Nothing to No One

This is my first piece in over a year. Even I don't know its meaning. I just started to write. Randomly.

The poet's tongue has grown bored.
Sterile.
He's disgusted with the grey hue of the world
and even through illuminated eyes recognizes that the lights have somehow been turned off;
  that the once-beating, once-vibrant hearts have been smothered
  so that the deepest wounds in the Universe fail in comparison
    to the empty, lifeless souls beneath man's reptile flesh.
He watches the world through bloodstained goggles
  and winces as The Great Liar nails prophets to crosses.
He listens as the prayers muttered by childless mothers go unanswered
  like the dying cries of a housefly being doused in bleach.
Words are painted in order to separate him from the unmistakable tether linking him to the world he hates
  and when the end hits, that's the part that'll hurt the most.
Not because he cares,
  but because the very essence of his poetic art is also beginning to flounder.
His savior is also dying as words and pens are replaced by
  (Capitalism and War)
    the twitches and shutters of firsthand voyeurism
    passed along at 30 frames per second.
Little does he know that his seven-mile journey to Skull Hill won't be met with welcomed forgiveness;
  instead, he'll be left helpless while the Invisible Man washes his hands and counts his treasure.
The depths of his mind are yet to comprehend that everything ends -
  not in forked yellow eulogies of promise and potential but in
muffled midnight cries for mercy and for genius.
And in that moment when he's most alarmed,
  the nightmare will end and the evening bell at last will toll.

Reviews

[This Page Does Not Exis..]

Chas,

Your utter disgust, and blatantly-uninspired-writers-Heart is clearly BLEEDING in this piece...but in a way, the essence of you initiating this piece tells me that you are not COMPLETELY dead or suppressed in your motivation as a writer. Actually it changes the entire-literal meaning of this piece for me. Your actions, overshadow your words. I love this.

Perhaps the thoughts expressed in this passage are progressive and are not being felt in the moment....
In fact, could these be long-standing thoughts and emotions that are NOT bleeding, but slowly scabbing up? A sudden inspiration? That (probably ignorant) question stems from the very first line :

"This is my first piece in over a year. Even I don't know its meaning. I just started to write. Randomly"
----Not "knowing the meaning", and feeling an (old?) urge to write on this virtual-world, strikes me as an action not worth committing if you sincerely felt that "all was ending". In fact, this piece represents hope and maybe a cry for someone to read it and prove you wrong.

"The poet's tongue has grown bored.
Sterile.
He's disgusted with the grey hue of the world
and even through illuminated eyes recognizes that the lights have somehow been turned off;
that the once-beating, once-vibrant hearts have been smothered
so that the deepest wounds in the Universe fail in comparison
to the empty, lifeless souls beneath man's reptile flesh."
--- I love this and interpret it quite simple (hopefully NOT incorrectly). The narrator once upheld the "grey hue of the world" as a source of inspiration, and now is disgusted with it. What is grey-sadness worth to those of us living in it... if not meant to inspire? Whats worse... "grey hues of the world" that spark the stroke of your pen, or "grey-hues of the world" that do nothing?

"He watches the world through bloodstained goggles
and winces as The Great Liar nails prophets to crosses."
--sorry but my only interpreted to this is a little "assumed": the narrator has a clear distaste to those who "fake" martyrdom and deep, clean intelligence. And if its not too bold, probably HATES people who use vocabulary as a means to fake intelligence, and gain attention for their work (as opposed to the pure-goal of self-searching and mental clarity. Thus, art) and remove the abstraction of "art" from writing and create a shallow conglomeration of words.



"He listens as the prayers muttered by childless mothers go unanswered
like the dying cries of a housefly being doused in bleach.
Words are painted in order to separate him from the unmistakable tether linking him to the world he hates
and when the end hits, that's the part that'll hurt the most.
Not because he cares,
but because the very essence of his poetic art is also beginning to flounder. "
-- Chas, This is very powerful and a little difficult to grasp because this is obviously a "personal", unexplained experience being reflected in the passage, but one of importance, I think. For example, the way the narrator thinks has been his only distinction between him and "the shallow, materialistic, s****y people and ideals" of the world. It seems his sadness come from the possible "end" to this important quality within him. Maybe he thinks "the world he hates" is muddling up the depth, and art he so vehemently upholds.

