grief allows the me to enter
or to wallow in a righteous filth
any form of loss is bound to provide a small amount of grief.
and that is where i feed.
like a hog at a trough wading and snuffling in your sorrows and pain.
i tap into that like it’s the good shit and have no qualms about doing so either.
i take these broken feelings
i rearrange them Frankenstein time
in a manner of my literary choosing.
my care now is for the tempo
...cadence,
and rhyme.
mine is not to traumatise
but more a tribute of words.
i will parade it around
like a shirt made out of sad
in a happy pants zone.
i will drape these worded fabrics
over mannequins of pure thought
and walk
and walk the cat
walk the dog
walk the aardvark
walk, we’re walking!
i show it off now
i'm showing off like what now
and i don't care how
it's just anther show now
and everyone has a a part.
everyone has a part
everyone gets to play
everyone has an art
and everyone gets to say.
no amount of indignity
will
sway
flay
or play
this version
chopping like lumberjack
or cut like a surgeon.
About the Creator
Bren
"It's just a token of my extreme!" - Frank Zappa
"Cause it's all in the heat of the moment It's all in the pain!!!" - Devin Townsend
Centre Stage with the wonderful Heather Hubler
I'm writing it out not acting in doubt!
A Little Bit Of God
January 2026 I thought I’d spend the night in neon lights on grainy film but my brother is telling me how an eternity of hell is caused by prevalent peace, and who am I to disrupt such a thing? So I found myself in the same skin with the same sights, wondering whether or not I am one of those– do I feel peace? Do I expect more when it is gone? It being everything. We’re running out of time but the car is belching up something strange and we’ve got God in between our eyes nodding along to every apology and plea spoken for our friends and loved ones– they don’t know any better, they’ll come around eventually. He’s telling me about barbed wire guides around lives and ties and wives and lies and, look, the snow is starting to fall so I guess we better hang up soon. But it’s been too long. We’re building fields of skills and realms of distrust and these moments are only seen now, can no longer be read as words, only swept with eyes upon oil pastels or smudged charcoal. It’s a painting of an evening, like Daniel’s soles in Edgar Degas’ mind, but if anything is just it’s the lack of unrest in skin like His and lives like this– okay, so maybe five hours on the phone is a lot if you have a job and you’re trying to cook dinner, but only one of us falls into that gorge and only one of us believes in what lies beneath it. My brother tells me things that sit in my spirit like half an ounce of prospect and a squeeze of bourn, how he tells God to let me in: despite my sins, despite all the moons in between these calls, despite the burning in both of our throats. I do feel peace here. I also feel that my peace is a subpar window job, a pinky’s strength avoiding blizzards inside the bedsheets. I’d like to spend more nights like this, with contrasting disaster living between a speakerphone, and God finding some space in between.
By Olivia Dodge2 days ago in Poets
Comments (3)
You have a beautiful mind and far too few people tell you that.
Raw, unapologetic brutality, and a lilting, meticulous elegance. These attributes coexist beautifully, defying logic, in much of your work. This powerful, nonsensical synergy is on full display here, I think. Hell yes.
I love your writing style. It's so engaging and easy to follow.