The Void

[heslopian]

How do you describe dense black?
What fancy metaphors for pain could I devise
to make you feel what I've felt
on and off of late? Maggots crawling free
from hollow eye sockets, corpses bleached
to chicken bones beneath a brain dead moon...
etcetera. etcetera. I've spent so long
sodomising truth for art, my memories
my daffodils, bobbing their heads
beside the stream of my breath. I am a whore.

In the absence of inspiration I give you the void.
The perfect square. Entirely black. Bottomless.
Filled with nothing but the fact that what you see
is all you'll get. Falling. Falling.

[billy]

a perfect marriage
i particularly like the following lines:

sodomising truth for art, my memories
my daffodils, bobbing their heads
beside the stream of my breath. I am a who

thanks for the read

[Leanne]

Oh Jack, all artists are whores, we just don't get paid properly for it That void is often the best inspiration you know -- plenty of people never see it, never learn to love it for the contrast between true nothing and the tiny spark of energy you always have left in you... just enough to draw breath, then lift the pen. That you write it here as a square is fascinating. Those damned boxes -- the thought of being stuck inside one is suffocating, but not to those who make you "other" -- to them it's safe. For them.

Everyone needs daffodils.

[heslopian]

I think confessional poets are the biggest whores of them all though Thank you for your kind comment Leanne. I agree about the daffodils. For me they're my memories, for the Marquis de Sade they were sodomy, and for Wordsworth they were, well, daffodils.