01-30-2022, 11:54 AM
I changed it up.
Words don't mean anything to me anymore. I'm writing from outside of what words in poems mean to me.
I don't like to put words on anything.
That's one theme of my new book of poems. The second poem in the book is called Demonic Words. The first poem in the book is this:
Survival is Eager
Out of woods,
out of space and sea,
a tale of beasts,
harvest brown vegetables,
grasshoppers, smell of mantis
and dirt.
Homegrown business.
Relic of immanence.
A fine place to find aliens
if you know where to look.
Hello to backroads, farewell to ideas.
Ever ready with sap, primitive crush
of insects between teeth and gum.
Smell of mantis, and stain of sour urine
on atmosphere, introduces the woody, fur-
forsaken beast.
Don't expect something monstrous afoot.
We've run out of strange land
though are filthy with realms.
Take language only as a map
and be half-lost.
A creature must have a creator
for the puny definition to stick,
this beast is half-spelled.
Call gods a conjuring trick at your risk.
This speller is not afraid, opens his mouth,
tongue of horn, sandalwood, opal,
at the forkroad with hands tied.
He does not fear the cross.
Death is not the plot, only adventure.
Nor is this a story of love, lost or sought.
Classic sense.
Dream logic with no narrative.
Generic nature of beasts.
Midway to climax,
no solution to be
bored with. No warning,
no ending. More or less,
more beast.
Route of no number.
.....
I'm destroying all my poems. I'm going to delete this poem soon. I'm cracking it all up. And not having anything left. My new poems, I mean. I'm throwing them in the water and making them swim. I'm deleting them after I write them, and if they somehow survive, they're the poems I want to write.
Words don't mean anything to me anymore. I'm writing from outside of what words in poems mean to me.
I don't like to put words on anything.
That's one theme of my new book of poems. The second poem in the book is called Demonic Words. The first poem in the book is this:
Survival is Eager
Out of woods,
out of space and sea,
a tale of beasts,
harvest brown vegetables,
grasshoppers, smell of mantis
and dirt.
Homegrown business.
Relic of immanence.
A fine place to find aliens
if you know where to look.
Hello to backroads, farewell to ideas.
Ever ready with sap, primitive crush
of insects between teeth and gum.
Smell of mantis, and stain of sour urine
on atmosphere, introduces the woody, fur-
forsaken beast.
Don't expect something monstrous afoot.
We've run out of strange land
though are filthy with realms.
Take language only as a map
and be half-lost.
A creature must have a creator
for the puny definition to stick,
this beast is half-spelled.
Call gods a conjuring trick at your risk.
This speller is not afraid, opens his mouth,
tongue of horn, sandalwood, opal,
at the forkroad with hands tied.
He does not fear the cross.
Death is not the plot, only adventure.
Nor is this a story of love, lost or sought.
Classic sense.
Dream logic with no narrative.
Generic nature of beasts.
Midway to climax,
no solution to be
bored with. No warning,
no ending. More or less,
more beast.
Route of no number.
.....
I'm destroying all my poems. I'm going to delete this poem soon. I'm cracking it all up. And not having anything left. My new poems, I mean. I'm throwing them in the water and making them swim. I'm deleting them after I write them, and if they somehow survive, they're the poems I want to write.