself

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.

[Quiet Man Cometh]

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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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.

[Gallagher]

I like possessed by Satan.

[Espy]

What about both?

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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

[Quiet Man Cometh]

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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Charity Despair

We, the viscid
the disincarnate
degenerate chimera
suffocating without lungs
procreating without love
the dragon that slays itself
We, squamous mechanics inept with hammers
crucifying the meme to the meat
while breathing the burden on the ghost in the womb

Electric ideologies and transcendent self-regard
The semantic romance stroking out
kissing the uncanny
swapping language like aortal spit

You can't meditate the shame away
You're not the author you think you are

So let's hear the Armageddon sigh
Make the stars subjective, go on
Pathetic ruminating numina

Disease is in the eye of the poet
and Nothing abhors volition
A not-so-shocking secret
Satanically strung in the living code

It's putting a crown on your slave
It's fighting a duel with your executioner
It's lynching yourself from the sky hook

Just stop

[Quiet Man Cometh]

Originally Posted by Suzerain of Sheol

So let's hear the Armageddon sigh.

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

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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

[Quiet Man Cometh]

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.

[Suzerain of Sheol]

Catatonia is Catching

Speaking is suffering an illness of will

Unfolding like blossoms on the Tree of Death,
a progressive divorce from the Godhead

He died on a hill of dead horses

Enthroned like Nero
as the Id flashed to ash

(They had probably-not-Syphilis in common
not even the best idea at the time)

Psychic flirting makes living silence

An autoerotic relapse to grief
like cubist emptiness

Billions in favor of conception oppression

The burning figment of the final messiah
killing itself for attention

[Quiet Man Cometh]

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.”

[Suzerain of Sheol]

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

[Espy]

That parenthetical line killed me.