. : . (father_heretic) wrote in poetic___slap,
. : .
father_heretic
poetic___slap

Application...

Name: Mark
Age: 21
Location: Detroit(ish), MI


Author: Douglas Adams
Poet: William Blake
Journalist: Dan Rather (that hair is priceless)
Book: 'Finnegan's Wake' - James Joyce
Poem: 'The Wait' - Richard Brautigan
Topic of conversation: Anything Volatile (religion, politics, science, etc)


War: (Huuggh! Good God, Y'all!) Occassionally it's a necessary evil; These days it's murder for profit.
Sex: I love it. I love everything about it. It's the artistic process and the product all at once. I recommend as much of it as possible. Mixed with love it's just this side of heaven.
Drugs: I've done my share. Getting rid of them was the hard part. (gold star for me) ... (hell, make it two gold stars)
Music: This is my being. I live it and breath it. I'm lead singer/guitarist for the local band Sleeping With Asthenia. We rock pretty hard... in a melodic sort of way. It makes me all tingly inside.




#1
serpentine pragmatic with these affairs of the heart
less the melodramatic tendency; straight to the jugular
swallow swords and base these next stories on truth

sell me a piece of that, poet
bustin rhymes in the silicon underground
but lo, too median
you'd be subterranean

hell is just a hotline away

oh, kept up all night on all fours and zeroes
not so much negative, just existentialist
keep it in the correlative only cognoscent when you're drowning
in the c p r eaction above those dry red trunks
only sinking to sensation, not bound: you're simply holding on

diagnosed: quixotic auto neurosis
my closure's being with you in the casket
rearrange these words, you'll find the ex-clay mation's calm enough
i'm collecting on your sin tax lack of structure

being clever's just a party favor





#2
so so lupine
got a new age destiny
catholic tragedy

st. peter greet her with a smile
st. peter tell me true

will $20 get me on the guest list?
any god will do

got my backstage apostle pass
glued in

i'm thirsty, jesus: all you got here is wine




#3
it was multi-level slate, i think
coursing through emerald blades
behind the waterfall
firing rainbow against our clothes

each step was our last
and every step to come was destiny

put my picture in a locket
and forget me near your heart
climb the slate and whisper
behind the waterfall

i carved our names into the rock
with my fingers til they bled
just enough for me to paint prophecy

every step was a promise
silence was insurance

trip. break. bleed.
scrape. swear. burn.
kiss. taste. wipe away.
up the stair
call my name
and let the echo ring another's

every step backward
is another step down

i'll call you beautiful
if you call at all



do you remember?
spent days picking and polishing stones
returning home to find them mismatched
and not becoming the mantle, where space was set
intentions were met with a mutiny of my own design

this discourse outside the confession booth
trading glances for hesitant, nervous smiles;
ceremonial beads for rifles and documented deception
amidst the paper cranes strung from the drop ceiling

we’d salsa holding cans of gasoline
pouring patterns on the floor;
these candlelit dinners
had never been so dangerous



do you remember
watching it climb and flutter
like a hundred thousand monarch butterflies under spotlight
curling the wallpaper with sharp crackling
and spread across the ceiling like time-lapsed ivy

we were dancing and fighting
playful and tempted
while carbon fell in sheets like snow
the glow from the walls only serving to light our passion
and warm a room lacking electricity

you'd come and go
but i watched the house burn from the inside
with a slow, steady roar
crying smoke for miles high
reckless and falling in love we'd fan the flames

another home turned to ash
in the face of better judgment



so I pick up the pieces.
One by one.

Turn it over in my hands.
Dust it off.
Take it to the boundary and set it
Quietly, gently in place.
Adjust it, ever-so-slightly.

Take a few steps back.
An eternity.
And marvel.

Meander back to the rubble.
Still smoldering with the memory of our greed
and sift through the broken bricks.
Take another
trace the crevices with my fingernails
test it against itself.
This one will do.

Set it in place.
At the boundary.
Atop the salt and drying mud.
Dust it off.
Measure it against the horizon.
Perfect.

Another step back.
Not quite.

Two steps forward,
Adjust.
Tilt.

good.



You got the Car and the Furniture.
I make do with the Rubble.
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