#i rarely ever make animatics but there are times. where i have a vivid vision of one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

castlehead · 7 years

Text

Intermediately, the great grand thing Spoke in and out of hearing, sometimes with Barely a voice to rest on, if that Bright commodity upstairs had anything to say About it, but then the work —Delivered the right themes at the right times: and then, All that simple dust ploughing our vision so long, when in our way We accuse the blur rather than look at it like a uh Lost dog, or than find it a path-always to Clarity, clout, the work, that is, made there—right there—in the crease of an eye A great grand thing of a work: It was the result of banging the symptoms Dry I suppose, till my throat ran out of moisture To sing with, having dealt with symptoms long enough, Wanting cores: this magical thinking came with it The familiar frustration with anything too Much of a lie to take seriously anymore, or anything Based in lies, lies on thoughts of a thoughtless Public, so I thought, at least as to the livelihood of its artists, that is,; Pah! When really the reign of The Public, if a reign, must Be doing something widespread right! OR Heck, nobody might’ve found out abt it yet, How wrong it is: society to this day is Just as unalterably plural, more so, even, Than it was, and remaineth just as Strong: it makes me think that, well, huh, this moment today: I am a part of that:

Of ashy morning skies lit by noon, By fanatical jaws of light themselves

More Phoebus than Phoebus, at least, By Stevens’s hijacked terms: I think it’s the name

Of a sun-goddess or something. I am apart from My own parochial—or quaint maybe

Is the better word—schemes, not needing me

To bloom electric spires in formidable concerns About the state of poetry in order to be myself, that is

If family knew, would you [I] lose that name; Would the foils snigger at your befallen Ill, claim ALWAYS RIGHT ABOUT

IT? Twist me then if they do, twist Me in that way of the whirling

Buddhists [Dervishes] or something, on The short gradation outside, there

An illustrious haunted mansion, there, of some Reference: to be explained later, partly;

Seen only once, in the eyes of a pigeon That yu see, there, outside the window Of yr [my] decrepit sanctuary . . . . .

