Charcoal Remnants

Charcoal Remnants

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQlghAHMHbY

A friend recently told me, in response to my comment that he seemed devil-like with a specific display, “I am not like the devil- I am the devil.”

 

How can one create,

When one is learning how to write?

How can one work for love,

When one has been lost, and broken to the point of,

All despair,

By hands which once sought to destroy,

That create?

A slew of coffee houses that wept,

In the rain, flattened underneath my guise

When thunder rang out into the sky at my entrance,

Crackling in the sky an electrifying, magnificent spark,

Of my lead.

 

How could I have taught myself to write-

When zigzags, randomly placed, met the tip of my dawdling lead,

And cups of endless coffee and souffle which became-

Per astral roadmaps . . .

Which lit upon a newborn sky,

And smote those around me with plumes of gray lies,

Of spiraling smoke from a,

Fire’s raving progress.  

 

Out of my terrible heart, smoke-stacks had risen, and were,

Resting themselves at odd angles, varying points,

Letting demon-like arms fall upon masses of cloud-busts,

As I sit here writing this note, across the lines of my thought,

Inside of a varying symbol which looks,

So demon-like, I,

Recognize it with a cold feeling of dread,

Detached and accepting, even still, though,

As my lips turn plump and blue, and the nerve cells begin to,

Die,

And I, accepting and with a shivering thrust,

Of blood, like a delicate feather, driving its shaft deep into the veins of my heart,

Remembering the devil’s line,

Which has always followed my heart, since the days ago, when,

I used to write about you in endless blurs of cafe and,

Black, coffee cakes,

And dashed the overhang of each, specific coffee house I set foot into, when

With the flames of my create, a thundering rush of mad storms, rose, with each and every mark I made, into-

 

And, god!

After you bled poison, into my soul, with a thin, flimsy kind of ballpoint. . .

And gave me a heart made of-

Charcoaled glass,

Charred remains and gross delights,

Burden heavy,

To one who was once so youthful, so . . .

Bright.

Beating heart full of hope and love,

 

And endless abundance, belonging to someone who was good and whole,

Out and out good . . .

Until all that was left of me,

In place of the crust, were-

The charred, and single-seeming remains, which, fast forward, years,

Now fall forth, from the tip of my lead,

In crackles of thin but layering dust,

As the only thing now to remain, from,

That is, in tribune of the original-

Charcoaled remnants.