What follows is something I am challenging myself with in the face of lately finding it hard to pull the blood from my forehead and turn it into something more tangible. Namely, I fully intended to do National Novel Writing Month this year and it rather failed, fantastically, in the face of a lot of work and London trips getting in the way. Experience you see. It's why this blog has dropped off a bit and I am only just getting through revising my Scotland notes from a month ago.
That all said, I apologise is this isn't your cup of tea (and yes that was a horribly intended pun). Hence why I am tagging this post and all those which will follow so that you might skip this if you would prefer. I will also endeavour to make these come in tandem with my more usual life and travel musings. Note however, the key word is, endeavour.
What I am sharing with you all is a challenge I have been wanting to do for years, the challenge of writing an epic poem. Eventually I hope to have these recorded and dropped into youtube as well, but for now I would like to share them in the raw format of words and the picture quotes which were the original inspirations for many of the segments of this tale (among other things).
Come now, listen, to the prologue in a grand tale of a girl who gets tangled with tricksters and tricksters who get tangled with technology. The old and new world clash in a race to find the Truth of the Universe. Who will live? Who will die?
It is as inconsequential, as incongruous, as inconspicuous and as irreverently ridiculous as death via teacup.
Join Stormy Kettle, a girl from the village of Luffy and seven oldball and ancient tricksters in a race organised by Time and Death themselves.
(Possibly just out of boredom. But then again, if you were Time, or Death, wouldn't you do so too? It might keep the children's squabbles down a few decibels. At least for a couple decades).
Thanatos the
Muse
Under crackle-paint walls.
Death sits on a lawn chair,
sipping tea.
Grass patches freckle the ground
Like the head of a balding man.
Behind the walls a guitar screams.
It scratches the sky with wounds. So
Death paints a window. Blue blanket
And bunny cloud vista.
Better to augment the red. Drip.
A bird twiddles. Casting vocal lines
To orchestrate an operatic overture
In purple.
The shade of rotted violets.
Forgotten under fantasies
Of white fences and picnic baskets.
Where reality makes faeries of us all.
Death stands at the window now.
Gazes through paint to a world
Overweight with want.
Wondering thoughts over
How bellybutton lint, holds up
To batteries. Going, going
Bright till gone. Just desire.
Death minds the breeze slipping
In a ninety degree corner.
The wind complains at the volume
Of triplet two year olds in time out.
Death has many names. Killer, collector.
He would rather collect children less.
Do remember that.
A chipmunk scampers. Run, little
rodent. Faster than a hamster on the
circle
Of life. Who has lived
through grocery store
check-out lines. Produce
and
dairy product colours.
Where, live the faeries now?
Just remember, even if you.
Go hide under hill.
Death will still come, fortune
Disregarded.
Death spends life on a lawn chair
sipping tea under walls
of cracked paint.
The ground, a patchwork, bald-head
Grassland. Lacks the verge
Or a saw-edged knife, fresh off the
wrist.
Some might call this home.
Death calls it Earth.
Stay tuned for Part 1, Morpheus, the god of Dreams is rather malcontent.
No comments:
Post a Comment