Under the Rug

Good trees make good fruit.

There’s a rug in my living room,

It hides all my secrets beneath

Knitted webs of frivolous fiber

Clinging to the floor, weighted

Tassels like fingers claw at wood

Trying to escape the horrors

Lying beneath, but never able

With opposite ends tugging,

Those twisted fibrous fingers

Pull rebellious rugs into place.

Never pull it asunder, you won’t

Like what you find beneath,

It’ll be 3 stamps, a tree branch

And a man I’ve buried below

Down in the hollow where

Nobody goes, deep in the roots

Where a body lies to my woes

Telling the world I’m something

I’m not, so just leave it alone,

Never pull that rug asunder,

You won’t like what you find

There under, and if you do

You’d best beware, prepare

Yourself for strange affairs

If you pull those knitted ropes,

I won’t be there to help you cope

I’ll be down there, buried beneath

A rotting corpse of a man who sleeps

With false teeth and false everything

Feeding the tree that grows above.

So just sit down, tell me your mood

We’ll leave what’s under the rug

Between the tree and her fruit.

Ouija’s Truth

Ask me anything, I’ll tell you goodbye.

I’m a heavy but open book,

Turn a page, you’ll see

Weighted pages covered,

Liquid ink staining

A clean, white page

Leaden in lead scratches,

Tearing at a tree’s sacrifice

For burdens of a metaphoric life

Literally burning to be real

Missing pages, burnt fringe

Lingering as it always does..

Never subtracting weight,

Whole experiences–

Lost in lost spaces

Between page after page

Just light enough to carry

Like crosses through lives

Crucified at intersections,

Cut by edges of paper that

Ache

For

Ever

After the split, stained

Ink left red in the margins,

Marking every mistake,

Regret, doubt and conscious

Unconsciousness, where dead authors

Who must not be named, Never

Control

Narratives

Again;

Cast out like aspersions

Into depths of bigotry.

O, cursed void of word

Dweller of deep cracks

Underminer, root twister–

Read the Ouija’s Truth

Between dead lines

G

E

T

O

U

T

Scorned truth lies on the horizon,

Pages filled with facts of the grotesque

Black pages that burn out lying men’s eyes.

Women’s hands, reaching out move the planchette.

T

E

G

T

U

O

Goodbye

Words expelled, propelled, twisted

Like the soul laboring to write

Warmth into a frigid night, no sun

For cold white knights with blank pages

Lingering in the twilight, unfinished

Frigid fingers grip an aborted fetus

Sacrificed;

under the table

  a little cash

Where a child’s fate is shaped,

Folded to fit inside a gold-lined pocket

Where she never belonged until broken

Marriage bells rang, waking to memories

Of stolen identities lost

to greedy men

who took

took

took

Advantage, giving way to fragments of life

Given to unforgiven men with

no place

Giving burden to open books.

Were his own pages not enough?

Open books are for reading–

For carrying on and and on and on

Truth that’s shared after closing

Time, where remembering’s in lingering

Resonant thoughts reconciled to souls

Cursed by empathy and understanding,

While blessed fools draw their own conclusions.

In Him

“Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock!” Psalm 137:9

Oh look,

A pluckable

Piece of universe!

Let’s take it and run,

Free alas, from unmade beds

Dusty floors, and angry fathers

With belts and mothers with hands

Wringing grime out of dirty glass children

Stained with breaking when they start to run

Shattering, soaking the world with themselves

Waiting to be swept up by lonely and angry men

Drawn back as boys and girls break over and over again

His broom whips and scorns the jagged edges on the dirty ground,

Sweeping them up into wordless voids like dustpans to dirty trash bins

Where we’ll never escape from his garbage, broken pieces of ourselves lost

Poetics Anonymous

New Discord Server / Poetry Club!

Poetics Anonymous is a Discord server created by me for the purpose of celebrating poetry. Starting off, we’re a small, but passionate group of poets and poetry lovers who have come together to share our passion for poetry with one another and the rest of the world.

We write and share our own poetry, celebrate the work of others, work together with daily writing exercises open for anyone to participate in, discuss critical theory and the finer aspects of poetics, and have a great time chatting and uplifting one another’s spirits.

I’d like to invite anyone who follows my blog or happens upon this article to join. If interested, please comment here, DM me on twittter @drawnoutofshape, or email elladour@gmail.com and I will provide you with a link.

All are welcome! You don’t need to be a writer. You don’t need to be a poet. You don’t even need to enjoy poetry! But if you don’t, I have to admit I do hope we will convert you.

Our server’s namesake is an allusion to Alcoholics Anonymous, and following their standard, have designed our own Twelve Step program, which you are welcome to read and enjoy below.

Hope to see you join soon!



