on life

life is an unfamiliar mannequin,
draped with elaborate costumes and
headscarves.
dolled up to look beautiful.

I have the same dream every night. I am falling into the sun.

life is an enigma
pretending to be a riddle
waiting to be solved by someone
with a low Erdos-Bacon number.

life is a swirling whirlpool of circumstance,
a crucified mixture of helpless flowers
an old high school friend
you never want to reunite with.

life is a stranger in paradise,
a utopia for rent.

life is a maelstrom of desire.
a washing machine that eats hope
along with your best pair of socks.

I have the same dream every night. I wake up and I’m alive.

Writer’s Digest: 101 Best Sites for Writers

Article here.

Also added to the Resources page.

April Fool?

It was a fine summer morning in July when I found out I was Death.

The first clue was when I opened my cupboard and found an unusually large collection of black robes. Most were worn, a few had been patched, and there was a brand new one on the far right with a hefty price tag from Zara. I blinked, and dismissed it. My brother had probably replaced my closet while I was asleep.
My second clue came from the garden shed. Someone had removed all my spades and replaced them with heavy scythes. I was reasonably upset—my garden had never required such drastic weed-removing measures. The lawnmower was also missing. Still, it could be one of my brother’s pranks.

I went through the day rather routinely. I hacked at the weeds with the scythe (hey! I improvised!), did my chores, and even fixed that old grandfather clock that sits near the stairs.

The clues melded into a revelation of epic proportions after I discovered I could walk through walls.

It was all rather surreal, until I found myself in a black robe and scythe, wandering around in a hospital looking for a Mr. R. Creevy. I found him in Room 101, looking rather distraught.

‘Excuse me,’ he said huffily. ‘Do you know what’s happening?’

‘Er,’ I ventured, before clearing my throat. PERHAPS YOU ARE HAVING AN OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE?<
He dug his ear. ‘Don’t shout.’
SORRY. I checked the mysterious hourglass on my wrist. MR ROBERT CREEVY?
‘Yes? Didn’t I tell you not to shout? My, you youngsters have no manners these days…’
I THINK YOU HAD BETTER COME WITH ME.
‘Allright,’ he said grumpily. ‘But I’m having a word with your boss, I am.’ The scythe leaned forward and the monitor beside Mr. R. Creevy showed a flat line.
I blinked. Perhaps I was Death after all. Naturally, I was quite puzzled by the entire affair. Perhaps I needed to see a psychiatrist, so that was where I went next.
EXCUSE ME, I said to the receptionist. CAN YOU TELL ME WHERE I CAN FIND A DR. I checked the name card.DR. BENSON?

‘Down the hall,’ said the receptionist idly. ‘Would you like a cough drop? You sound hoarse.’

I’M FINE, THANKS. HAVE A NICE DAY.
I wandered down the corridor and knocked on the good doctor’s door. ‘Come in!’ I walked through the door and surveyed the room. It was minimally decorated, and the couch was a horrible shade of pink.
EXCUSE ME, DOCTOR?

‘Yes,’ he gestured impatiently to the nauseating sofa. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

I’M DEATH, I said, matter-of-factly.

‘Yes, we’ve established that,’ he continued, still gesturing for me to sit down. ‘Would you like to tell me when you found out?’

THIS MORNING.
‘And how does this make you feel?’
I pondered. A LITTLE STRANGE, I SUPPOSE.
‘And would you like to tell me why this disturbs you?’
MY GUIDANCE COUNSELLOR SAID NOTHING OF THIS SORT OF VOCATION.
-Azuire//lastfactor&c.

Voices

i. Daniel

Crows are numerous beings like
crowds in the city,
sooner or later they
steal you with their gaze.

