Odd

[salixbabylon]

I wrote a poem this morning. I don't know why. I usually try not to do that. Blech. Poetry. Random words chosen more for sound and color than meaning, and I never have the faintest clue what the topic even is. Nothing more than so much mental masturbation, adolescent pretension.

I do feel differently about others' poetry. I've been moved by poems, as by art, felt my grey matter shift in response to seeing something in a new way.

But my own poetry? Yuck. So sorry. I'll get back to the smut soon, I promise.


Delicious blasphemy drips into my mouth
purple flavored, sweet,
with tannic sin that leaves your teeth raw.
The Word made Flesh,
whispers of breath against smooth skin,
parchment tattooed forever.
Branded, labeled by holy hands,
inscribed with scripture only visible to the supplicant.
Who will come to me and read my testament,
these words of tangled adoration and despair?

Comments

[wingles.livejournal.com]

Nothing more than so much mental masturbation, adolescent pretension.
You say it like they are bad things. When one is an adolescent, one is a little pretensious and also naive and idealistic. But to pretend jadedness is ever worse, even more fake. And if someone really is faded when a teenager, well, that's another tragedy.

Flow of the consciousness -sort poetry is a good thing. Like giving yourself a little psychoanalysis. If you're bottling up a thousand things you can't let your mind babble freely about abstract things, it requires openness and honesty to yourself, I think.

I am not certain I am making much sense.