Posts Tagged ‘romanticism’

Gothic America

Posted: April 14, 2014 in Poetry
Tags:

Goths…
designer clothes
designed to look
non-designer
mascara running

Is not America satanic?

Bear scars
infected arms
triggered alarms
known tricks
sell their souls
quite quick
for a bag
get off sick
where existence
is measured & weighed
factored as economy
you/re telling me
about dark reality

Fuck Crowley.

Want scary
…heart of darkness
the INNER city
behind buildings
under bridges
inside bathroom stalls
are our cities’ deepest pits
where real darkness sits

Where are the true Gothic?

Those who burned
the body of Percy
his heart collected
from the ashes
of the funeral fire
human heart notorious
for it’s difficulty
to burn properly
before encompassed
by Adonais
wrote for legacy
& tragic friends

Lights that never stay with us.

Where are the:
Keats & Byrons & Shelleys & Coleridges now?

Who will light the pyre for America?

For poetry IS dying…
who here will burn their hand
taking the red-white-blue
from the embers of the fire
wrapping it in
the blood-soaked constitution

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These Goths…

With their designer clothes.

Designed to look non-designer.

Their mascara running.

 

Is not America Satanic enough?

 

Bearing scars,
on infected arms.

 

Tripped store alarms.

 

Well-known tricks
that sell their souls quick
for a bag to get off sick.

 

A land where your existence
can be & is
measured & weighed
to wind up factored
in as an economy.

 

Do not tell stories
of a dark reality.

 

The hell with Crowley.

 

Want it scary?

 

Journey down into
the heart of darkness,
the INNER city.

 

Behind every building,
under every bridge,
in every bathroom stall,
are our cities’ deepest pits.

 

There the dark sits,
the darkness lives.

 

We need the real Gothic.

 

Those who burned the body of Percy.

 

His heart collected,
from the ashes,
of his great funeral fire.

 

The poet’s heart,
is even more notorious,
for its indifference to flame.

 

A heart enveloped
in its poem Adonais.

 

Words which lamented
the untimely death
of a young J. Keats,
& praised his immortal
body of work.

 

Magnificent lights that never stay with us.

 

Where are the:
Blakes
Keats
Byrons
Clares
Shelleys
Coleridges
& Wordsworths now?

Who will light the pyre for America?

 

she IS dying…

 

Who here will burn their hand,
taking her heart from the embers of the fire?

 

Who will wrap her heart in the blood-soaked Constitution?

 

That shining poem…

 

Written as testimony,
by those that came before:
that they were here,
that they saw truth,
that they would crawl,
in starved agony,
from underneath the tyranny,
of aristocracy.

 

A call to rise from our knees.

 

That shining moment…

 

We still believed,
even after,
this dark wind of apathy,
swept over the streets,
& destroyed our cities.

 

Now is the time…

 

We can finally breathe.

Now is the time…

 

For us to speak.

 

For us to dream.

 

Now is the time…

 

We must die to live again.

 

 

©2012 ZENspeak9 publications un/incorporated

The_flight_of_Phoenix_by_humanofprey

It will hurt me
more than
it will hurt heR

I love her
because i know
she loves me
for who I am
though she
never
said iT

I feel her
when she breathes
as she smiles
when she leaves
stays a while
grabs a hold
will not let gO

In love
with being
in lovE

So goes this
salvation
through soft skin
retribution
love can save us
but not all
only some

Only some
but not all
love can save us
retribution
through soft skin
salvation
so goes this

In love
with being
in lovE

Will not let go
grabs a hold
stays a while
when she leaves
as she smiles
when she breathes
i feel heR

Though she
never said it
for who i am
she loves me
because i know
i love heR

It will hurt her
more than
it will hurt mE

me2

Her body circles my mind
like a shark
like the stars

Swirl around
the galaxies

/round a drain

Scar my self
for f
lesh
to keep her
beautiful

Pick her up
carry the pain
buried inside

But we know

Never will

Things be the same

Between us

 

Let breathe
let try
let be
let die

Let leave
if there
 do return
still care
will burn

 /lot more to poetry
than mere words;
no matter how
multi-syllabic
the verse
can/t be real
if truth
doesn/t hurt

Hey fellow Word warriors.

Strange days around these parts. The final edition of the ZENspeak publication has arrived. This self publishing foray has been a trip. At first, I didn’t know what to think of self publishing. I am of the generation that thought, crazy though it may be, the artist was paid for his work, not the other way around. But in this age where everything is turned into a racket, it was silly to think that something as potentially commercial as writing, would be safe for long from the evil clutches of American marketing. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it will give volume to millions of voices that had otherwise never been heard. I thought self publishing could dilute the credibility of art, letting any Joe with a couple hundred dollars available, loose on the art scene. I thought the only people it really empowered were those with access to money. Thus the impoverished, were where they have always been, left in silence. I thought money would come to dictate art. But then I thought, that’s how things already are. I thought a lot of things. But here I am, self publishing. Maybe I thought wrong. I tell you what dear reader, in the last six months I’ve learned: editing, publishing, promoting, digital photography, editing digital video, and developing and publishing a web site. And of all of it, I can honestly say none is more daunting than the book’s formatting. Don’t say I didn’t warn you aspiring hacks.

