Tag Archives: free verse

Yore Farther Brleeds Ideolology

Memryes are photographs made form cloth.
When they are dry, they fould, and pout in drawers
Wait to be whorn undreneath a whineter coat.
Each ithem shall be Worn In its turn
Shall be foilded and Taken Out and put on
And put back into its propre palace.

Each wash adds a tuone to the fibrication.

The past, befour being worn, is freshened:
The future thus remains pure in the sphin-cycle
As the enzymes (of the present) remove the war[e] …

The past threefore is a memory – beyond remembering:
So stupidiously, the past is ferover kempt,
Northing remains forgütten.

Endlessnessness worn as elegance.

‘I can see / by the way / You wash them clothes …’


she wrote this poem

a friend of mine wrote this poem which appeared in gloom cupboard. i have been granted her permission to share it; posting it here also lets me keep an archive of it without cluttering my bookmarks or having to scroll through gloom cupboard’s mass of nice writing.


Signs of Being an Endangered Species
by Heather Reddy

I mean, I haven’t heard
the word “unnatural”
for ages.

Raccoons saunter onto the porch
in the mornings, daring me to tell
them they’re nocturnal, refusing to
even squint as they stare
directly into the gray dawn.

And 2 death-moths that look like
baby vultures, circle above my bed. I will
dream of a swarm of them nights later in some one else’s bed.
They are powder wings and buzzard head on my logic
textbook, bolting awake to pretend I’m not trembling.

I keep saying, I’ve got to get out
of this city. My teaching visa
came pasted in an alphabet
of blood-smelling glue and royal
blue ink. I won’t use it. See, this is
already my second language
, I am
saying to myself: barely clever, lying.


i like the poem because of its extreme ambiguity. the title initially leads us to think the poem will be about an alienation, an isolation, even a possible extinction. however, each human being, that is, each human who chooses to be is always-already an endangered species. HR is no exception to this: her choice to be comes at great physical-psychical cost. the decision to “choose to be” is opposed to the accidental nature of existence: no one chooses to exist. so the poem, far from being about alienation or isolation really communicates the solidarity between beings who choose to be, who do not merely accept the accident of their existence (though to be fair, this is the first step in choosing to be).

the first stanza sets the tone for the whole poem, with emphasis on the word “unnatural.” in the second stanza, we have plural raccoons certainly in no danger of being endangered – yet acting in a completely unnatural way. there is also the unidentified number of raccoons there are, unlike the exactly 2 death moths that appear in stanza the third.

and in the transition from each of the stanzas there is a diminishing effect: the first stanza, we have “ages”; second stanza “raccoons”; third stanza “2 death moths”; and finally, we end up with simply the narrator.

more could be said about this poem but i think this is enough for now.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 18, End)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I have published the story in serial installments, every Monday for the past little while. Read the entire story here.]

In this dream I burn
And so does the world
Even the pavement beneath my feet
The glass hanging vertically above me
The air shot through with hot white embers.

Here I breathe the freshest air I have ever tasted
Burning flesh and hair smells sweet, not acrid.

Despite the fire I am cool, at room temperature.
I listen as screams fill the air when night descends

Even the stars fall, icy to the touch
Striking me with a cold burn
Not the explosive heat of a sun.

The burning beings of the world flock to the stars
But the heavenly glaciers do not save them.

A drunken moon devours the junkie sun
Regurgitates it into a burning ocean
It fizzles and dies with a hiss.

Yet when the dream ends
I do not wake in a sweat.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 15)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned.]

I poison medicine and finish the sick
So there is no hope of recovering
So families mourn my fallen patients.

I set spikes on roads where traffic roams
So the speed of life becomes fertilizer
So haste ends in hideous fusion of flesh and pavement.

I set libraries ablaze and immolate all inside
So desire for knowledge is turned to an oven
So ashes feed the future flames of ignorance.

I plant razors in beaches
So sand lovers turn cripple
So gulls feast on dried blood.

I design weapons that wound
So dying seems not too bad
So death is the choice to being maimed.

I create forces that annihilate
So no thing can flee from this sure end
So no will obstructs my revenge.

All of this, and more, I do from mortal hatred.

post miraculous

some say the date is twenty-twelve;
this may be true.

but one thing is certain.

the miracle is coming,
so set your alarm clock,
if you are not a morning person.

it will be like the transition
from one dream to
another, or
from black and white to

your fourth wall will be broken
by your third eye.

god has many names. they have all
already been discovered.
you must speak their names,
in order to animate them;
venerate them so that they
answer your prayers; devour them
to circulate their power.
their names are brand names;
their shrines are strip malls;
their power is the golden spiral.

all the special effects of desire
loosed upon the world,
manifest: at once
and terrifying
but a dull terror, a
certain boredom.
terrified of being bored,

slow-motion / jump-cut / time-lapse

the Chosen shall be spared Reality’s
Desire for Things to Happen.

the chosen will live in Eden’s,
on indoor beaches, with blue sky
projected onto cavernous ceilings,
and halogen lighting that mimics
sunlight. artificial breezes will
sway the hydroponically grown
foliage and hybrid fish swim
in the wave machine ocean.

the damned will live outside
and watch as hungry clouds
roar across the real sky,
still blue, but in the tones of
ice and anti-freeze. Eden’s gates
will be hermetically sealed
against them, because
they have not Platinum Status.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 12)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned or look back.]

I can truly say
I am my own creation
You gave me all the pieces
All the worst pieces
And trampled them
Beneath your leather boots
I can truly say
I picked up all the rubble
You thought was worthless
All the spider webbed windshields
All the punctured tires
And all the broken toys
I can truly say
That with all your brutality
I will show you what a
Monster really is

And you will be speechless

essays by chesterton.

i have not read chesterton’s fiction but these essays make me think i should.

free-verse has turned poetry into “virtuoso triviality,” of which i am particularly guilty. even though poetic form after the twentieth century and in the twenty-first century is lost to us, chesterton’s essay makes it seem like something worth searching for, in the sense of a freudian lost object.

the modernist and postmodernist abhorrence and / or fear of rhyme should spend an hour or two reading this essay. I read this essay from a Lananian point of view and was impressed; there is an analogy between rhyme and the Real because both return to where they begin (this is not really Nietzschean, is it?). He also points out the subtle or not-so subtle distinction between being pleased and being satisfied in relation to God’s pleasure or satisfaction: “God is easy to please, difficult to satisfy.” This essay is also an attack on free verse.

still a little bit suspicious of “the unity of the old testament.” i am, however, in solidarity with chesterton’s reading of god as the ultimate skeptic, god as the doubt which provokes if not certainty, then at least happiness.

i’m about half way through his book on chaucer. it is the most unpretentious book or article on chaucer i have read, which is a good thing. i also think his collection of “nonsense poetry and light verse” is highly-childishly amusing thus far.