A flower grew in lungs that is bouquet By now. Almost went sere and riven by The stark yet careful doubt some shade / Of Freedom greeted it with, ill-fated: it welcomed It pursue freedom to the end of uncertainty, But this was driven by my own promise And my responsibility therein got us nowhere. First Of all, it couldn’t be a challenge like it was, which Would imply the possibility of the winner having Something to brag about, a superficial upside if any. The Entrance into This orbit, hidden somewheres in the aging crabgrass of failure Is best revealed to a sceptic like me, I’m ready, I thought, bragging: But like my prior corpses I’d left to mulch, I was Burnt to death, dry throat made driest at the root, thirsting for The other better-quenching bc—so elusive—root of my problems: I was evil if I did not win the war; I’d be a martyr if I did. What a choice! Well: the calyx shattering and the waxing stem Hath blended in my lungs both love and hate For this stately shadowy figure I weave that is myself. And now has bloomed to things of magnificent smoke Overcoming the weakness of that starting sarcoid Rose; and I spoke a jungle through the drowning rain of it. And sorrow poured in drops of shattered leaves, And in my fist were incubated pearl, which As seed was not mine to give but mine to take: Some sphere of spectral emptiness, like smoke, It became,—the figure; to warm within a heart Like mine that everlasting sight of idiom, inspiring as It fell thru love and hate and even flesh, Really, landing on that precious emptiness Like a stuntman leaping to find his pillow. Wakened I though in remorse, to an apologetic bower: It turned out I was not The Chosen One: My comforting patterns, shades of things, here in my head, instead, Were thrown back at me, and I entrusted strictly to mycellf, to feed No others dead w/ my pittance of alimony, only I to kill Myself with overkill, this time, Tho, I thought my muse not poisonous but alive Once more, more than ever, and I trusted this hunch: That anyone’s muse is forever of a manic phoenix-eternity, tho Considering proof of this, merely what I hath sampled some of briefer craft than this: I am hearing searing laughter from Crane’s Broken Tower now Where levels to the top are mere dusky climes for the end of logic Everybody knows, my vision of my fate To foggy up and stew aloft debris around: I was anyway to drill My foggy mind to dimness despite all the warnings, weaker, weaker seeing any Aim for it at all that meant enough for what I had withstood When standing dying in a solitary wood Like some obstinate pillar of some house, laden With vine. I made the aforementioned pearl Be what broke, so freed myself from blame, not to avoid disrepute but So I could free the dirty flowers too, In my lungs, wanting voice for me for So long, and who venerated me— Like as if they were the children of my pulse of Vividness— My entire culminating imagery I play at paste to make—the one thing this all Means—so I cld free them from the furtherance That yet sadly gave them life, I know not how: a choking grip By the burly, hairy hands of that arrogant demiurge in me, the one That haunts the viney manse with his smokey palings That I saw once in the pigeon’s eye; thereupon bursting With unhealable tremor / A worldwide armistice could not provide With peace. So leave me to my solitary lease, With my fracturing of pearl and idiom / And blend again What cannot be controlled, o shadow-figure of my Dreams, or of something else I do not want to know. It is as if the sun had got too bold To with its burning laugh not sere all the cowards!— As swinging go the falling bells I know Not where. so whether this, imagination’s Curl, or swerve, or wave, could shove me sideways from the better Word I’d use if I’d had room, I take the thing that comes, as carnival; I take the hitching strands to my whatever. A girl is In each refractory parting of each pome, almost like that infinity I saw. When by that black hole I— smoldered in my cheap oneness, while The infinite sat there mute, unchanged. And my lungs hath stirred A partial requiem for that hurt in place of having nothing, Though that loss partake of soul, despite,—consumes / What’s horrible to Head, and makes it horribler; yet which insistently tells me of Some mournful finery: as would At first, maybe bleaken my candor, with my trite reactions To the imagistic foliage; or come across as ‘soul-baring’— Too emotionally populous to get it straight— Rather than bleed pollinating thoughts immediately For glinting miles, for flowers, unfolding flowers, The genus nameless, and that yet I see ahead, for In reality, an evolving subject, and Imbued in all, however most don’t notice it at all. Anyway To call the rain in showers some drained corpse, To give up & pile the soul on ruddy hills of rudiment, a dull Betrayal of the abstract dream, using those sacred tools th. while —Of a personal inwardness, run by the impetus Of possibility, to one day harness guts and mind a single steed; All of this to me appears to rhyme With madness. Shall I say it is a shape, this noble with ignoble? Shall I recourse to nudge on my knee Of flowery rhetoric against yours, like a jerk? It is more than flowery rhetoric. No. To whisper bangs of sunlight on the pearl again, takes bravery; That is, despite assumptions it no longer Is, I know, it hasn’t yet drained all the fuel from Her, misbegotten, mixed, expressionistic metaphor, the damned clever girl, And which in craving for a soul of flowers forms a soul; Does this detesteth not a thing? And petals, leaves, Falling, are they king? I find more in the verbs my doing Does, than on the page: an act to harp Away somewhere, you kno, into the buzz Afflicted ears despair to feel and hear, I guess, I guess. These girls, each of them crumble, and beauty the veneer For havoc. And I have no choice To see but what I see and when I do, In spite of darkness cold that silence Calls to you: a smallness in the violence Of each retracted word in mundane conversation; Or each morose conniption in the heart an explanation Must entail, so one’s neighbor might See their situation valid: for I define myself With breath and breath and beat and Beat of brain, will hoard all, for am sensitive to All, I value all though; including sublimest terror, Will stand them on my shelf like books. The terror doesn’t Bond a minstrel, troubadour ARNAUT at least came close; Nor any songster huffing on about himself and nothing else. But she Who speaks to sing her chances by the floe Where Orpheus responded to the wind, And hears some most unpeptic echo there, risks upon Herself the assuming of a dissipated character, wearing-down her days alone, While the rest go to their doom, thinking they are right. That tired nature speaks in raspiness. I would endure the dullest fellow’s bliss To spawn my own, for it would be the same. An animatic masque Is all in the World who praise doing a task For the sake of peace, for that it not haunt them any longer, A mansion in the woods. Their daemon is not: but is stuff made up Of ghosts that dog a thought, without knowing what it is, Themselves not there; they are ghosts. And step by step, These theorizers corrupt slowly and neatly Their emanating voice until it is shrill whisper, Which after all wld come to any who rely On meekness to get by, as if contentiousness Were too much a risk: like, about anything: but it is A serious / Pleasure, something Maybe, touched and felt certain: rarely does that bless us: So then to be not, most of all, uh, not Resigned withal the creaks of footsteps, or standard leaks Thru standard floors, is most important thing. They all of them, I too- -Make a ‘bash’ of the solitude I love alone for none. Except in the former’s case is bashed its helpfulness; The latter, a bash, a party in my skull, my truest friends, ideas I have invited. They go away, the others than oneself, I mean to say, not like oneself: They go to find where people haven’t yet gone, with a— Distaste for the supreme fictions they find resultantly, When really there is nothing other that poetry Can meet so head-on as illusion. It is considerably seen In figuration, and mocks the human tongue Like it were doggerel, inviting but more limits to the truth,— With this futile other-vision of systemic truth, as makes parade Of what is no garbage certainly in its puerile Purity, I mean, there is, as ther is in Any language as might try to get beyond itself,—o stiff sophomore, You, as others, and as I do, tho it’s worse for me, Since I don’t know it, think I am ‘above’ it ‘at this point’—turn and turn In bed, thinking about what’s in yr head, when it doesn’t, nevr will, exist,—

