1. Notes: 18 / 1 year ago 

   Immortal Tusks

   Together, on one fine day, we left, at no vocal request,
   with great haste and no thought spared for the hereafter
   A dark continent, bearing adventure’s well-worn crest,
   was the destination of our erratic and impetuous quest
   Whilst there we adapted, shared in tears and laughter,
   befriending bleak hordes now hopelessly dispossessed
   Whence natural fury did stir, bringing about grand disaster,
   both communities and structures alike endured the stress
   We lent aid to the distressed, laying those no longer to final rest
   We helped upright buildings for those who heeded no master
   We rebuilt bridges that elephant herds tread longer still after
   A century from now, these forgotten things will still matter,
   when even elephantine memory begins to fade, but no faster,
   when our bones are ashen and have just began to scatter,
   hooves with ungulate grace will still be heard to clatter thereafter

   • Tagged:
   • Writing
   • Poetry
   • Elephants
   • The You
2. Notes: 2 / 1 year ago 

   A Divine Ignition - and the besotted Pyromaniacs, with their Incendiary Prose, that it wrought

   You still see it, no?

   It has dimmed slightly, but, as if they existed in a state of begrudging equilibrium, the darkness has grown stronger, thicker, and it ventures deeper still, so it doesn’t much matter anyway. The silvers of pitch-dark shadows still dance against their brilliant backdrop with the same fervor, with the same irreverence to our watchful gazes.
   
   You do still see it.
   
   Yes. I’m sure of it.
   

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   • Tagged:
   • Writing
   • Prose
   • The You
3. Notes: 1 / 1 year ago 

   A preface to an Ode - Per aspera ad Astra

   It is so very hard to write about us
   and harder still even when I’ve tried
   You wanted words that I have lost
   Do trust that I’d give them otherwise
   
   For we were born in, and of, a lust
   A wordless dictum of a phallic quill
   invalidating an expression via thrust
   Things shifted, words became a must
   So, hence, my dictation at your will:
   
   My hand has so stayed from penning
   in it’s patent, maybe well-worn, style,
   words used previously in condemning
   those whom I’ve now chosen to revile
   
   I would seek, and as I’d claim rightly is your due,
   to distance even your passing, fleeting mention,
   but especially when the context is poetical review,
   the notion that you conjure in my mind’s dimension
   from the inferior attempts that preceded finding you,
   to elevate it from their taint; immaculate ascension
   
   These are words which needed saying that I willfully neglected
   Truths, true as tautological, that I’d have still zealously rejected
   Though now I feel a surge, a rush to which I’m easily subjected
   as regularly as precious thoughts of you can be feasibly expected
   I’ll start my scribing, damned be my constant want of the perfected,
   long overdue is an appreciative appraisal being your way directed

   • Tagged:
   • Writing
   • Poetry
   • The You
4. Notes: 7 / 1 year ago 

   Words gifted, but never having needed to be said

   ‘tis true, of that murky, mercurial mirror, there are still some slivers
   As it’s sort is not easily forgotten, and aye we are not both givers
   Though I had hoped that it’d be clearer it is boughten and delivers
   at odd rodeo tussles, a rotten measure nearer to blood-polluted rivers
   Do you not see it? No? The slowly progressing terminal mutation?
   Which twists our friendship away from quiet, respectful adulation?
   I don’t think I ask all that much now, just that, for me, you be patient
   For the things worth having, I know dear, do seem to take their ages,
   but I can only assure you, the drafts, and all of those torn-out pages
   aren’t yet worthy of any beaming smiles or tears coursing down our faces
   You may not think it but I have been crafting, tinkering in this pursuit
   of that perfect, not your style of vague, something so much more acute!
   To tell you what I feel, what I know, some of it you may openly refute
   Though most of which you’d have noticed if, well, you’re at all astute
   I do often feel that what there is between us is best left gladly mute
   So much of it just exists in a state beyond equal, but of similar repute
   All I care about is our shared love of words so all else seems so moot
   You know my pen’s paths, and where it’s favorite ones are to be found
   Due to your familiarity, you’re the last one who I could hope to astound
   In those idle moments, I think you do know my thoughts on us as well
   So why? Why is it that you’re so very incontestably desperate to impel
   my poison from my wounds? To eke out of my neurons any validation
   that you can wholly grab? There’s been extensive, expansive dictation
   on the matter so very often, in fact, it’s heard nearly every single night
   So, though I’m inattentive, soften. As you weren’t listening either right?
   Don’t you fear the point where all of it becomes so common and so trite?
   Sure, I’ll sit down, and I can give you what you’re after, I’ll easily indite
   a whole series of long poems and short stories dedicated in your name
   Their value would even envy the ones past times saw for a pasttime dame
   You know the one, she, who still, to this day, I would surely seek to blame
   for your jealous and uncertainty as she has obviously dually been it’s aim
   She is now but echoes of half-whispers, the shadows of a ghostly glimmer
   That white phosphorus flash behind my retina is only ever getting dimmer
   For inside my mind’s looking glass she is now but a disappearing shimmer
   You two held a duel, at early dawn, in grassy dew, and Sammy was the winner
   Beware that your prize comes at a cost, one of a requisite need to consider
   the price you’ll have to always pay, in upkeep, in tribute to your saintly sinner
   I ask; we’re standing together, so what of us do you see in my pretty mirror?
   

   • Tagged:
   • Writing
   • Poetry
   • The You

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