"His savior is also dying as words and pens are replaced by
(Capitalism and War)
the twitches and shutters of firsthand voyeurism
passed along at 30 frames per second.
Little does he know that his seven-mile journey to Skull Hill won't be met with welcomed forgiveness;
instead, he'll be left helpless while the Invisible Man washes his hands and counts his treasure."
----Hmm....I like this. Once again, I apologize for misinterpret ion but could the "invisible man"="the notion of capitalism"?...And this man (counting treasure) is what he (Capitalism) does best. S**t, I f*****g love this.

"The depths of his mind are yet to comprehend that everything ends -
not in forked yellow eulogies of promise and potential but in
muffled midnight cries for mercy and for genius.
And in that moment when he's most alarmed,
the nightmare will end and the evening bell at last will toll."
------What. An. Ending. I love it. Ok, "muffled midnight cries for mercy and genius"...Woah. Have I been there. Gosh, this is like that sad song on the radio. You know, the one that utterly repeats your inner-most thoughts coupled with beautiful, sad music. The song you sing in your head all day because you love the idea of someone and something knowing EXACTLY what your going through, and pulling your heart strings with it.

Chas, I LOVE this--and in you, allowing me to diagnose it, I feel a sweet, and deep connection with you as a writer and mentor. Like first I state in this review, this has the semblance of hope to me. Yes, I know this piece speaks of the "ending", and "suppression of spirit" , etc etc....but the act of writing it is simply contradictory of the emotion expressed in this piece. You know I LOVE contradiction. This is simply how we find truth. As long as we contradict "stuff", we will always be searching for more...Thus, keeping your Poet's spirit alive.

Thank you for the privilage of reviewing this piece. It is now, dear to my heart.

[iamshadowine]

this is truly amazing! keep writing :D

[Red Brick Keshner]

Writing randomly often allows our insides some room for expression. Some say the truest, innermost surfaces... kind of like streaming in and out of consciousness.

[Anhedonia 1349]

I respect that review. A lot honestly. I want to comment on one thing, though:

"the only thing i found wrong was the use of the (capitialism and war) comment, it works but it seemed to simplistic and real and seems to ground the poem from just being inside your head"

I think you're misunderstanding the poem as a whole. This isn't "just...inside [my] head". This poem is very real. This poem is my life. It's the world that I see on a daily basis. There's nothing theoretical or hypothetical here. This is all real. If you could live a day or two in my brain, you'd see that - hey, this guy doesn't write poetry as flowery words and made up feelings. This guy writes poetry to try to put the world around him - his world - into perspective for everyone else.

So try rereading it with that in mind. I think it's more respectable that way.

[Crimson1]

Things are so mundanely painful these days its hard to put the artistic thumbtack on that pain, this got pretty close, honestly the only thing i found wrong was the use of the (capitialism and war) comment, it works but it seemed to simplistic and real and seems to ground the poem from just being inside your head

[[untitled]]

all nice fiction, would you like it stolen by someone? Not me of course but students.

[PianoandPage]

different. i love some of the images you uproot from the soil of your malaise and cankor. awesome.

"like the dying cries of a housefly being doused in bleach" - disturbing to the max.

"the twitches and shutters of firsthand voyeurism
passed along at 30 frames per second" - i really love the pace and meter of this. very cool.

"muffled midnight cries for mercy and for genius" - nice use of controlled alliteration.

this piece definately got me thinking. you express alot and you always get extra points with me for bringing cruxifiction (sp i know) references into it.

[Silent Kim aka mizmetap..]

and even through illuminated eyes recognizes that the lights have somehow been turned off;
that the once-beating, once-vibrant hearts have been smothered. I loved these lines. I often write randomly and others find deep insight in it, so I end u reading it over. I find myself in that position, I see deep insight in your piece, I read about a writer who let his ink dry because the insperation of this world is crappy. This was a little dark but thought provoking. Welcome back to the cafe and I will read more of your work. I enjoyed your style.

[emz]

A very thought provoking piece.. i felt sad reading it... its as if all the tragedies and messes in the world today were written on one piece of paper... just my interpretation.. i love the way you use words i can feel the anger in them... nice work

Emz x

[Emily B]

Dark and intense. I can't tell you what it means to me. But I bet hearing it read aloud one dark night would probably raise the hair on the back of my neck. Good stuff.