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Literature Text
january: when i was stupid
enough to embark down the
path of death.
mortician, teach me the ways
of understanding death
& listening
a bit too close
to the broken clock
springs nestled
in your equally as broken
mind. i have grown
quite fond of the
smell of formaldehyde,
of the citrus oxides
you deploy to
deter suspicious neighbors.
i want to sleep
& dream of a body all my
own (& maybe for you too), to forget the
scars that caress me, but what i
desire
isn’t always death’s
cup of tea. however, it always
seems like it’s your pleasure
to show me the books on
burials & committals & cults
skirting the ideals of the bible
to better under the world’s
bible of empathy.
so i sit,
split in between an existence
bent on our nirvana,
or an afterlife sewn
into the paper-thin-morale of
you, mortician.
july: when i finally realized
that love is real
even in the presence of death.
mortician, teach me how to
smile without my
skeleton wilting under
the moon’s
unforgiving,
courage-crushing grasp. i want
to know,
i long to break ties
with the leviathan
we call God. to rejoice with
your idea of
warmth, with
your idea of mortality.
the art of embalmment? you’ll
have to forgive me
if i flinch,
if i shy away at first;
i’ve only ever known
the familiar sting
of a needle piercing my own skin,
not forcing a tube
into the veins
of a child
blessed with escape.
why do we all have to be so fragile?
“it’s simple,” the mortician responded.
“because we are not meant
to outlast our forefathers. we, as humans,
are not meant to age
alongside the concept of time,
nor are we meant to
live through the war, the battle
we call life.”
december: when i noticed a child
trying to kick out my ribs &
i felt comfortable in the arms of death.
mortician, finally i ask
for your hand in
marriage,
under the sun of that
monster we call our guardian,
under the forceps of
a distinct, medicinal glove carving
out my philosophies that
you never taught to me. i’ve never
loved a man so
much, nor as violently
as i have you… entertain my
idiocy,
for all i have ever wanted
was to fall victim to your hands,
to your needles,
to your teachings of death
& to learn from you
how to deal
with dying.
the ice we tread is
weak, as we are,
as you have taught me
through the many nights your hands crept up
my thighs,
through the many times your heart beat
separate from mine
& you would let me
cry. but mortician,
can you explain life to
me? just this once
i’d like to know why my thoughts
go faster when you’re coiled around my mind,
around my body
like a disease weaving cancer
into my bone marrow.
“it’s merely because you are human,
you want to understand life.
i cannot explain, because i am a fool
that life never wanted.
i found solace in the dead,
in the art associated with the occasion
of death. but, with my child
beginning to live
inside of you, protected by
your bones,
& by your love,
i can admit:
death no longer needs me.”
enough to embark down the
path of death.
mortician, teach me the ways
of understanding death
& listening
a bit too close
to the broken clock
springs nestled
in your equally as broken
mind. i have grown
quite fond of the
smell of formaldehyde,
of the citrus oxides
you deploy to
deter suspicious neighbors.
i want to sleep
& dream of a body all my
own (& maybe for you too), to forget the
scars that caress me, but what i
desire
isn’t always death’s
cup of tea. however, it always
seems like it’s your pleasure
to show me the books on
burials & committals & cults
skirting the ideals of the bible
to better under the world’s
bible of empathy.
so i sit,
split in between an existence
bent on our nirvana,
or an afterlife sewn
into the paper-thin-morale of
you, mortician.
july: when i finally realized
that love is real
even in the presence of death.
mortician, teach me how to
smile without my
skeleton wilting under
the moon’s
unforgiving,
courage-crushing grasp. i want
to know,
i long to break ties
with the leviathan
we call God. to rejoice with
your idea of
warmth, with
your idea of mortality.
the art of embalmment? you’ll
have to forgive me
if i flinch,
if i shy away at first;
i’ve only ever known
the familiar sting
of a needle piercing my own skin,
not forcing a tube
into the veins
of a child
blessed with escape.
why do we all have to be so fragile?
“it’s simple,” the mortician responded.
