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memories, making glorious mudhis memories are making a glorious mud

i.

it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.

it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates

its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,

where
Ghost ArmorComing back soon... to be published within the HOAX #22 issue of antiTHESIS, a Melbourne University publication. x
SubtractionWhen the scything was not yet done
she sat, a run of sweat between her breasts,
a nascent blister on her palm--
before she took the whetstone to the blade.
Lower down the hill the horses grazed,
tails brisk against the flies,
coats damp in the torpid air.
Robbed, she was.
The day was loud with birds and bugs;
the mowing smelled like lust or love,
depending.
She sat and watched the silver sky
and felt the wetness dry along her ribs,
along her thighs and tired arms.
She watched the swallows courting.
One plus one.
Even ThoughThere will be no caged fingers,
no tendons finely tuned to A from tension.

There will be no clenched teeth, gritting rosin,
to make the final singing note growl.

There will be unwinding bed-sheets,
hands slowly releasing the tuning pegs.

There will be slowly sliding scales
as the four limbs loosen past playing.

There will be a simple, quiet exit,
not to ovation, but to a hushed audience
who anticipate an encore,
even though it is uncertain.
A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generations
misinterpreting the lightning,

A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.

At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.

And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,

and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm

and I believed that part,

and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever
It's not Rocket Science                                                                     a poem for Jack Parsons

Lucifer took a hit, landed
face-down & flat-broke
back in the 40s
out on the West Coast
eyes the colour of Swarfega
teeth rotting, shoes worn through,
and dying for another high

too early for acid he takes
the mescaline trail
down into the Mojave
where the rattlesnakes are
locked in their kundalini and the
stillness flickers like god
across a lizard's eye

Lucifer hitched a ride
(another genius-bum)
over to Pasadena
to see Jack and the Rocket Boys
see what they can do
to put him back in heaven

too long in the desert
Jack's a
Chin UpAnd sometimes, coated and layered
with tens of scores of others' eyes
we forget the word 'lonely' -
so when it flings ashes
we blink, and are blinded.
The RunLet me tell you of the tailor run.

The wind and seas are coming down from a rage.
Turmoil is everywhere and this shoreline, which I love like a poem, memorised, is a discourteous place. The air crackles statically on my hair and skin. I could be on a faraway planet. It smells of Cambrian times. Seabirds wheel high like tiny fighter jets, miniscule SR-71s, then, flay themselves through the sea's skin. The booming swell comes and goes, as I stand in a lost memory, echoes of a low incendiary growl. While I rig my 12 foot "big" with the 3 ounce spinner, the atmospheric frenzy relays itself to the baitfish. Whitebait. They are coiling and roili
Who knewWho knew

The man you visited in a dream,
The one you re-traced a half-remembered
Path for, in the off-chance of
Surprising one another again:

Polychromatic flannel and subtle sighing
Through the teeth, gently
Warm eyes softly exotic
Slavic vodka on a late summer night,

Would

Sweep by, wearing blinders of
Deep conversation, still
Smiling with an accent
His arm around a waist

I want to sit in my room, arms wrapped around
Knees against chest in the solace of the sun,
I want to watch the endless journeys of
Sidewalk strangers from the fire escape

But it's ten to four and
There's no time to cry anymore;
Only time to joi
FracturedCall me Jezreel
though I am not. I still answer
to the name my mother gave me,
though she is not my mother; I've known her too long
and too well. Just a woman, then,
but not just a woman, just as I am not my father.
So I shall be Jezreel.

Sorry. I'll start again.

When I was my father the thorns were mine. They were my first crop
and in time inherited everything. Their spread took root
in fresh plots every day, besieging the flower pots,
coiled like barbed wire across the neighbourhood.
I watered them, proud to be a father at last, until at last
my garden walls were no longer visible from space.
My garden was a black core of wall
interfaceLike an oil eye resting on the sea of memory,
waits for its turn to sink as bubbles and for a time
be lost:

There weren't any real changes                              I thought to herself
Wasn't why I got up to go                              grab a time out
I had to walk the boots                              away from here-and-held holy memories
With the way my legs worked                              mechanically
I wasn't surprised by their behavior                              bothering us
The wind walked up the path                              as an elephant pissed on the wall
And gazed upon the trees                              fond
2. Lem's MelodyThe Mission's security gate wouldn't open all the way. Some crackhead spent an hour slamming himself into it when Sister Constance wouldn't let him in after dawn, so now the rail was bent. Lem had to turn the rolling bag sideways to fit it through the door.

The battered TV shrieked at Lem from its cage on the wall. Some stupid show about college kids scaring themselves looking for ghosts in abandoned mental hospitals. The day room - Lem never got tired of the irony - was mostly empty, except for Melvin in the corner mumbling to himself, Sister Constance glaring from her desk behind smudged, bullet-proof glass, and a girl.

It was the girl th
my sacramenti come to you
a tin drum, bare-
legged and echoing,

to tell the dark
of a fettered glory,
the least part

of what i ought to
be.

mine is a god
of carrion: hungers,
impossibly unclean--i hate

with the skin
of my thighs, acres
of dull uncaring white;

the aching peace
of you, in sleep;
the dumb wax of me

chattering again
like animal's
teeth.

love, that heavy light,
still so unborn:
limbless, crashing
at my gates--

begging,
stormbound,
for exile.
Our Meaning and PurposeI

All of death is death. Life,
too, is like death.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

II

I was confused
so I asked God: What should I do?

Move your body and have emotions. The birds were dancing.

Could you be more specific?

But now God was busy arguing with Moses.

