Loki Wyrd

Like tectonic plates

stress builds -- accumulates

drastic shifts

Upheaval

waves crash waves crash

Shutters drawn over eyes. Punched in. Stares through

shards of glass caught in the web

of flies' wings Settling upon the broken bodies

Child cradled in the cold arms of his mother; hoping

to infuse her with warmth, brushing away the flies

from her face -- still almost seeming to blink

when he looks away.

Closing his own eyes, submerged

in a disturbing transparency

of murky shrieks & shudders: starts of the mind

Refracted out of wavelength.

Like tectonic plates
	 stress builds -- accumulates
						  drastic shifts 
										Upheaval	 
					waves crash		 waves crash
Shutters drawn over eyes.  Punched in.  Stares through

a derailed train  (of spectators)  bobbing then gone

Shards of glass		 caught in the web
of flies' wings   Settling upon the broken bodies
Child cradled in the cold arms of his mother; hoping
to infuse her with warmth, brushing away the flies
from her face -- still almost seeming to blink

when he looks away.

Closing his own eyes,	 submerged
in a disturbing transparency
of murky shrieks & shudders: starts of the mind
Refracted out of wavelength.

Thanks for your input, Reverie. I had enough time to distance myself so that I could see it again -- feedback always helps expedite this process.

It must be your charm.

Congratulations, that's really exciting. Hopefully putting together a manuscript will be a project that brings you great joy.

Thank you for taking the time to reply & sharing with me your thought process in reading this. I use "Like tectonic plates" to frame this poem and the metaphors within. While there's nothing wrong with reading this in the literal sense, the word "like" is meant to serve a purpose, as well as to add a sense of chaos to the initial paragraph. You might also note other aspects that seem out of place...spectators, shutters drawn around eyes. I don't intend to share the precise thoughts that triggered the poem, most important is the emotion conveyed.

Like tectonic plates, stress builds, accumulates

until drastic shifts. upheaval. waves crash

Shutters drawn around eyes. Punched in. Stares through

a derailed train--full of spectators--bobbing then gone

Shards of glass / glistening caught in the web

of flies' wings. Settling upon the broken bodies

Child cradled in the cold arms of his mother; hoping

to infuse her with warmth, brushing away the flies

from her face--still almost seeming to blink

when he looks away, closing his own to hear

murky shrieks. Distant

Yet knowing he must set out to find them

I just wrote this. Knowing my personality, I will do many revisions.

I was scrolling through my old bookmarks, and felt like dropping a line.

It occurs to me that while I wasn't friendly-like with most here on the forums, it is a nice thing to have a community with which to share writings. I feel a void in my life--my writing has suffered the wrath of Motivation, my pet sloth.

Truth is not alone surrounded by wallpaper hummingbirds

Flowers palpable, textured

like a fingerprint

Crackling wings thresh out sparks

Blinking into

extraneous points of view

simply to wander

Splendid poem

welcome

Another raised voice, another raised hand.

Proving distaste for

what comes of these choices, the sight of their end--

______Vacant Disparity_____ Desperation knows--

crawling from the caverns--what comes from these blows.

Awake with a lantern, trying to burn out the eyes of

the all-miserable pattern.

Whereas I felt the ending worked well. Finishing it as you did gave me a sense of being left there at the end of the line, confused and distraught, wondering how long a person would stand there waiting.

I'm most pleased to hear it.

Loki steps out of the restroom, looking rather rather pale but determined. He marches to the stage and steps up to the mic.

"This is a hybrid product of two of my hobbies: poetry and mycology. Don't be distraught if you're unfamiliar with a couple of the words, as they're probably from latter of the two. I hope this isn't too heavy for the poetry slam setting, it just happens to be the most recent of my works. I call this..."

Rhizomorphic

In the microcosm of this petri dish

hangs a tapestry of a halcyon

at rest, eyes vitriolic scalpel,

selectively extracting.

 

     [Above the fireplace,

      a bust

      is secretly displayed;

      wearing the face mercurial

      as the epitaph bound

      to

      the

      stake.

 

 

      Beseeching beads of respiration

      hang in the air:

 

 

           Sunken carnation countenances

         swim the stygian backstroke;

      hooves palpitate tumid convolution.]

 

Basidia hang from the ceiling

like tentacled stalactite,

dripping spores of   sordid   thought. 

Fugue in grey inversion,

ductile wisp of notion brought to strand.

 

 

 

 

      Burgeoning tumult,

breathless calm day at sea.

©~WKG~l==2005==>

*This has been EDITED. I changed my mind as to where I wanted to go with the poem, and could simply not leave it as it was. I don't know if changing your original post is against the rules, if so, feel free to disqualify me.*

END COMMUNICATION

Having read his first poem, Loki was feeling a tad ill. Or maybe it was the raw hamburger meat he'd found on the ground and eaten. Regardless, he needed to find the bathroom.

