Reign VIII

Only in blindly insisting you weren’t
A sellout did you give up and proclaim
Your turning, your protean self, about-
Faced, crippled and lame, broken and shamed.
For every starving artist, I have known
One well-fed: a singer-psychologist,
A poet-professor, people who owned
It, blending their art and artifice
In equal measure. Poor as I am, I
Do not starve, for I am rich in spirits.
Narcissism and rage are my bread, my
Water my own voice and all who hear it.
Even if I starve, my muse will still sing:
“No gods, no masters, every man a king.”

Advertisements

Pantoum from a Stolen Line

From a pile of pieces of a person,

I have made art (like a madman driven,

Locked away in a cell, feverishly

Hopeful as I struggle against my mind)

 

I have made art like a madman, driven

Because I lacked the strength to look inwards,

Hopeful as I struggle against my mind,

Swearing I’m fine, dripping blood on canvas

 

Because I lacked the strength to look inwards,

You held out your hand to me, fingers wide

(Swearing “I’m fine,” dripping blood.) On canvas

And on paper, I swore to honor you

 

You held out your hand to me, fingers wide.

Trembling, mumbling thanks, I opened myself,

And on paper I swore to honor you,

In awe of your strength, your grace, and kindness

 

Trembling, mumbling thanks, I opened myself.

This is what I’m doing: Like a monk, I’m

In awe of your strength, your grace and kindness

Working to create something greater still

 

This is what I’m doing: Like a monk, I’m

Locked away in a cell, feverishly

Working to create something greater still

From a pile of pieces of a person

Medium

The man on stage is but a conduit

For something greater than himself

Channeling it into the wide-eyed crowd

Before him

 

It is the fate of every conduit to

Be worn to dust by that

Which flows through it

 

But the colosseum wants blood

And the floorlights never dim

 

Ridi, pagliaccio

Kintsugi

Little broken thing,

You can be fixed. All your cracks

Can be filled with gold.

Not-So-Random Writing Prompt 18: Johnny Vasquez, Ender of Days

Aw, yeah. You know the drill. I find some rad art and write about it. Today’s comes from David Velasquez, entitled “Waking Up to Apocalypse.” Check out David’s DeviantArt page here!

Not-So-Random Writing Prompt 17: By Age, By Sickness, By War, By Justice, Pt. 2

Pestilence paid John no mind, the human at once beneath and beyond it. Instead, it stared blankly ahead, its rheumy eyes focused on some invisible thing so small that only it could see it. John, meanwhile, watched as miles below the people withered, as the already-dead boarded planes and trains, piled into self-driving cars and buses, as they did Pestilence’s work for it and spread their diseases unwittingly. This was worse than the burning bodies, than the soldiers killing each other, the robots that slaughtered unseen from the skies. This was a killer that people didn’t even realize existed. They wouldn’t until it was too late.

Do you think there’s a higher plan, Pestilence asked. John said nothing, but it didn’t matter to Pestilence. Pestilence spoke only for itself, caring not at all for what John thought.

I do. I see the guiding hand of evolution. The invisible chains of cause and effect.

Science freed us from you in the past, John said, and it will again.

Pestilence turned to John and grinned, lips cracked from dehydration, mucus and blood dripping from the remnants of a nose consumed by gangrene. The bulky protective suit it wore hissed with every breath, expelling some new contagion through cracks and tears that had gone deliberately unpatched. What, you speak of smallpox? Of the hundred other diseases you eradicated that yet lived on in labs somewhere because it is in your species’s nature to let nothing go. Oh, but we must study it! Oh, but we could use it as a weapon against or enemies! Oh, but by understanding that which kills us we will understand ourselves! Such hubris!

Pestilence’s grin spread wider still. Hubris and complacency. You discovered vaccines and stopped using them the instant you forgot how deadly the diseases they prevented were. You discovered antibiotics and had overused them to the point of ineffectiveness within a century. It’s childish. Laughable.

Oh, yes. I see a higher plan in all this. The plan of life itself. From dry plains, you spread across the world, like bacteria in a host. But you were too virulent a strain. You have killed your host and burned yourself out. Perhaps something more mild will replace you, but you will never live to see it.

Not-So-Random Writing Prompt 17: By Age, By Sickness, By War, By Justice, Pt. 1

Can you believe I got the installment number wrong on the entire last prompt? How silly of me. Anyway, stuff!

This piece is entitled “By Age, By Sickness, By War, By Justice.” It’s inspired by “The Four Horsemen” by Keith Thompson. I don’t own this image, I claim no rights to this image, and should Keith stumble across this post and demand that the image be removed, I will gladly do so. Also, you should go check out his portfolio website at http://www.keiththompsonart.com/.

Let’s begin!