The 5 edition of the ZENspeak spoken word features 4 poems including: HyperREALity Of The INNER City; The Magic Show; And She Says She Wants Darkness; Gothic America

HyperREALity Of The INNER City is the result of a prose/poetry hybrid I’ve been developing for years. This is nothing groundbreaking. Many have attempted this before me, arguably, Arthur Rimbaud to the best effect. Usually, this style has a phonic ring to it that enables the reader to identify the poetry embedded within it. I wanted to strip away all such poetic devices; no alliteration, consonance, half-false-full rhymes, anything that gives the piece poetic characteristics. But it can’t be read as straight prose either. I want the reader to feel this discord. It just doesn’t fit. It’s strange. The subject deals with the O.G.s of the inner cities. O.G. is an extravagant term. They are just bums that have been bumming for decades and have achieved a certain type of “hood fame” for basically just surviving fiend-dom. These old timers believe they are privy to a certain esoteric knowledge. That the youngsters just don’t know the secrets of the game the way that those that came before them knew the secrets of the game. But those secrets wind up being no more than lies and death, and they don’t come cheap.

The Magic Show rewords every bad relationship I’ve ever had the unfortunate luck of getting involved in. A particular one came to mind while penning this piece. It started out pleasant enough, with a girl who thought I was the cat’s meow. I always did these magic tricks for her. She’d go nuts for them and always try to get me to tell her how I did them. After a few months of tricks, I broke down and taught her the in/s and out/s of my magic. She never wanted to see any of those tricks again. She seemed mad, once she found out how simple the tricks were, and that there was a time when I had tricked her into believing in them. After we broke up, the whole relationship and how it turned out, seemed to be reflected by that lesson in magic. At first, it’s all sparks and intrigue; but, in the end, we fall for a trick, and once we know the trick, the magic is gone, never to be regained. I don’t stick to form and rhyme schemes very often. Show and Darkness are two of my better examples of such.

And She Says She Wants Darkness has been traveling with me for years. It has always been one of my favorites, but I never could find it a proper home. It was too short to stand on its own. When the ZENspeak book came along, I found a perfect fit. Darkness was born of a time that I was reading a lot of Milton and Plath. Milton’s blank verse was definitely rubbing off on me and Plath was a monstrous influence on me. When I read Plath, I feel as if I’ve been reduced to a child psychologically. She throws me into a world of boys and girls and daddies and mommies and everything seems normal on the surface, but there is a terrible distress bubbling under the surface. Darkness is a brief account of a girl that has a pretty uptown life, but she also has a second life, a darker life, a second face that no one from the uptown area has ever seen her wear.

Gothic America comes from my constant entanglement with the romantic literary movement. I wanted to illustrate the romanticism of the United States. Most Americans suffer from a romantic-self-aggrandizing. We believe that we are everything good that is holding this evil world together. That it is up to us to save the world. To give the world freedom. Even while we are destroying it. It’s not just that. Walk up to someone and ask them what they are. Bet they don’t say that they are American. You may hear, “I’m Italian, or German, or Dutch,” but you won’t hear, “Why silly sir, I am an American!” We blame our heritage for little quirks like our temper, or our inclination to gossip. Ever hear, “I just can’t control my anger, you know I’m Irish.” We remain connected to our cultures, but in a way that doesn’t require much leg work. We don’t practice the rituals and traditions that come along with a culture. We have a romantic sense of what it means to be German or Irish. All of this brought me to the funeral of Percy Shelley. To those that don’t know, Percy had drowned out at sea. Back then, a body found at sea was quarantined, not to leave the beach for the possibility of contagions. A small group of Percy’s inner circle collected on the beach, to burn his already decomposing body. This resulted in a story that has been dramatized to an effect that would make any true romantic proud. Some accounts tell us that Trelawny plucked Percy’s heart from the ashes of this raging fire and wrapped it in Percy’s poem Adonais. The heart, and its clever wrapping, were later to be sealed in Percy’s sarcophagus. The detail that his heart was wrapped in his poem, Adonais, is not wasted on those with even a cursory knowledge of Shelley’s work. Percy wrote Adonais as a tribute to the then, recently deceased John Keats. Keat’s tragic passing at such an early age, deeply affected Percy. Beautiful this symbolism may be, the real account differs slightly. By the time Trelawny reached for Percy’s heart, the organ was carbonized ash. The heart was not buried nor enshrined in a tomb, but was ultimately entrusted to Mary Shelley, who eventually passed the morbid keepsake to her and Percy’s son. With all this said, I thought of America, how she seems to be dying, and who can really face the reality of this. Who will light the great pyre for her? Where are our prophetic romantics now?

…and if you get a chance check out the ZENspeak book. There’s a twenty page preview floating around.
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/deadBEATpoetry