The Confessor's Muses

[heslopian]

I am the dictator of memory.
In armband and cap I'll re-write your life
to suit my vision. Mother, do my bidding.
If I brand you a slut the reader will know
only this and nothing more.
You'll be doomed to sluttery in a stranger's eyes.
Though the world eludes my grasp,
trees still grow despite my wrath,
in this mirrored land I'm Christ. Show me your pity
or die by fire. I move among a plethora
of images and truths, distorting those
which court my gaze. I'll rip the family album
to shreds, use our ancestors' fingers as a necklace.
Mother, weep as I erect a mall on your sacred
burial grounds. Father, drink your beer
and howl like a jackal in heat.
I am not done revising the past.

[Leanne]

I can't remember who it was, but one of the Roman authors got into trouble with the law (most of them did at some point or another) and essentially said, "you can do what you like to my body, but I have made you a fool for eternity with my words". Writers have enormous power, given the motivation and opportunity. I love "in this mirrored land I'm Christ" -- it's brilliantly true.

I am not keen on "a plethora of images and truths" -- not because "plethora" is a bad word, but I blame many people before you for overusing it badly so that it's devalued in my head Feel free to disregard...

I think the last line could be stronger. I very much like the idea of revising the past, but perhaps you could rub in their helplessness to avoid their literary fate a little more. I'm not entirely sure what to suggest at the minute though, I will think on it.

This is a very strong start, Jack.

[heslopian]

Thank you for the feedback, Leanne This poem was meant to be longer, but I hit a brick wall and added that last line to round it off neatly. I may try and write more about the mother and father of the poem if some good ideas hit me. I like the Roman author's statement. It's like a giant middle finger to the man

[Erthona]

Besides what LA said. I think "plethora" is probably not needed, thus it becomes gratuitous.

"I move among images and truths,
distorting those which court my gaze."
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Some of your lineation I'm not wild about. They do not seem like natural breaks, nor do they seem to serve another purpose.
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Some of the lines seem unbalanced:

"Mother, weep as I erect a mall on your sacred burial grounds."

How many scared burial grounds does one mother have? Maybe Mother should be plural and burial ground singular.

Father, drink your beer and howl like a jackal in heat.

Drinking beer is a fairly mild activity, and I don't see how "howl like a jackal in heat" follows from it.
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"You'll be doomed to sluttery in a stranger's eyes."

Seems unnecessarily awkward.

You'll be doomed as a slut in a stranger's eyes. It seems that being doomed to sluttery would happen in the stranger's bed. Slut is a judgement, while sluttery is more of an action, despite the fact both are nouns, sluttery includes the "practices" of a slut.
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I think this is a fairly unique approach to the topic, but it could benefit from more focus. A good beginning, but not yet a good end.

Dale

[heslopian]

Thanks for the feedback, Erthona The "sacred burial grounds" line is a reference to the stereotype of new cultures disrespecting old ones, a la American exploitation of natives, just as the narrator disrespects his family history. The "Father" line is about reducing the narrator's father to an animalistic, macho stereotype for his own artistic purposes. I'll work on trying to make that more clear. I also like your edit of the "images and truths" line. I think I'll use it in a revision of this piece. Thanks again!

[Aish]

I am the dictator of memory.
In armband and cap I'll re-write your life Is 'armband and cap' necessary?
to suit my vision. Mother, do my bidding.
If I brand you a slut the reader will know
only this and nothing more.
You'll be doomed to sluttery in a stranger's eyes. You pay a good deal of attention to 'Mother', and her typecast promiscuity, yet do not introduce 'Father' until the end.
Though the world eludes my grasp,
trees still grow despite my wrath,
in this mirrored land I'm Christ. Show me your pity
or die by fire. I move among a plethora
of images and truths, distorting those
which court my gaze. I'll rip the family album
to shreds, use our ancestors' fingers as a necklace. From here to the end is goddamned gorgeous.
Mother, weep as I erect a mall on your sacred
burial grounds. Father, drink your beer
and howl like a jackal in heat.
I am not done revising the past.

Bear with me a little, Jack. I like this piece immensely, yet my mind wants to excise it, paring it back to its glaring, self-serving bones.

Ex:

I am the dictator of memory.
I'll re-write your life
to suit my vision.
Mother, do my bidding.
If I brand you a slut the reader will know
only this and nothing more.
The world eludes my grasp,
trees grow despite my wrath;
in this mirrored land I'm Christ. Show me your pity
or die by fire.
I move among images and truths, distorting those
which court my gaze. I'll rip the family album
to shreds, use our ancestors' fingers as a necklace.
Mother, weep as I erect a mall on your sacred
burial grounds. Father, drink your beer
and howl like a jackal in heat.
I am not done revising the past.

Cheers!

[heslopian]

Thanks for the feedback, Aish I like your pared down revision.

[Aish]

I am ecstatic to have the privilege of reading you again, dear sir!!!!

[heslopian]

You flatter me, madam