I wrote a lot of poems on Friday to make up for the blatant lack of such in the past couple of months.
I spent two hours at Starbucks; this is the result. Edits happened in the transfer from analog to digital. They are intentional afterthoughts, compensations, ameliorations, self-censorship of the worst and most foul kind.
I do not apologize. Instead, I resolve to write better, so that such edits need not happen.
I will fail this resolution.
This Chair
Devil conformed to shape but lacking substance -
Archaic curvatures ignorant of structure -
Staring at me -
Motionless.
This chair.
Raven
Whitefeather, Whitefeather,
Why did you turn black?
Blackfeather, Blackfeather,
Can you turn back?
"No boy, no
T'was the sun who turned me black
And only he can turn me back."
Amnesiasin
What a tragedy
Such a travesty
(A black little heresy)
An alien mind came to me
And stole from my ecstasy
(My little blasphemy)
Glass
Black body wrapped in ghost-white
Crimson-colored and lacking light
A dreamscape blurring wrong and right
Here I sit, trying to write.
Desperation
Is it odd that I want to love?
Not "be loved"
(Though I want that too)
But I desire to desire another
It's been awhile since my heart
Was set afire
And I feel as though
I miss the funeral pyre.
Rape
Did a black thing happen
Without my consent?
When the lines were written
Was I present?
How much meaning is given
Lacking in assent?
Creation
Am I forcing myself
Or are the words genuine?
Am I desperate
Or impressive?
(Desperately impressive?
Impressively desperate?)
Poet
Unkempt.
Unkind.
How... uncorpselike.
Funeral white and
Mourning blacks, an
Inexpressible figure
Expressing.
Hot sun,
Hot coffee,
Warm scone,
Gentle breeze.
Why Am I Cold?
-- Griffinhart
13 August 2010
a bastard and a half