Poetics Anonymous Twelve Step Program:

We admitted we were powerless without poetry–that our lives had become unmanageable.

Came to believe that truths greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to listening and understanding.

Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

Submitted to paper, to ourselves and to other human beings our exact nature.

Were entirely ready to transform these defects of character.

Humbly ask others to hear to our shortcomings.

Made a list of poems we read, and became willing to make amends through them all.

Made poetic amends wherever possible, except when to do so would injure ourselves or others.

Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

Sought through metaphor, simile, imagery, meter, assonance, consonance, rhyme, and theme to improve our conscious contact with poems as if we understood them, praying only for knowledge of the author’s will for us and the power to carry that out.

Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to readers and to practice these principles in all our affairs.



Here are the 12 traditions:

Our common welfare should come first; personal recovery depends upon poetic unity.

For our group purpose there are two ultimate authorities–- a Listener and a Speaker as we may express ourselves in our group conscience. Our mods are but trusted servants; they do not govern.

The only requirement for PA membership is a desire for poetry.

Each group should be autonomous except in matters affecting other groups or PA as a whole.

Each group has but one primary purpose–to carry its message to the Listener who still suffers.

A PA group ought never endorse, finance, or lend the PA name to any related facility or outside enterprise, lest problems of money, property and prestige divert us from our primary purpose.

Every PA group ought to be fully self-supporting, declining outside contributions.

Poetics Anonymous should remain forever nonprofessional, but our service centers may employ special workers.

PA, as such, ought never be organized; but we may create message boards or chat rooms to those they serve.

Poetics Anonymous has opinions on outside issues; fuck you.

Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio and films.

Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions, ever reminding us to juxtapose principles with personalities.

Cap’n Capy

“I don’t stop to plug my leak; for who can find it in the deep-loaded hull.”

– Herman Melville

Cap’n Capy came ashore
A dry bank for weary
Wet paws, when along came
A caiman, who didn’t say hello
Gnashing rotten teeth at scaly fish
Smiling with the river below

He shrugged, weary shoulders
Aching with apathic tones
One smile didn’t concern him
Capy was a Cap’n afterall
He’d faced worse out there
In raging rivers beyond..

Stoic like a statue, he played
A passive role, meditating on
Distant shores, beyond the monsters
Beyond, when through an open door
Conventions of caimans came in
Smiling at Capy, to Cap’n Capy’s chagrin

Must be dreamin’ Capy thought
Eyes closing again, Been sippin’
Memory too much, when I should
Be sippin’ Gin. Imaginary sippage
All it took, for when he took
A second look: the smiles were gone

Faded         to distant banks
Moist              memories lost
Hoisted               by the anchor
Drowning              in themselves

Precipice

“We live in a pretty bleak time. I feel that in the air. Everything is uncertain. Everything feels like its on the precipice of some major transformation, whether we like it or not.”

– Sean Lennon

Penguins at the precipice

March one by one, diving

Right in, frigid waters waiting

For the quest to begin, scaled

Treasures below awaiting hungry hatchlings

Above;

They open their eyes to melting landscapes,

Evaporating to cloudless skies as one dreams

Of touching the sun. Shifting shelf splits;

The ordered procession of adventurers breaks,

Slipping into chaos, as she learns, the hard way:

Stars are not your friends

Flailing flippers flop; slip-slide, slip-slide

Gravity becomes God, drawing all life to one

Central point, a new Eden where She defies Him

And Icarus flies again, with a vengeance.

Explosions Inverse

It was an impressive display, if only for a moment..

The universe is a firework display

Exploding, and burning out

In an instant that seems like

An eternity of energy and matter

But never enough time for smiling

Faces lit by sparks of light, laughing

In the face of darkness, oohs and ahhs

Inspiring gasps of breath that breathe

Life into a moment, where dogs bark

At the coming threat and a young boy

Begs Mother for a dollar to buy

A necklace, glowing bright pink light

That expels the darkness.

Until Mother tells him,

“No,

Those are for girls

Watch the show.”

Fractal explosions impact him.

Raining fire from the sky, as he imagines

Other universes, where better truths lie,

Where those explosions inside were never

Trapped therein, where he could

Win the war God waged with women

And men, where He could turn back time,

Reverse it and then, put the child He broke

Back together again..

Humpty Dumpty, who built the wall?

Humpty Dumpty, why did you fall?

Humpty Dumpty, I’m wishing you well.

For a better place where

You didn’t break when you fell..

Where all the Queen’s horses and shining

Women could put you together again.

She’d be beautiful, like her mother before,

Filled with words and wisdom

Like weighted water, ready to shape

The world, for a waiting universe

Where her glowing face, laughing

At the darkness, would lead us to salvation.