Collection Overload

[Feste]

This is going to be one lump collection of some of my older stuff, more so "for your consideration."

 

Please, chew, snack or even gnaw on these a while, and lemme know. Some of it is stuff I've since locked away, some of it is stuff I'd like to see improved one day.

 

Be warned: It is a lot of stuff.

 

For ease of browsing, I'll make them all separate replies.

 

 

But first, a random thought to digest -- an appetizer of sorts:

 

To what end does an inkless pen exist?

Is it much like a hammer with no chisel?

Able to mark stone; shatter it, yet leave no art?

No; though a pen can tear paper, there is more finesse.

 

Is it much like a brush without paint?

Able to gentle stroke canvas and leave not a trace?

No; a pen is durable, unhurt by its own motions.

Thus the question is begged once more -- Wherefore should a pen lacking ink be graced with an existence?

 

An answer so plain, I must speak it twice: Finesse.

 

A pen is a sword, and though it aches to speak with blood, a fencer must test the mettle of his mind, the sharpness of his wit, and the endurance of his hand. Much like a practice foil, an inkless pen has purpose -- there to contour the stance of the hand; the grace of the mind; the delicacy of the wit.

 

So, my friends, take up arms, and test your mettle!

Edited May 23, 2009 by Feste

[Feste]

Euphoric Guilt

Pinpricks and Needles;

A silent Gryphon's Gaze.

Pinpricks and needles,

Destroy the end of days.

 

Pinpricks and Needles,

Shadowed and surreal.

Pinpricks and Needles,

All that I can feel.

 

A knife, ever cold, draws on my heart;

Your selfishness, forever, tears us apart --

Pinpricks and Needles.

[Feste]

Stay thy Stay

 

Stay thy Hand, lest it strike me

Stay thy tongue, lest it lash me,

Stay the love, lest it shatter me,

Stay thy stay, for it abandons me.

 

Thus the roles of our game make exchange;

The board spins around; The pieces rearrange.

Now you are all, save but one:

You are serpent, Savior, Queen --

But I am for the Pawn; under none.

 

I should embrace this starlight -- I am free!

Alas, my stars shine darkly on me.

[Feste]

Bittersweet

 

There's comfort in the coldness,

of knowing only pain;

like the burning of charred flesh,

and tear drops in the rain

 

Wearied woes and worries

plaguing one small heart

are off

and on

and tear the world apart

 

There's solace in a somber song

of knowing just the Blues;

of performing only Requiems,

and composing for the doomed.

 

There's joy inside of every goodbye

of only bidding farewell

of letting go of all you'll know,

of saying, "See you in hell!"

 

Sullied Cynics and Sarcasm

can be dangerous things.

Hateful,

yet, wise;

enlightenment madness brings

 

There's peace beneath the darkness;

in surrendering the fight

in succumbing to the shadows

and being blinded by the night.

[Feste]

Viewing and Pondering

 

This balcony.

This Basement.

I'm here behind this window --

Watching and wondering

 

These idle dreams;

These empty scenes;

They lay upon my pillow --

Watching and wondering

 

This prison cell.

This rusty cage.

When will I free them from --

Watching and wondering

 

A hopeful eye?

Or a grim disdain?

When will I see them -- I'm

Watching and wondering

 

The jet floods in, the topaz fades

Through turquoise fields, over azure plains

Under ruby fires, amidst garnet flames

 

And I'm watching...

[Feste]

Something I wish to steer away from is the presence of a forced structure in my works. I understand structure to be a viable device in developing a poem's core, but only when it truly matches the shape of the work itself -- alas these works ache and moan around the frame.

 

Mind you, these are all older pieces, but something of a game I wish to play with them is shattering their structure a bit while still keeping their general themes and moods - plastic surgery, if you will.

 

Suffice it to say, I've spent far too long scribbling matters of prose that my poetry has garnered something of a, dare I say, "template."

 

This may also be the rough outcome of my lack of literary exposure of late.

 

The Pen now resides on Firefox's "Quick Tabs," so perhaps my furry companion will remind me to click it from time to time and prove helpful in alleviating these oft-aggravating symptoms.

 

But, as I remind myself to the original purpose of this, what was meant to be short, addendum:

 

If you are able to conjure some form of device, tool, or crude-mechanism that would assist me in deconstructing my works, please direct me towards the nearest retailer from which such an item may be procured.

Edited May 23, 2009 by Feste

[Preprise]

Jason thinks destroying the end of days would very difficult and very awesome! This means he'll give it a try.

Edited May 29, 2009 by Jason Newcomb

[Feste]

Jason thinks destroying the end of days would very difficult and very awesome! This means he'll give it a try.

 

Don't think of it as the end of the world, think of it as the literal end of a day. The closing, the culmination of efforts and the representation that it brings.

 

You aren't destroying the end of the world -- that would be awesome.

 

You're just destroying what's left of a "day"

[Preprise]

That's cool also.