When these findings in the garbage are no garbage, mostly, but where hides The revelatory Entrance To The World, or some other thing unfathomed. But’s thorough as a view through clean windows seen. Recalleth yr weathered Dreams to paradigm And moment, and the still image you get breaks sheds Of different happenstance and cruel device From the actual thing you’re giving an account of. / When burrowing Into the head to find the waiting Mushrooms there, stuffed beneath the dirt—that is— Before they’re found by pigs of someone Else who might sniff out yr Myopic Self And know where not to look—you can easily get sniffed-out By the pigs, (since all people are themselves a good idea) then- -Clamped-down on by their teeth, then tossed behind their shouldrs At their faceless master holding a sack—you with the rest of their findings, If you give up, / A pretty shitty experience, besides relief I guess, somewhere in yr heart, in finding out where you are, Since nobody who pursues a thing, anything, can know that, Where they are, it’s chase or else quit The chase, rub your eyes and realize your color-consuming geography Like a realist painter, but of yr own pastels of experience; No longer be a space cadet, but be without the once-widespread you had. Tho if you don’t like that reality but go for it Anyway, then turn back, if even for one moment, you Will suffer the gaze for just that one moment of the clarity, Ere the complete destruction Of all the deliciously unrequitable higher purpose In you you had. Then you should probly just work for The Post Office. This packet of information, let it be forgotten. Left to blight… In shiversome implicative doubt-paths. This is my sternly-worded war with Voice: I can hear its vocal cannon-fire Struggle to usurp whatever hocks out the quaked shallow hollow of my throat And a crippling volley of gunfire somewhere piercing me In the exact place where peace is most necessary. Elsewhere I am violent in the realms of quell of soul, Struggling to fight life itself to life. And for peace, they are, though, two diff. things; are Somewhere picked in froggy-smelling Legions of bombast and bad attitude. One can Whiff the stink of existential pang and long-parched effort, But done up to be a song, it still succeeds And honors—godly paradoxi; I pull the meaning up By straps of liquified boots by the gnash of crud And sharp shale-particle. Maybe that’s the smell. My thought-factory Raises its ranks up the totem / Of production, meets my salutary Pride of finally doing this for me at the top, Like it usually does: I think this is a pome: But it is not final, as no pome shld be. I guess it is A seizing up despite nought there to Seize, despite that my muscles are soup: the act a making of the thing, Divided by art, equals opus, a ripe conclusion staved Off so long: a relatively swell Commitment to the job of making and A hurtle towards the carrion and guile, A victor running rampant on the buzz of his own smile. This is— Evaded wisdom, now, for the sake Of running after something, ha, ha. Now to bother sorrow, Again, to make my comfy stead, as usual: there’s ended Days, sure: I quite before my mind begin, A lot. Yet I force no falter, merely fail, Tho exert. Elsewhere were made a few thoughtful stains Like this one, trying to unify. That now Relic, flew alone once, before A state of eyes no glare could rob a layer From knew what familiar objects liked to be to me, and sniffed me out. Damn pigs. Damn pigeons! This fear like darting from the light Is a concealing of my practices, fearfully shy for them, for what they were To me was too embarrassingly close to my heart As my very guts of trial, of joy, and —Of experience. Yet if at my own behest I might Make less tearful miles of lines Each year, I might ask the other in me Why she wants no poetry any longer: you know, poetry about Th causes made to shed themselves spontaneously, Once pointed out on a map: would that be deceptive: A focus but of the original expression I had On what is far away from it, and that into still more dissimilar Parts but so far away as even to come back To what I had meant to start with simply by going Around the back of my head, like a Christopher Colombus of the psyche, except I don’t destroy civilizations of people: wow, That comparison really gets me between with— Myriad confusions: foolproof, Each one is a name for the one contained within, so The Christopher Columbus metaphor might As well equally mean twelve diff. other things. Could I suffer the claims of others That I was meaningless? But all I think of is A nakedness of elsewhere. No mind Could stitch that together stiff. And do I want to be stiff? In that case. Well. It is all more nebulous than one possibility. That I know. Made of self-scorn And acuteness Of the mask, tht possibility could wire blackly Over a cynicism well as much a poison To the secret-snatchers who thought they Got it: oh, those foolish others: news for you, I knew not what I Saw either, yet took the rest As what I did, but plainly, as an object, Any, dissolved it all in rightful substances As anxious as the tears blurred once the sight. O what by salty Stain upon one fraction of the book My eyes made many, took a few revelations Within their tombs, hied from my glare forever. Mere chaos, maybe; to Become a unity The message, old and dire, Curbed too much . . . .

#poetry #poem #pome #powtry #depth as predicament #the sad truth of it all

0 notes