Beastshere lies the warriorBeasts by DanceWannabe
adorned in scarlet guise
he rests on top a rusting throne
with mangled flesh and flies
we dragged him to the eager eye
then triumphed as he fell
lanced spears into the heavy hide
and watched him sink to hell
what victim in our grisly game
a servant of the stage
a martyr, most awful wretch
my contender to engage
there lies that slaughtered animal,
no more than hide and meat
it wears a scarf of crimson silk
as flag of its defeat
how dismal is this chamber where
the body has been thrown
but here, one hundred champions sleep
with crowns of blood and bone
It is not enough to writeIt is not enough to put the words on pageIt is not enough to write by Taralitha
or to align them like cocaine lines
in neat rows of cornstalk paragraphs
fertile enough to bear reviews.
No. One must bleed each period,
each dot-dot-dot like morse code mythology
the Gallic cry at the end of the telegraph age.
It must become an ocean in you, these voices
swelling to tidal highs, and quiet - never.
You the new folkteller, urban prophet
who can call to battle anyone with eyes.
Ooze it like sap spilling down the bark.
It is not enough to write.
One must expire with each keystroke,
endlessly. It must come from the bowels.
Purge it as infection leaking out of skin;
lance yourself. Choke back tears.
If there is no labor pain,
the words were never born.
This is a death business.
We bleed ourselves onto paper and
slice our brains into vellum sheet
and repeat, repeat, repeat.
Pure person petrichor
deep inside the ink.