No no, I’m not saying they’re owls, just
that their beady eyes watching you like hawks,
they should have ‘crow-like’ instead.
and maybe, they should have them outlawed.
(I think crows are smarter than owls)

Crows and crowds, crowds and crows,
ravens, never, never, only ever crows.

ii. mindmeld

destitution,
substitution, indiscretion,
impression, isolation, depression.

your song is not for
listening, I am trapped in
rusty harpsichords.

game of alliance,
suppression, oppression,
defiance.

iii. Jason

wrap up, da capo,
take it from the beginning,
steel whispers, gold lockets
and hockey masks.

fold up, against the glass
it blocks the morning sun
drift in poppies of red, blue
grey, gregarious in their disposition.

skin cold to touch, like ice,
fingers scrubbed,
red and orange
as the peel washes off,
landfills raised to the fallen.
the poppies sway.

open it up, da capo,
take it from the head,
chopping boards,
and hannibals.

iv. mindmeld

destitution,
substitution, indiscretion,
impression, isolation, depression.

she sings like broken
guitar strings, shrieking loudly,
music to my ears.

game of alliance,
suppression, oppression,
defiance.

v. Melissa and Mildred

A direct statement (isn’t that what you asked for?) I’m sorry,
Sir? Sir? Are you there?
I wrote a poem on the subject instead. So
Can you hear me? Sir?
here we go:

Silver, silver’s good, it kills werewolves, looks awfully shiny too, shiny silver, made of
A couple of mice down the back alleys–
Euphoria, you’d feel happy with shiny things, they’re absolutely hypnotising, is that my locket?
I insist you remove them! Annoying,
Tick-tock, when I snap my fingers you’ll be a clone, hello? Are you
Zarking voices, open and close, close and
Ready? That blank stare is starting to creep me out–but,
Open, yes! Down the back, that way
Aha! You are in my power, subliminally creeping to your doom
Past the Kwiksave.
Are you sure you wouldn’t like to phone home? Have you–
Have you lost your way? Excuse me, sir
Become extraordinary in some way? Beam you up? Sure?
Really, you’ve got to remove them, their very
Existence is scaring the sheep. Sheep? Yes the sheep,
Not the voices, no, they’re not afraid, just
Irritated, they can’t wait for a
Cure, hey, thanks for the arsenic.

Don’t let me stop you.

vi. mindmeld

destitution,
substitution, indiscretion,
impression, isolation, depression.

wondrous rainbows seep
in and out of my window
as the sun rises.

game of alliance,
suppression, oppression,
defiance.

vii. Boscoe

screams in bubbles not as runny
as a tremendous quatch of funny,
piled with drops of money.
floating in the air.

I went dancing off somewhere
loaded with guns and pears
hastily clothed in glares
and sparkles of ice.

there’s no outright price,
for being completely concise,
I tried to break out twice,
and failed.

so I was re-jailed,
to halted clockhands nailed,
soon enough derailed
by a rainy day.

I turned a ghostly grey,
entreated us to pray,
whispered “cuio mae”

but it was much too sunny.

viii. mindmeld

destitution,
substitution, indiscretion,
impression, isolation, depression.

Inked promises, drip
upon a failed eulogy,
I have mourned enough.

game of alliance,
suppression, oppression,
defiance.

ix. Edward

On my discerning palate
In Crewe and at a time distinguished,
Rests a lonely locket.

I have knees blistered from pants
And fancy dresses.
I am indifferent to
Prophets and oracles,
Opinion and gestures,
(what are they but words in the dark?)
and yet,
I have a most effeminate locket.

It is most certainly not my own
Unless I have elected some new paradigm
Within archaic tombs of medieval kingdoms
But I live in the Millenium,
as unsullied as this is pure gold,
A perpetuity so unlike diamond
In its metal wisdom and brittle
Inside parchment.
‘For Faith. From Jason.’
I do not know a Faith.
I do not know a Jason either.

As I rack my brains the candle becomes the sun
Runny and old in its cantankerous ways,
A boundary of semantics and temperament.

A crow perches outside my window.
I briefly consider this enigma,
And engage my synaptic capacities
In these shadowy theories
Of karma running over dogma.

There is a crow outside my window.
There is a locket on my plate.
‘To Faith, With Love, Jason.’
I do not know a Jason.
I do not know a Faith either.

x. mindmeld

destitution,
substitution, indiscretion,
impression, isolation, depression.

