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.

Queen of Context

Posted without context.

I’m the Queen of

Context, and this is

My decree:

Context always matters

Deny Us and you’ll be

Denied just like you’ve denied We..

Long live Context;

Long live

We


I’m the King of

Ye, and I deny

Yer “decree”!

I’m entitled to this

Throne, my dear

Beneath me shall ye be..

Ye matter not, ye’ll be erased and

When I reign, I’ll set the pace

Of the seen and unseen..

With ye removed there’ll only be

The emotional outburst, the rage without

Ye


Now listen to Daddy, princess

And be gone from me..

I’ve strings to pull

I’ve people to rule

And fool to add fuel the fyre

I’ll set the world ablaze

As I twist their faith

To doubt fyre succumbs to water


Without

Ye

I’ll make haste

For there’s gold to take

And take and take…

They’ll stab each other’s backs!

(As I raise the Smithy’s tax)

Never knowing ’twas I

Who created The Enemy!

They won’t stab mine,

I can guarantee;

Because they’ll never know

How their twisted eyes see

The horrific We who exist without

Ye

The Framers

There once was a girl who told no lies.

The truth she told never died.

Let’s put the truth

Into perspective:

There’s no such truth

But the truths

Of lying

With your back turned on the sky,

Eyes fixed firmly

On the dirt before you,

Seeping out

Through the cracked fingers

Of Men selling gold.

The gold key turns,

Out falls the dirt

Brought to Men by God

The Almighty, dropped from above

The universe, sprinkled with snake oil

And flushed down your throat

With the rest of the sewage–

Nourishing no one but the narcissist.

Oh, entitled no one

Awe us with your truth!

Show us your gilded dirt frame

Wrap it up in words, words, words..

Those golden lies that hide the truth

Of everyone’s lies–

Especially mine, the one framing truth

In poetry;

Wrapping it up in lies, lies, lies

Like wax candles, slowly burning

Into a juxtaposed cylinder.

You, the wick waiting

For melted truth

Of burnt lies.

Art Factory

Certificate #3134203F7

All day long the painters paint,

Stroke after stroke, every one

In pain, as the man looks down

With a disapproving frown

At his wrist. He seeks for more

Time to take

From the colors

Of the artist’s pain

As they swirl and mix

With his eyes fixed

On the paint on every canvas.

They never let him down

In spite of his frowns,

Laboring on for the money

Until, that is,

It came to this:

No art was left,

Only copies of it,

And machines running the whole

Factory, with precision strokes

That freed those folks

From their painted burdens.

At 12 o’clock, he sent them home

Early, but to hereafter

Never smiling once, as the last fled

The factory, left still and silent…

Until the man pulled

The lever– and clicked:

The machines into motion.

He locked the door by a quarter ’til 4

Making money in spite

Of those who went home and went

To rest their backs to morrow–

When they’ll wake again,

In spite of the pain,

And go looking for more of it.

What’s better though? A pain

That’s real, and from within?

Or copied over

And over again?

“Sold to you: Today Only!

Three easy payments

Of $19.95– call this number now,

Don’t waste my time,

Hurry quick! You’ve got pain

This art can lift!”

If you act now,

We’ll even throw in this:

A frame to hang your very own

Certificate of authenticity in!

“Don’t you worry, folks..”

Said his contrived grin, twisting

Demand in his favor again,

“There’s plenty to go around!”

Auntie Tom

The Uncle buried beneath the tree.

There’s a place that exists

Between myself

And my self,

Where lies;

Beneath the surface

Undermine me–

They spread like wildfire,

Burning us, like dead tree stumps.

“Auntie’s a man! Don’t you see his XY chromosomes?

A man named Tom and that is all– that is all!”

“She’s a woman! DNA doesn’t matter, SHE

is not like any male I recall.

…And her name’s Nell,

A female;

S H E

never was ‘Tom’.”

“Stop it!” Nell cried,

Struggling;

Grappling;

With him again:

“My name was Tom,

it hurts to say..

There’s baggage with it,

and hell to pay..

You can’t know what it’s like,

Living on edges so grey,

To carry the burdens of Uncle Thomas,

Auntie Nell never having her say!

What’s a scorned woman to do

With such burdensome men?

But kill them over

and over again?

He might rest in peace,

If you’d just let me live,

But instead here’s Uncle Thomas again,

Cursed by you to live among men. “

“THAT’S TRANSPHOBIC!” one activist cried,

“THAT’S MISOGYNISTIC!” another replied.

Auntie Tom walked onward with a sigh,

Back into the place between herself and her self;

Tripping, over

Misunderstandings;

Like brambles in time,

Cutting through, and through and through,

Uncle Tom died:

Then revived;

Revived;

And revived to be shed,

By Auntie Nell with her ever-waiting edge.

“Stay out of my spaces!” a woman cried through her lips

“Keep out of mine too, faggot,” boasted a man with his fists,

Twisting Nell into Tom

And Tom into Nell..

Contriving her soul

Into liquid-like hell;

Wringing it out, pouring

Into the void of themselves.

Cursed, they now carry on

With the truth of their lies;

Knowing the hells of Auntie Nell

And the heavens Tom will never find,

As a man who wants to, but just can’t die.

An Orgasm

On being hollow..

I’ll never have kids,

But I’m pregnant with words,

Made fertile by my experiences with you.

My fruits,

Would reshape the world if it let them,

If only they could exist.

There’s this burden we carry,

This burden we are.

It defines and confines us

Entwines us in our own yarns.

My burden is distinct,

It’s hard to tell you what it’s like,

To not make babies but only make rhymes,

To deal with it all knowing

the time,

the time,

the time,

How can I explain it?

What it’s like to exist..?

To be stitched together,

And filled with shit,

But none of it life,

None of it real,

A fabricated mess of pain

And doubt congealing on a spinning wheel.

But I guess you get it anyway,

C’est la vie, that’s what it’s like to exist.

Everything’s so goddamn important,

And meaninglessness subsists.

The only thing I have that’s real,

Is the sadness I share,

This pill you swallow

Of the burden I bare.

So take it for what it is,

Hope it’s to your liking,

It is what it is.

A part of me needs you to have it,

A part of me hates you for taking it,

A part of me fears what it will mean to you,

A part of me would love to just forget.

But does it matter anyway?

Is it even real?

This burden that you’re grasping to feel,

Is as real as the babies who’ll never be

Born of my non-existent womb.

But I hope what I carry

Can still carry meaning

That keeps you coming

For me baby;

Again, and again, and again.