Until Next Time

Could I be the devil on your shoulder
Perhaps that's what I want to be
Sprinkling my manipulations
Over your conscience
Wicked deviations
And subtle Subversions

No not the devil
Not nearly as obvious
.
Art is subjective
It colostomises
Emotional response
Annal retention is fine
As a metaphor
For striving and vanity

I don't stutter but I
...
Forget...

The original proclamation
I intended

Art is subjective
Counter culture is counter intuitive
But the necessity
For progress
Movements of meaningful
Dislocation of my foot
From your haunted rectums
.
Burn tradition for that edge
Caustic causation
Ripped biceps
Plunging fist side second
Into the Rumfull belly
Of the apothecary

Gatekeeping

I reach from within
The withered skull
Of poetic anal cysts
And break through portcullis

With the shards
Of the looking glass
Or the watery pool
Of some forgotten bastard

Narcissus or Athena
Cupid in putridity
Where eagles dare fly
Beyond reason

For more than
The search for
Heavens and heathens

Profane you say reading
Aloud in the hallowed
Halls
Of the artistic elite

Where only the critical
Stand

Filling their rectums via their
Portcullis mouths
With vol-au-vents
Only a handful
Could afford
...
So it is by virtue
Of staring and hearing
The works of the architects
Of art before thy
Breached the sac amniotic
Into this world of
Redundant performance
And beautiful bleeding mantras
.
Before thy weened
From mother's teats of milk
And feasted instead on
Not just the sweet nectar
But sour and savoury
.
That I continue forth
With no thought to
Sticking purely to
Tradition
.
Performative never
Subjective always
Committed to make
You think
To help
Clear your haunted rectums
.
With a deftness of touch
That swings like a pendulum dong
From subtle dissatisfaction
To brutal ambiguilation
..
Creativity naively starts with a conversation
Between my own self and the one I talk about
.
Between the technically proficient
.
And the subversive instigator
.
The conversation is never wholly satisfying
Like the masturbatory materials of the early days of the internet
But is meaningful for forward motion
For loosening those tightened bowels
.
As you read and fear or feel and reel
In agonised ecstasy
Wretching and reeking
Reaching for reason
Swallowed by literary treason
.
Of my own creation
.
You're welcome
.
Worshipping and workshopping
Is available in the lobby
.
Criticisms and ablations
Are justly welcome
.
I am not ayatollah
No Zeus or Hermes
.
I am merely the
.
Scribe
Who breathed
Life
Into their anal canals
.
Until next time
.
Lonely
.
I am easy to find
by the shattered pieces of regret
.
As another part of me
Cracks and displaces
Leaving my whole
A little less whole
.
Like a ceramic keepsake
As it takes hold of me
This impossible sadness
.
In clothes
Or standing naked
Except for tears and blood
.
The deepest blues
Tainted by
My frailty and fragility
.
Unprotected
From the cold
And exposed to judgement
.
my own guilt failings
.
Who I was
When you were alive
.
has been stripped
.
My flesh unhidden
From the elements
.
Perhaps maybe my sacrifice
Will give me peace
.
As I stand there
A monument of sorrow
.
Shame strips m.e
Not for
A word similar
To eroticism
.
But for descaling and delineation
.
To exorcise my own haunted
Intestinal tracts
.
Lay bare my disenfranchised
Prefrontal lobe and vagus nerve
.
Fire and fury
Shit and piss
Blood and semen
Creation and destruction
.
Always the twain shall meet
.
Until next time

*

Author’s Note: This piece began as an unfiltered braindump, not as a considered response to a challenge. In revising it, I recognised that the accumulation, rupture, and return within the poem were themselves a truer reflection of how I create. For that reason, it became a second entry for Gabriel Huizenga’s Creative Endeavor challenge—not as an explanation of process, but as an enactment of it.

My first entry