the poem to end all poems.
arid, mother's hands
bled from where the skin meets the nail,
cut and purple like those who
drowned in our sink.
Every time she looks at me,
fawn to hunter,
God closes his fist and drops
her dead - amen.
if only
just for something to say,
little things we do
mean
nothing
or
protrude like an elbow splinter;
qualms now a-
rest among the lost
sheep
and sleep,
I have grown tired of this like a deadman bouquet -
the story of he who rose
and wilted too soon
but I have not given up;
no, I cut the noose
when I was ready to live
yet sacrificed nothing
less than a dignified
response
to questioning existence.
This is fucking nothing.
You don't need to get it
or understand
how I compose myself
with an Achilles heel too shot
to feed meaning
in vain like all the junk I've taken
to heart wasn't enough.
It's my greatest lie, a poem
to end
every poem
when I have given up on all the schematics,
fuck it all
I don't have time to shed your skin,
it can't fit my shrunken hope anymore,
the sheep parades down
a broken alleyway
as a wolf; I butchered myself
because it's better to be half-man, half-
human than it is to wear
out the heart on my sleeves
if I want to (scatter) parentheses like dead animal carcass
because I am just too tired
to bury what wasn't mine
in the first place,
you'll become a rotting example
of bastard poetics.
I would turn to sonnets if it wasn't for
Shakespeare and alcohol.
Then again, you aren't
any better with a head full
of haiku like stabwounds
in full bloom.
being imperfect,
ugly, beautiful, imperfect, repetitive
gives me mother's
amnesia, but you had already
forgotten me like what it feels
like to sketch a self-portrait
into the left breast
in case the mirror hasn't
faired you well.
here's a word of wise
to the deaf -
I can be as wordy as you but I shut my mouth
if the barrel needs clenching.
I inherited her scars,
the kind of smile you can slit wrists to;
you can't teach an old dog new tricks
if you're about to kill it.
I was better off
lost and bloodied anyways
until now,
all I've felt was haiku this,
ballad that, double-talk
but as of three minutes ago
I decided to alphabetize my thoughts
should a nursery rhyme of
slaughtered geese
at the hands of a mother
be read by someone's
bloody fingers.
Read these scars like braille,
motherfucker.
This does not need
nor want
an ending like euthanasia,
candy-coated and commoditized
(parentheses)
but for the amputee's applause,
I'll give them letters
illiterate and scraped into the sockets
'cause it's hard to see past
a name-tag and smile.
This is the poem
to end
all poems.
Hush.
Re: the poem to end all poems.
Re: the poem to end all poems.
This seems different than your past works?
I have to admit I did not enjoy it...it was hard to hear it in my head. The poem just sounded vulgar and angry like a fuming adolescent...perhaps this is about transitioning into a phase of life? ...
So angry but Angry at what? other poets, the significance of your own writing?, life and its past? I could go on for a good while lol
Then again, I have never been one to fully appreciate your writing...unless it is a matter of love :)
Re: the poem to end all poems.
thank you for the read. It's supposed to be more 'challenging'. Its a commentary on writing on this site, partly, and also addresses the idea of creation (mother references). I did something with the first stanza to establish that.
Re: the poem to end all poems.
motherfucker. i hope to see you in hell.
shit was dope. clever enough to keep you diggin but blunt enough to make your point known. what i love about your pieces is that i can read them aloud with a sense of purpose. it's not just saying shit for the fuck of saying it, you actually compose with the weight of words. i actually read what unabridged said and im blatantly disagreeing. this poem meant a lot to me, so much that if i thought "legendary" meant anything on this site, i would nominate it. the shakespeare line killed it. exactly how i feel. if ever i make something out of these endeavors, we better be in the same list of contemporaries. i hope we never collab. i'd hate to be outdone THAT bad.
i think your voice reached new levels in this piece. you let loose and kept your dignity, something which i have trouble doing. im writing something right now and needed some motivation, this level of work helps. (also, agree with you 100% on all points made)
Re: the poem to end all poems.
thanks, I was trying to establish voice above all, while retaining provocative images/ideas. Anyone who replies, leave a link and I'll rtf.
Re: the poem to end all poems.
Damn. Thats it. Damn.
I've honestly not read into much poety on this site as of yet, but if every piece was as ill as that, this would be one crazy fucking site. I could feel the emotion, the intensity, and at the same time, could tell that it was a piece to get a reader thinking. At times I re-read a piece, and would wonder for a second before continuing.
"Then again, you aren't
any better with a head full
of haiku like stabwounds
in full bloom."
Dope. As. Fuck.
"being imperfect,
ugly, beautiful, imperfect, repetitive
gives me mother's
amnesia, but you had already
forgotten me like what it feels
like to sketch a self-portrait
into the left breast
in case the mirror hasn't
faired you well."
I read that part, and went, why does he say imperfect twice, was that a typo? Then I realize "OH amnesia HA" Assuming the first part of that stanza was indeed meant to read as that, that has got to be one of the cleverest thoughts I've read.
Crazy shit man, you got some talent there.
Re: the poem to end all poems.
In all honesty this poem was kind of weird. I'm not sure if there was an overall purpose or point of view you were trying to get across. What I took from it however, or at least my interpretation of it was, you are rebelling against the pretentious aspects of criticized poetry. As if to say fuck the devices, fuck the college taught brainwashed expectations of what ''good poetry'' is suppose to look like -- fuck the critics ... just let me write! Hmmm?...maybe I'm way off -- I don't know. But, what I do know is, that if any of what I suggested is true then me and you are on the same page. However, maybe this poem was deeper than that...there were moments that suggested this poem had something to do with your upbringing. That maybe this new-found state of mind you've developed was actually inherited from your mother. That this attitude is just a reflection of her -- for right or wrong. Am I right? I don't know...interesting dynamic all the same. Anyway, there were a ton of lines I really liked in this poem. For instance…
Quote:
and sleep,
I have grown tired of this like a deadman bouquet -
the story of he who rose
and wilted too soon
^Somewhat abstract, but the wordplay was sick!
Quote:
but I have not given up;
no, I cut the noose
when I was ready to live
yet sacrificed nothing
less than a dignified
response
to questioning existence.
^It seems as if you have awaked from the matrix and stopped swallowing the pill that society has feed you. The propaganda no longer rings true and you’ve started the process of questioning your condition…you’re becoming enlighten.
Quote:
when I have given up on all the schematics,
fuck it all
^My thought process exactly.
Quote:
you can't teach an old dog new tricks
if you're about to kill it.
^point well taken.
There were a lot more lines…but I’d be here all day. Anyway, this was a great poem. Definitely one that'll keep me thinking for some time to come. Nice job buddy. Keep pumpin’ ‘em out. PZ
