I think this turned out ok. It's a found poem based on random words and phrases taken from a newspaper. These are fun to do, you should try it.
Early radicals discover truth and beauty,
They change the world.
Public enlightenment raises
The aesthetic taste of every punter -
All see a Monet sunset.
An aura continues to radiate
The transmission of truth.
But Goya, power and pathos,
The heart of modernity,
Provides an unimprovable definition.
They show the moral chaos,
The willful ugliness,
Dirtied and despoiled,
Defaced and disfigured,
Foretold by a mad prophet,
And the Monet sunset
Becomes an orb of excrement.
Artistic transgressions and bad taste,
Born of revolutionary candour.
They committed a heresy on ecstasy,
And all that remains
is Le Grand Macabre.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Attaché
Surreal is a word bandied about far too often,
Yet the vague attempt to try to understand did not soften
The blows that assaulted all senses -
I heard the distant din of perishing souls,
All too soon extinguished by that swift, hurtling arrow.
My eyes bore through the walls of my steel wagon, the tolls
Of the dead burnt in my mind, bodies in graves far too shallow.
What was that scent? Desperation? Pleading eyes
Begging our return; salvation denying all things heroic.
Why did we not fall back? Bound to my saviours with ties
Too insistent, too militant, too invested in their duty, stoic.
To be wrenched from that prison and be denied the relief of air
Was instead tainted, acrid and defiled
Along the corridors we raced, clawing without care
Searching for another golden child.
We were too few, did they not see?
They soldiered on, our saviours and yet held captive
Struggling to fall in line, we three,
Left behind our senses, all to live.
I've forgotten one, such time has passed...
And now all that's left is too much to bear,
And to speak of it now, we three, not dare.
Yet the vague attempt to try to understand did not soften
The blows that assaulted all senses -
I heard the distant din of perishing souls,
All too soon extinguished by that swift, hurtling arrow.
My eyes bore through the walls of my steel wagon, the tolls
Of the dead burnt in my mind, bodies in graves far too shallow.
What was that scent? Desperation? Pleading eyes
Begging our return; salvation denying all things heroic.
Why did we not fall back? Bound to my saviours with ties
Too insistent, too militant, too invested in their duty, stoic.
To be wrenched from that prison and be denied the relief of air
Was instead tainted, acrid and defiled
Along the corridors we raced, clawing without care
Searching for another golden child.
We were too few, did they not see?
They soldiered on, our saviours and yet held captive
Struggling to fall in line, we three,
Left behind our senses, all to live.
I've forgotten one, such time has passed...
And now all that's left is too much to bear,
And to speak of it now, we three, not dare.
6 to 100 words
Past the soaring steeple, past the expansive courtyards, past the brick barricades; hid a small courtyard, forgotten.
Past the weathered benches, past the mildew tables, past the hanging ivy; lay a silent fountain.
Past the stone facade, past the teal aged copper, past the plugged up spout; hung a lone tear.
Below swam a dark mass, together formed, one drop intangible from the next.
The wind stirred, an icy sting.
And down the lone tear fell.
Past the weathered benches, past the mildew tables, past the hanging ivy; lay a silent fountain.
Past the stone facade, past the teal aged copper, past the plugged up spout; hung a lone tear.
Below swam a dark mass, together formed, one drop intangible from the next.
The wind stirred, an icy sting.
And down the lone tear fell.
The Strange Postcard
This was inspired by a random postcard I found. At some point, I might upload it but for now you'll have to make do with this. It remains untitled.
I'd never believed in seconds winds. Let alone a third, fourth or fifth. The first was surely enough of a hurdle. Enough of a sky scraping wall. Enough of a steeple that soared with the gods. The hell that ripped through my chest was such that every inhale stung like icy needles and every exhale left my lungs burning for more. Yet there was no going back.
To press on seemed unfathomable and I had not the faintest idea where the will was born. Was he enduring the hell I was? My comrade in arms, surging forward against the intangible bonds.
"Is that all that's in you?"
His words fell like sharp, steel clamps that hacked at my slumped shoulders and with a searing flash, bolstered me up.
Agony ripped through every limb, my calves feeling as though they'd split apart and the muscle, tendril and marrow dragged behind me like a mocking mimicry of the saving bonds of our parachutes. Stoicism was never my best quality but I endured it.
Night had not long fallen when we heard the far off cries of the dying. I steadied the butt of my firearm against the overturned dirt that made up the field of graves and held on, resolute.
"You won't make it. You'll be gunned down at every half meter."
The desire to take up arms and shoot the prick down was all consuming, save the fact such a action would give away our position.
Ignoring the bastard, I slung my only true companion over my shoulder and trudged on, ready to leave him behind. But he was not so readily dismissed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't do this. You'll die."
I marched on.
"And your mother... she's old Greg, and you're an only child. Who'll take care of her?"
I raised the gun, ready to take aim.
"What about Mary, she won't make it if you don't come back."
I faltered, my first.
"You know you won't make it back. You can't do this."
I lowered the gun. I turned.
The bullet struck me, a soothing cold bursting through burning lungs.
And at long last, he was gone.
Sometimes... that voice inside your head? It can be a real son of a bitch.
I'd never believed in seconds winds. Let alone a third, fourth or fifth. The first was surely enough of a hurdle. Enough of a sky scraping wall. Enough of a steeple that soared with the gods. The hell that ripped through my chest was such that every inhale stung like icy needles and every exhale left my lungs burning for more. Yet there was no going back.
To press on seemed unfathomable and I had not the faintest idea where the will was born. Was he enduring the hell I was? My comrade in arms, surging forward against the intangible bonds.
"Is that all that's in you?"
His words fell like sharp, steel clamps that hacked at my slumped shoulders and with a searing flash, bolstered me up.
Agony ripped through every limb, my calves feeling as though they'd split apart and the muscle, tendril and marrow dragged behind me like a mocking mimicry of the saving bonds of our parachutes. Stoicism was never my best quality but I endured it.
Night had not long fallen when we heard the far off cries of the dying. I steadied the butt of my firearm against the overturned dirt that made up the field of graves and held on, resolute.
"You won't make it. You'll be gunned down at every half meter."
The desire to take up arms and shoot the prick down was all consuming, save the fact such a action would give away our position.
Ignoring the bastard, I slung my only true companion over my shoulder and trudged on, ready to leave him behind. But he was not so readily dismissed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? You can't do this. You'll die."
I marched on.
"And your mother... she's old Greg, and you're an only child. Who'll take care of her?"
I raised the gun, ready to take aim.
"What about Mary, she won't make it if you don't come back."
I faltered, my first.
"You know you won't make it back. You can't do this."
I lowered the gun. I turned.
The bullet struck me, a soothing cold bursting through burning lungs.
And at long last, he was gone.
Sometimes... that voice inside your head? It can be a real son of a bitch.
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