|
|
Post by Whimsical||MUSE; on Jun 15, 2011 20:23:50 GMT -5
The usual warning: my poetry isn't really something for innocent eyes, but otherwise, feel free to poke, prod and question ^_______^ Enjoy!
Circles, circles,
there are no slow steps through midnight --
no quiet wind, no thoughtful, restful mind.
These are not the same days, the same lies,
not the same existentialism I've come to crave.
I've hopped through the mirror glass this time, this night.
I'm here again, hah, hah -- yes, that grin looks so familiar.
Those hard eyes
Marbled in glass. Such a sight!
I run my fingers over the dust and feel shame.
The Mirror flickers, and I see myself there again: a glimpse
of Alice
in my fingers
where I run them along the wall.
In my name -- only a lisp separates us, intertwined
in this sickness.
We are alone without God, without Life, and Love.
Butchered, warped, my hair whitens in fright:
I'm getting close again. Ah, ah.
I sizzle and spark, reaching the peak --
No small steady hunt, retracing steps through memory:
hard, fast, horrible: guzzle it all down like a whore. We're
watching it drip down our chins, reflected in your eyes.
We're the epiphany that gurgles away your stress.
Our filth is your leisure.
You don't marry the slut.
This is Wonderland and
I've reached the door --
only me there now but it's all shuddering, rumbling
inbetween my toes.
My heartbeat echoes with my steps.
Frantic steps, hurried, desperate steps -----
my shoes have been worn down, only my soul left to
bleed in my wake.
My eyes dilate, monster runs through my veins;
needy, haphazard,
I hyperventilate to the sound of sloppy sucking
echoing in a black out that I don't dare remember:
but I do, I do. A wedding vow.
A crown of thorns.
The whore is crying her eyes out
reaching for Christ on that holy cross.
Together, we hyperventilate.
titillate.
hate.
Hate that game I play.
How many shadows can I draw
as blood smears across
the walls?
How many shadows can I sew, seeds to be plowed?
Pale thighs are nothing in candlelight. Better the car light:
let's not pretend anymore. There is only filth left
and I want to cut off my skin. I am delusional.
I see through a haze of caffeine
through vodka and swamp's ass.
Through a million names that do not stick--
so many people
and they dance, dance,
in circles------------
they grin.
|
|
|
|
Post by JohnyDarko on Jun 25, 2011 19:37:43 GMT -5
I am not anywhere close to understanding all of this poem, but damn if I don't try and look like an idiot in doing so! Is what I do~
I get the first part of the first stanza, as it is strait-forward enough. It gives me an image of a face paced mind that just wants to take a rest, but can't. I interpret hopping through the mirrored glass as looking inside yourself, or some form of reflection on yourself. Running you fingers over dust gives me an image of a place that hasn't been kept or visited in a while; perhaps your inner place had been abandoned for some time, which would be a cause for shame.
I love how you say that when the mirror flickers you see Alice. The use of third person really highlights the out of body experience the first stanza mentions. It gets fuzzy for me as it continues, but I can pick up a feeling of something intense that you stumbled upon. You say that you are getting closer again, so I interpret that you have found it, as opposed to saying that 'it' is getting closer again. This is a goal, feeling, place, or a thought that you are searching for. You say how your 'hunt' is not small, or steady which give it a feeling of intensity and purpose.
When you reach what you have identified as wonderland. You are at the door when the intensity gets the better of you. You say you are getting desperate and frantic as if this place you found is falling apart and you need to get out, or save it. I like the Shakespearean feel to the lines
" my shoes have been worn down, only my soul left to
bleed in my wake."
It reminds me of Julius Caesar in the opening scene with the word play about the shoe maker being a 'mender of soles'
That is all I can do for now. I won't go off on some wild assumption all the way through, because my understanding gets fainter as the poem gets deeper. But I would like to know how I did so far :3
|
|
|
|
Post by Whimsical||MUSE; on Jun 25, 2011 20:22:43 GMT -5
That's surprisingly accurate, though you sound almost like a fortune teller trying to gauge my future XD
To explain this poem is a little frightening to me, but I'll definitely give it a try -- the mental state this poem is trying to explain is that torrential chaos of thoughts, emotions, and memories that I'd like to believe everyone gets wrapped up in sometimes. You follow the same monotonous days in a numbing blanket until something rips it out of your hands and you're suddenly looking inside of yourself because you're being chased by the demon of memory.
In this particular poem I'm trying to come to terms with something I did that I was really ashamed of -- something that if I hadn't been intoxicated, lonely, and spiteful, wouldn't have happened. But it happened, and my mental capacity overflowed with revulsion. Self-hatred was really the name of the game, and I used Alice as an allusion to my journey inward; her Wonderland was used as a means to explain my own path inward into deeper madness trying to find my way out (much like Dante going through purgatory to find his way to paradise). You must punish yourself before you can be forgiven and gain happiness; so I was punishing myself. Though I never did find paradise.
"I'm getting close again" signifies something far simpler than what you're imagining. Sex, intercourse, lust -- these have always been ongoing themes in my poetry, and in this one, it's no different. "getting close again" is my masochistic self; I'm "guzzling" these flashes of memory I tell people I don't remember much like cum.
Wonderland's "fall" is my mental stability -- and the door is the answer hidden within myself: the truest self, the hardest truth I hide from myself-- but the moment I get there, that hint of that answer, it slips out of my fingers and I crack under the pressure. In the end I'm too cowardly to reach out and open the door. So I run. Like I've always run.
The rest follows the same theme -- running away from it all, glimpses of that memory I hate stalking me as I reach for holiness to absolve my sins. But I'm really just running in circles, a cyclical terror, much like the bars that I had, at that time, been going to. Swamp's Ass is actually a name of a drink. And every is swimming in circles. Grinning.
|
|
|
|
Post by JohnyDarko on Jun 25, 2011 21:15:34 GMT -5
Its like all of the images came together all at once, and played out. As always I am glad I took the time to read through your poem a few times. They look intimidating, but I never regret starting one.
|
|