Clutching his stomach, he stumbles in the direction of the restroom. The hooters catch his attention momentarily, but he senses there are more pressing matters needing attended to, and somehow he manages, without problems, to find his way to the door with a scratched out "Janitor's Closet" that now reads "restroom." Hurriedly trying to turn the doorknob, he recognizes a problem--further illustrated by the banging coming from within.

A growl overcomes him, and he shouts, "Move away from the door!" Giving only a brief moment's passage, he proceeds to jumpkick the misbehaving doorknob. His foot punches a hole through the door, and his leg becomes caught. But the door swings open, him precariously sprouting from it, his head dragging along the floor.

Loki heaves a flaming bag of (geld?) at Wyvern's bribe box and ducks under his table, where he hopes to be served a cool beverage.

I, too, would call it a poem. No worries, you needn't be careful with the word.

I find writing down your feelings can be very therapeutic, helping to explore them more than if you simply live them without putting a voice to it. To do so is admirable in my mind.

Having said that, I do think you could snip and shore up a few places in your poem(which usually occurs in coming back to your work, and thinking how you can more poignantly communicate what you've written); this is what I feel really helps to better you as a poet, to be able to recognize what needs work and improve it step-by-step. Outside help can give a needed push to get you on your way.

example: "Were they really lies"

'Were' is probably supposed to be 'where' (typos happen), but the line itself seems awkward, as I'm not sure what 'they' is referring to.

another: "wow Where do I go from here?"

I feel the transition leaves me wanting, which is a result of the last action being the incineration of thought, and not the thought itself. Perhaps if you asked, rather, what it leaves you with?

"New doors rapidly appear infront of me like camera flashes"

I was thinking that "Like camera flashes, new doors appear in front of me," might keep the flow more lively.

Just small things, when changed, can really help strengthen a poem. You've got a great foundation from which to work, don't be afraid to alter as you grow.

I thought your use of repetition was very well done. I look forward to seeing more of your posts.

May your future bring you warmer days.

Loki steps to the mic, and clears his throat.

"Now would be an appropriate time to go get a beverage or use the bathroom, if you must."

"Eh, this is a slammish little thing I wrote up for the occasion..."

This is take-out

Southbound on the freeway

76 miles per hour on the dash

Burning 4 gallons an hour

With the windows down

Grease-seething paper bag

Riding shotgun

Fries tumbling

Cell phone ringing

Voracious youth in the background

Seat-belted in

Chubby little fingers reaching out

To touch someone

[[[E. Coli-conditioned sweat suit

Everyone, hold hands

Fear of a generation spreading

Energizer Bunny® propagating

Relentless banging on his drum

Penetration, freedom permutations

Marketing figures

Justifiable cause--disclaimer's discretion

Revival on speed dial

Where Poison Control echoes

Penetrate subterranean feed lines

[[[Ambrosia outdone

Drilling for home

Not again, you can't go

(Note: '[' represent spaces, though it can be tough to pick up on them when I'm reading )

Addendum: I don't know if there is any interest in actually hearing this , but I can email an mp3 version of it to anyone who is. PM me if so.

Expiration Date? I like "caress our flesh with the shards," seems very different. You may want to rethink your second 'only' (line 6)--it might work just as well dropping it.

With no apparent backstory, Loki approaches the sign-up book, puts down his 'x' and steps to the stage.

Significant lighting.

Pocked to the world.

Adolescence telling me so--

I'll describe it

in a healthy obsession.

It's playing in your expression

splashing humiliation

too many records too many tracks

leaving them

everywhere

and picking

at your brain

until you feel eaten alive

off

how do you say, track?

you say it with a bit of relish

for everything you play

plays in just such a way

it's whispering to yourself

on the floor of the bathroom

puzzling over which jagged piece

fits where?

and stabbing it

in your eyes

on broken forearms

tearing

trying to grasp

in a fit of desperation

it's a telling sign.

with a resounding

thud-crash thud-crash

It's another morning.

I witness away the stark

to reciprocating Furies.

 

 

What I see is

madness in so very concrete

conversation; it doesn't matter what

they're saying--all ears I have kept

tangled in my hair.

Objectives we don't want

                                    know are there,

            and what isn't--

jerking like there's a place to go.

 

 

There is I.

The silent one.

Observing from paper rooftops,

made frail for being. led on

*exit stage left*

Suggestion: change 'classify' to 'term.' Classify is a scientific word, wheras human is not so much. And bonus, term can have a double meaning.

Damn your eyes! One of the few times I write something specifically to be read aloud...well, one of them at least. Thankfully, I also have them in good old fashioned text format.

Happy birthday, X-Sabre. Try and take it easy.

P.S. Congrats on becoming a Page?

Alrighty then.

I now have 2 MP3s waiting to be unleashed, either in slam or open mic, depending on my fate. Ready when you are, rev.