“because we are not meant
to outlast our forefathers. we, as humans,
are not meant to age
alongside the concept of time,
nor are we meant to
live through the war, the battle
we call life.”
december: when i noticed a child
trying to kick out my ribs &
i felt comfortable in the arms of death.
mortician, finally i ask
for your hand in
marriage,
under the sun of that
monster we call our guardian,
under the forceps of
a distinct, medicinal glove carving
out my philosophies that
you never taught to me. i’ve never
loved a man so
much, nor as violently
as i have you… entertain my
idiocy,
for all i have ever wanted
was to fall victim to your hands,
to your needles,
to your teachings of death
& to learn from you
how to deal
with dying.
the ice we tread is
weak, as we are,
as you have taught me
through the many nights your hands crept up
my thighs,
through the many times your heart beat
separate from mine
& you would let me
cry. but mortician,
can you explain life to
me? just this once
i’d like to know why my thoughts
go faster when you’re coiled around my mind,
around my body
like a disease weaving cancer
into my bone marrow.
“it’s merely because you are human,
you want to understand life.
i cannot explain, because i am a fool
that life never wanted.
i found solace in the dead,
in the art associated with the occasion
of death. but, with my child
beginning to live
inside of you, protected by
your bones,
& by your love,
i can admit:
death no longer needs me.”
Literature
I, the Masochist
It left a taste in my mouth, like swallowing
A handful of salt water. I had
Loved you in my sleep, waking up to wonder
If the devil had at last taken me. I gave my soul away
To spiders made of ink.
The ground looks so much softer
From six thousand feet above; I knew this fall
Before sweet dreaming, midnight wishes, all
Glasgow smiles and gnashing teeth. And you would pick
The skin from my lips for those
Copper kisses and say that it
Was only for a little while.
Literature
The human condition of wanting to be everything
I feel as though I am exhausting
The excess skin around
My eyes
They
h
a
n
g
in loose shadows
Across my cheekbones like
A wreath.
And whilst I find myself
unable
To draw open the blinds
Because the light
is too bright
And I really can’t handle
The pane of the sky
With its obnoxious
Blue
glaring at me
With such a joyful expression
I know that lately
I am burning myself out
That I consume one too many
Cans of soda and energy drinks
At 2.45 AM
When the rest of the world
Is static in a hushed
Comatose state
Whilst I frantically try
To achieve something
Because being
Average
Ordinary
Mundane
Is too
Literature
psittacosis
there are feathers
in the endless pit
of my stomach;
digitigrades digging
in the clavicular head
of my chest.
pigeons crowning,
crooning from
my gut, travailing
from the bottom up;
wings slipping
from my lips.
before it is clawed open
by the talons
of these hallowed doves.
in a bed of ankles
k(n)eeling me over;
a million sheets of quills
scaling my sheath;
and religion-weight over
preyed game,
my frame angles
for halos.
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Because I like naming my poems after people with prestigious and poetic professions.
--
"I'll eat you up, I love you so."
--
"I'll eat you up, I love you so."
© 2014 - 2024 crooked-clockwork
Comments3
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Overall
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Technique
Impact
This is a marvellous poem; it packs real punch and is crammed full of imagery both original and striking. Breaking the sections up into times of the year reinforces the impression of an ongoing conversation as the narrator grows closer to the mortician. At the same time, the narrator's fascination with understanding death matures from an initial attraction to the trappings of the mortician's trade to seeking a perspective on life (and love) itself.
The idea that the mortician is, in some way, a stopped clock is wonderful; it conveys the impression of someone who cannot change, who's voluntarily given up on life. This is backed up by 'the citrus oxides/you deploy to/deter suspicious neighbors'. You handle the revelation of the narrator's pregnancy with great subtlety, avoiding the obvious cliche - the mortician doesn't immediately run into the arms of life, but first has to deal with his realisation that 'death no longer needs me'.
I have only one small technical criticism; for almost the whole poem, the narrator directly addresses the mortician, and vice versa. In the second stanza, though, it switches briefly to third person ("it's simple," the mortician responded). Besides the inconsistency, this also takes away some of the impact of directly hearing the mortician's voice. You could easily just lose 'the mortician responded', since it's perfectly clear what you intend.
Whew! Long critique is long. Let me close by saying I'm really taken with this poem, and I'm sure it will stay with me for a long time yet.
<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/r/r…" width="15" height="18" alt="" data-embed-type="emoticon" data-embed-id="331" title="Black Rose"/>