III

All of life is life. Death,
too, is like life.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

IV

Tomorrow is the sound
of a question falling
on a bed of questions.

Today I hold out
your name, God,
in the public square.

Yesterday reason, the slayer
of song, wended its way
into our will.

V

All of light is linking. Dreams,
too, would se
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More from ~Lavos12

Burning Cloth Wolf HeadsNo money was taken
none at all, not from the register
or from the Chinese clerk, (legs
locked in high step from rigor)
when a man in a fursuit barged in
gun drawn.

when the news crews make the rounds
they talk to the family, the church,
the antagonists from high school.
no passes are given to anyone like him:
friends of the depraved are depraved.
A newscaster says fucking animals
before turning to the killer's parents

we knew something was wrong
when we saw the drawings, the costumes, every thing…
we tried to raise him right, good Christian values but

but

all they see is the effigy, the bogeyman
The specter of a wolf he
One Hundred ThousandOne Hundred Thousand Internet Memes Await Me in the Void

one hundred thousand iterations of famous internet memes await me in the afterlife. I am laying on my bed and dying and thinking of the million virginal .jpegs and .pngs that will be shoveled onto me in the promised lands, the pure lands of e humor. in the unyielding mid day, I have waking fever dreams of a choir of angels singing me all my favorite youtube videos while typing raving reviews into their laptops. In my imagined death throes I see the end of all times, a wave of fire burning all the twitter accounts and tumblrs and every artist alive posting their art online; uploading to
LackeyA museum -
attendants poise and frame uniforms
and mementos in the sterile air
of the hall.
it is an inventory laid bare

1 black wool "mirage cloak"
Traditional garb  for a sect of nomad warriors
callous agents who would roam the desert
for travelers: "judge us as we judge you, Slave."
A placard for those cast guilty before their God.

2 Greek army courier uniform
slacks painted by dirt, threads etched thin
by foreign sands.
A precursor to trucks and planes and internet;
the legs for the run to Marathon

3 patched French Uniform, no markings
of name or rank: Exact Date Unknown
(1590-1945) possible reproductions
Standing in cold rain.Poem
the rain strikes out the sky
white noise static marks

a black tent forms as a body
hole dug into the surrounding space

you make a demon of yourself
with a lucky breath
After the open mic nighthands crippled from ice crystals
skin raw and wet
they stroll back to the street lamp
and huddle together, wondering
what will happen when the kids
get to the playground only to see
those big damn snowballs
rolled up the cold smooth
plastic slides, and they laugh
and I try to laugh too.
swaying under my white breath,
I try to see stars
past the light pollution.
"are you going to read your poem now?"
David says to me softly
pointing at my note
written on the back of a programme.
I stare back at him
and shrug.

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Behind Eastworks

:iconlavos12:

parallel to the bike track
the group walks convincingly
through the canopy floor
of hard roots and thorn stalks
and accidental land marks:

a t-shirt hangs lynched
flush against the bough
of a winter-dead tree

a hollowed out bug spray bottle
sits in spectacle
its companions dragged under by reeds
in the pond scum puddles
across from the playground

      Why are we here
The exertion pecks at my bones
as we move on through the brush
along the rusted barbed wire enclosure
surrounding the boarded up building.

      I wanted to see this
says Andrew
while he slips past the wires and
pulls himself onto a ledge under
a blasted out window
his cramped hand newly filled
with broken glass.
:iconlavos12:
This happened while I was at NEWW, but this is embellished because Andrew never cut his hand. There was a ton of broken glass though. ~j2n4me ~snowmanman , sorry for turning a fun trip into POETRY. So sorry.

This was an assignment for class. I have a bunch of these, which I'll be submitting in the future. This class has really got me writing more, it's great. It reminded me that I LIKE TO WRITE POETRY.

Edit: Changed a few lines, added a few. Made the narrative a little clearer.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2010-12-22
Behind Eastworks by ~Lavos12 builds a compelling narrative, but indirectly, bringing the scene and language to life, and letting them tell the story. ( Featured by `nycterent )
love 1 1 joy 1 1 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconchocolate-neko:
~chocolate-neko Dec 23, 2010
Wtf, a DD? What, now you have credibility on this site? PFFFT, SAM. PFFFT.




...(':
Reply
:iconpetsuchos-isis:
~Petsuchos-Isis Dec 23, 2010
CONGRATS ON YOUR ENTRANCE INTO FAMOUSDOM
Reply
:iconlavos12:
~Lavos12 Dec 23, 2010
My 24 hours of minor minor eFame.
Reply
:iconj2n4me:
~j2n4me Dec 23, 2010
I had to read this again because now it's famous. I remember that t-shirt, but more vividly, I remember someone saying "cherry greg's been here" as we walked past it.
Reply
:iconsalshep:
`salshep Dec 23, 2010
OMG SAM YOU DESERVING BASTARD
Reply
:iconsarah-the-writer:
~Sarah-the-writer Dec 22, 2010
So glad to see some poetry on the DD, and so glad it deserves it too :-) Great work!
Reply
:iconorangeyyy:
*Orangeyyy Dec 22, 2010
congratz on the DD! well deserved
Reply
:iconetherealpunk:
~etherealpunk Dec 22, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh, cool. NEWW and Eastworks are totally in my hometown, like 5 minutes walk. The bike trail passes a few abandoned factory buildings. (They're totally condemned though.)
Reply
:iconmangaluverxd5:
Mood: Joy ~mangaluverXD5 Dec 22, 2010   General Artist
Well, whatever form it's in, I like it! .... A LOT! XD!
Reply
:iconoli-s:
~Oli-S Dec 22, 2010
You used language brilliantly :)
Reply
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