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.

[Jeanmarie Flaherty]

Interesting, your use of color here, greyscaling the world, yet, the crimson red of blood dripping, staining and seeping through the letters that form the words that enliven this piece.

The word "disgust" describes the emotion here perfectly. One would maybe imagine the speaker has given up, however, that is contradicts the writing itself. There is anger, but not enough to break something, only enough to bleed through disgust and, well, it seems to me, boredom.


Chas, this is amazing, wonderful, dark and striking...going straight into my favs.


love.jmm.

[Jason]

I do not know what it more impressive, this poem or Kara's response to it...very significant and important random and meaningful to this reader, much to the contrary of your view - I found this to be as profound as anything else...the true poets are here, you just have to look i guess...
great job.
~jason

[Jofer Serapio]

wow! that is amazing! beautifully written and brilliant as well! I enjoyed reading it, thanks for sharing!

[Kara Emily Krantz]

Sorry I took so long to get this. I haven't been paying attn to requests, or anything really lol. but when you told me specifically that you wrote something new, i couldn't wait to read it.

This is a very intense poem. I feel like I am ignorant of many of the layers of your meanings, but I know that I can nevertheless appreciate your words.

It is a very painful poem - not from reading it, but from what i can tell it took to write it. the place that (you) the poet was in when the words were ripped out from beneath your fingernails.

"The poet's tongue has grown bored.
Sterile.
He's disgusted with the grey hue of the world"

fantastic beginning. really caught my eye. and i related far too much

"and even through illuminated eyes recognizes that the lights have somehow been turned off;"
this was a hard transition to handle from the succinct-sentenced beginning you have. but that could have just been me. but i think the transition with the "that" didn't flow as well as it could have.
perhaps if you just went right to "the once-beating"?

"He watches the world through bloodstained goggles
and winces as The Great Liar nails prophets to crosses." - nice job with that

"He listens as the prayers muttered by childless mothers go unanswered
like the dying cries of a housefly being doused in bleach."

those were some powerful images - both of the mother and the fly - and the comparison was harsh, however it was also effective. and sadly, it wasn't a stretch

"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."

My reading of this, especially the second time around - was the idea that we as writers (true writers) live to put our words out of our heads and onto the page, and it is this that allows us to keep living, because without it we couldn't handle surviving in this world - with it's cruelty and it's stupidity and pointlessness. and that death is not sad because we can not live anymore, but we can not write.
:) that's how i read it....

haha i always feel silly reviewing your works, becuase you totally kick my a*s at reviewing. but i know you appreciate my attempts, regardless lol :) muah!

"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."

i like how you make delicately placed social statements. they're not in your face, which always turns me off, as a reader. i want to be wooed with ideas, not have them stuffed in my face. you do a great job with that.

"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."

my oh my. love that.

"And in that moment when he's most alarmed,
the nightmare will end and the evening bell at last will toll."

strangely, i actually received a feeling of 'comfort' or relief when reading these last two lines -almost like there really isn't anything to be alarmed about in the end. that the bell will toll (recalling that sweet 'for whom the bell tolls' idea, and .... this is a fantastic piece my dear. :) so glad you are writing again, and taht you share it with people, like me :)

:) hugs!

[Rhine Wolf]

this is just brilliant!!! very deep and true. and all the better for it being totaly random!