Tag Archives: inspired

Will The Real Author Please Stand Up?

Do you ever get envious of other people’s words?

The way they’re so intricately, elegantly, genuinely made. The way that the sentimental fervour and tortured passion rings out plangently from beyond the curled pages of the book and strikes sharp aches and twinges in even the most desensitised heart. The way you could read them for days at an end and never get tired of the intangible shapes they form, the sophisticated literary art they create, the breathtaking stories they tell. The way that you can never really understand what that individual meant, what they truly felt, and you aren’t quite sure if you could even place yourself in their perception and situation, but despite all that, they’re still your emotions. They’re confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that no soul, living or deceased, can ever know how to speak again. But you can feel them latching in your hair, your skin, your eyes, your lips, speaking your mind, all the words you don’t know how to say, all the senses you never knew existed in the first place, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel.

And so you feel inspired. And so you attempt to write.

But your words, on the other hand, are rather insipid and unamusing. They’re the proverbial rain that never gets written about. The damp, stuffy, erratic kind of drizzle that relents to the point of irritation and drips down cracked ceilings and forgotten open windows. The kind that’s well-meant by the dear weather, but never makes its humble way in poets’ thoughts and poetry books, except occasionally to emphasise a depressing thought. You could stand outside that downpour for days at an end and get not a single drop of water on your skin. Your words feel cheap and secondhand, sharp edges worn-down to cliches and dull torpor, no wit to be found anywhere. Your words are no one else’s and you aren’t quite sure if they’re even yours, or just by the ghost that resides behind your empty ribs. It’s confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that not a soul, living or deceased, knows how to speak. They’re all the words you can’t say, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel, but you try to make sense of them anyway.

Do you ever wish…that you couldn’t write?

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A Mad Boy’s Love Letter

(Written as a reciprocal to Sylvia Plath’s Mad Girl’s Love Song. A poor reciprocation notwithstanding, but nevertheless, carry on.)

~*~

Charm that allures in whim

A grandiose wicked scheme

Deluding myself in dalliance

Chemical love, not romance

T’was my best man, insanity

Blackness simpers arbitrary

I dream a castigated fantasy

Pray judge such not harshly

.

If both lips existed out there

Then heaven, it must be rare

If you mayn’t one so tangible

Then hell, it may be beautiful

The stars, t’were yours alone

Though you needn’t bemoan

We shall carry our revelry on

To hanging gardens Babylon

.

I promised I will return warm

And collapse in abstract arms

Yet tragedy, it reared its face

My name was already erased

I mightn’t be the thunderbird

Roaring to my springtime girl

Rather a demigod, a faded blue

Making the world drop for you

.

For nay was I a corporeal creation

I lacked in belief to conjure it long

Without you love, I would be dead

(Or was it simply all inside my head?)

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Filed under Poetry

Transpierce the Roquelaure

Velvety bands of scarlet strychnine

Incite lips of gold against thorazine

Corpses pile, mental confidentiality

Jealousy and regret shatters sanity

An aftertaste as sweet as medicine

Internal communication last beyond

Menageries and cold sloppy seconds

Ebullience like whirlpools in a stream

Tallahassee sunset, tinctured chancel

Obstructions for his reptilian affinities

Neverwhere, of wars among the stars

Younger than the universe of infinities

Miracles about brotherly camaraderie

Incidents of an instrument symphony

Knives they kept, but allayed hysteria

End; a team of four repose in California.

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Misacquaintance

Dear Miss Acquaintance,

This is quite simply such a lovely weather today, is it not?

A fine blending of the seasons, neither too chilly nor too hot

Matter of fact, the sky matches perfectly the blue in your eyes

A cool ice cream colour with a sunny disposition, quite nice

Flattery? Ah, no no, dear miss acquaintance, it is all genuine

Although I quite like the rogue in your cheeks from the dopamine

But enough compliments, before I embarrass myself silly

How was your day, dear miss acquaintance? Pray tell me

I bet it’s been absolutely marvellous, a bonny little jive

Perhaps you’ve gone out with a parasol to take the stars alive

Or caught a redhead fairy in your perfume jar, named it Amelia

Gave it as a present to your cousin, who cheers in hysteria

Maybe you found a butterfly weak, tucked it within your lace hanky

Wept emeralds and rubies in a fit of an injustice melancholy

Ah, how awfully kind it is of you, dear miss acquaintance

Oh how I wish I wasn’t admiring your kindness from a distance

I sorely hoped I was there to offer you a comforting wonder

Or feign a jocular slapstick act to lighten your spirits asunder

Did you pass today by the candy shop, hugged all the sticky kids?

Did you pet that calico tabby by the park, just like you always did?

Did you set in motion a million carousels, spinning pins, Ferris wheels?

Did you make this planet a little greener than it is with your soft rosy heels?

You are quite the mystical creature, I must say, dear miss acquaintance

Your precious soul’s much too fine with purity for the universe to even taste

You splash colour to leaden tinsel towns like a Rembrandt with your dance

Making assurance that not a single day goes by you to wither and waste

Yet now it’s quite the gracious blessing to be resting at the same park bench

With you, dear miss acquaintance, it pulls even my stubborn heart at a wrench

You sit there with that whimsy smile of yours, polishing painstakingly your glasses

I stumble silently on my quill and linen as centuries cease, a sluggish second passes

Ah, it seems, dear miss acquaintance, that you’re rested and ready to head on home

You smile back to me, a glowing lollypop smile, and I trance before I wound up alone

Sitting dumbfound, holding a shaky envelope, a lost letter of all the things I have yet to say

Forgive me, you’re a busy maiden, my dear miss acquaintance, perhaps you’ll hear me out some other day.

Best Regards,

Sir Reptitious

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Filed under Poetry