In the bowels of history
I defame, therefore you are.
_
The footnotes and appendices,
as the pages turn
and cities are born,
prosper, then burn to ashes.
_
As life breeds
and death bleeds.
_
Ozymandias.
What are the optics?
Where’s the solitary fuck
they loved you for?
_
In the aftermath of forgotten time,
when the pauper will take
the ceremonial dagger
and perform a tracheotomy
on the king
or nearest available individual
with purchased power,
whose plastic regime
brings forward
the devolution of society.
_
I’ll stretch across the land,
from pole to pole,
and my words will bring
insanity, uncertainty,
and the foibles of hope.
_
As in I
Flesh and blood
Muscle and bone
Want you
_
I as in the man standing here
Looking at you
I want you
To worship me
Give me obeisance
Pay my bills
For my art
_
There are times
you’ll sit
and just write.
No plan.
No journal.
No arc
or story template.
_
My literary seed
transferred from manhood
to literature.
In consternation
for everything.
_
I
As in I
The man,
not a myth
or social construct
Not the product
of some think tank
Want you
As in the audience,
my readers
Not my inner child
or my self-esteem
Those looking to suck up
my words—
_
I wonder if I’m really
the best man for the job.
The one I’ve chosen
for myself
not because of qualifications
or a recognised gift
or flair.
_
I see how much success
others have
and make the mistake
of reading their work.
But then I have people
telling me
I’m this great worker.
It feels like a lot.
_
No—
I’m speaking,
and you’re listening.
_
The inner cynic
takes you down
a peg or two
and keeps you grounded.
_
Grounded—
from progress.
Stunted by fear of failure
and fear of success.
_
My artless hyperbole
With flow
And finesse
_
You—
the payer of my bills
I as in the writer
you wish you were
I want you
To consider
Every day
_
Power comes from necessity.
Control.
Fear.
Uncertainty bleeds.
Hope is not promised.
Trust was never.
_
I want you
To fuck off
About the Creator
Paul Stewart
Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.
The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection out now!
Streams and Scratches in My Mind coming soon!
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Compelling and original writing
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More stories from Paul Stewart and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Light Turns
It's Tuesday 7:13 a.m. A cold and clear November morning awaits Ray on his morning commute. Ray rubs his hands together in the front seat of his Subaru. He turns the air temperature up, but keeps the air on low until the air warms up. He looks at the backup camera screen and reverses the Subaru out of his driveway onto Trimble Road.
By John R. Godwin4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (5)
I loved this. The rhythm was absolutely perfect, like always, but there was a creeping softness that seems new. Fantastic!
Haha nice way to tell us to F@ck off
You sure told us Paul. This is about everything and everybody, and yet about none in particular. Everyone is Effing off in their own way. We all got the f off blues.
I prefer to fuck on, so there’s that. Bloody brilliant, belter of a piece as you lads across the pond, over there in the land of the free, that brave Old World, like to say.
no i will not fuck off!