I want to know
What nature is like

In front of me there is
A small, oval object.
A small, pointy object.
A small, soft object.
The small, soft object is moving in the air.

The small, round object holds my attention the most.
I attempt to touch the small, oval object.
I want to touch the small, oval object.

The small, oval object is no longer small nor oval.
It is wet and gooey.
It is dead.

The small, soft object is violently striking me
And there
And there

A small little snippet I thought of while taking a walk in the woods. It’s inspired a little bit by a game I played once – a text adventure called Suspended. In that one you take control of robots who only have one sense each, like sight, smell, hearing and touch. Phenomenology is something that I find quite interesting, even if it was tough to wrap my head around the first few times.

I hope you found it enjoyable.


Dying Earth

Jagged, rocky peaks
Misty stream, cradling the dead
Itchy, gnarled shrubs

Sharpened, grainy sand
Flounders float, half-decomposed
The creek’s murky stench

Monstrous cedars
Creatures wait, warm mud their bed
To take their last breath

The miasmic air
Fills the lungs, leaves in repose
And all beings sleep

This is an experiment with imagery, based both on how scenes are described and what words are chosen to describe them.

I hope you found it enjoyable.

Grandmother’s Hands

Grandmother’s Hands

You tell me
You never got to feel them
Your grandmother is dead
Or abusive
Or otherwise
Not in the picture

I can tell you those hands
Carried wisdom and age
And age and wisdom
In the contours of her wrinkles
Like all the other poems
About grandmother’s hands

Your words don’t matter
Because you didn’t have a grandmother
Who sewed dresses
And knit blankets
And gave candy
To little children

She never sewed?
All grandmothers sew

Now I want to talk at length
About the time my parents grounded me
When I was still in high school

This was inspired by a post expressing annoyance at college poets that I swear I’ve seen in multiple places, along with my experiences of going to – and not being that impressed by the content of – amateur slam poetry jams. It’s not to say that I dislike even simple attempts at poetry. Rather, I’m not a fan of topics that are overdone, so I wanted to play around with that sentiment here. Some of the funny looking parts of the poem (namely, the wisdom/age reuse) are intentional, expressing the singular dimension that the hands of grandmothers tend to be described.

On that subject, the absolute best amateur slam poetry I’ve ever heard was called, roughly, “You’re pretty, for a black girl.” Needless to say, I got much more from that one than I did from all the poems about grandmother’s hands combined.

I hope you found it enjoyable.

The Succubus

You saw me top the village clock
When you were a small child.
You hid behind your mother’s frock.
A demon drove you wild.

From boy you grew into a man
And found the tastes of flesh
You threw your life into the land,
Engulfed within its mesh.

The sparkle in your eye is gone,
In its place a cloudy mist.
There is no daylight past the dawn
Of a life that won’t desist.

Perhaps I can be of help
To bring meaning in your life.
A pity to see such a small whelp
Tied to an unloving wife.

To children who don’t respect you.
To work that brings no zest.
Parasites who prospect you,
And subject you to their tests.

Your destiny is now unfurled,
All ending at a wall.
You are disposable in this world.
Don’t you want to end it all?

Do not be afraid to let me in.
Your soul is not a toy.
Surely you can withstand some sin.
You’re a man now, not a boy.

You’ve let me in. The stage is set.
Let me crawl into your bed.
Surely you don’t want regret
To follow when you’re dead.

Allow me to release your hate
Your anger, fear and pain.
To keep those feelings within your fate
Would make you go insane.

Release your doubts, many or few.
Your sadness and your glee.
Release the darkness within you
Put everything in me.

And when you have released it all
And can release no more
I get up, drawn by a call,
And walk out through your door.

What’s left of you at this point is
Unrecognizable to most.
A husk that very few will miss.
A man who dropped his post.

I know the secret you have kept
Out from the status quo.
Despite how your wife and family wept,
You have died long ago.

But I may say that it is worth
Happiness for a night.
I saw your face. T’was one of mirth
Devoid of your past fright.

Call me again if you have need
Of one you could obsess.
Allow me to carry the dark seed
That mankind does repress.

This is something that I jotted down at 2 in the morning and fixed up for this post. I’ve wanted to spend a bit of time writing a few poems before getting started, so there’s a few that I will put up over the next little while. The hour is a little odd because I’ve had a busy day today, but for the most part, I intend to keep to Monday and Friday nights for putting up new posts from this point onward.

I’ve always been fascinated by mythical creatures, and how people interact with them, whether through legends or through superstitions. For this time,  as the title suggests, it’s a poem from the perspective of the succubus – a demon who… um… seduces men in order to steal their lives away, and the man who surrenders himself to her. The imagery is probably obvious within the poem itself.

I hope you found it enjoyable.