She has a
Mona Lisa smile, which
I think would be so cool,
if she wasn’t going to eat me.

game of alliance,
suppression, oppression,
defiance.

xi. Faith

A lifeless thing but now alive,
A ghost that only comes in fives
A shadow in the daily path,
As these we stand at last.

I know the mountain, rocks and seams,
I know the old man’s nightly dreams,
Are not dreams at all, I know this now,
With this I stand at last.

We know this beauty, things of ours,
Hold the clock and ticking sour
Hearts in blazed unions smile,
With these we stand at last.

I know the mind, its cracks and ways,
I know its poison’s depths and haze,
Are we not here, with these footfalls,
With these I stand at last.

Left for dead, we claim our lives,
With solemn hands and broken knives
With raven hands and nevemores,
With these we stand at last.

A ghostless thing but now full-formed,
A lifeless thing has been reborn,
A lantern takes the shadow’s place.

Here we stand at last.

xii. altogether

destitution,
substitution, indiscretion,
impression, isolation, depression.

game of alliance,
suppression, oppression,
defiance.

-Azuire//lastfactor&c.

Untitled 3

I.
I went looking for Peace,
in all the wrong places,
under the bridge
where Freedom lurked.
(She was busy with a spray can,
and she ran when I approached her.)

I asked Madam Justice,
on her pedestal, preening her
limestone mascara.
(She was still depressed over OJ.
I left her alone.)

So I wandered through,
New York and Africa,
London and Asia,
(I got an elephant ride and some tea.
Uncle Sam thought I was a waiter.)

I kept looking.

II.

Say no to drugs.
Say yes to tacos.

III.

I knocked on some doors,
and accidentally walked in
on the Universal Board of Directors.
(The economy’s so bad, the sun was fired.
I think they’ll retrench God next.)

I’m still looking for Peace,
in the right places, I’m sure
because I saw War just now.
(Dude, have you seen how fat that guy is?
He needs a crash diet. Seriously.)

Nobody seems to know
where Peace is,

(I think I’ll check
the men’s washroom.)

-Azuire//lastfactor&c.

Experiments with Form VI: Sestinas

If you, like me, took days of research trying to understand sestinas, you might find this useful.

A sestina (also, sextina, sestine, or sextain) is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza’s lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza’s lines appear in the order 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531.

First stanza, ..1 ..2 ..3 ..4 ..5 ..6
Second stanza, ..6 ..1 ..5 .. 2 ..4 ..3
Third stanza, ..3 ..6 ..4 ..1 ..2 ..5
Fourth stanza, ..5 ..3 ..2 ..6 ..1 ..4
Fifth stanza, ..4 ..5 ..1 ..3 ..6 ..2
Sixth stanza, ..2 ..4 ..6 ..5 ..3 ..1

Concluding tercet:

(line) ..2, ( line) ..5
(line) ..4, (line )..3
(line) ..6, (line) ..1

This organization is referred to as retrogradatio cruciata (“retrograde cross”). These six words then appear in the tercet as well, with the tercet’s first line usually containing 1 and 2, its second 3 and 4, and its third 5 and 6 (but other versions exist, described below). English sestinas are usually written in iambic pentameter or another decasyllabic meter.

An alternate form exists using a couplet, instead of a tercet, with the word orders 123 and 456 or 135 and 246.

The sestina was invented in the late 12th century by the Provençal troubadour Arnaut Daniel. Elements of it were quickly imitated by other troubadours, such as Guilhem Peire Cazals de Caortz.

Example I wrote:

dawn brings with it the smell of rain
streaks of yellow light the city
dewdrops lift from their sea of green
snow melts from its fortress of stone
dawn in the call of the mind
as an age rests on the streets forever.

but what makes eternity last forever
entombed in thunder along with rain
lost in the byways of the mind
crisscrossing the avenues of the city
bored holes within their concrete and stone
tufts of moss break grey with green.

dawn swiftly covers ruins with green
that remain a broken monument forever
even lower than plaques carved into stone
eroded now by the torrential rain
blurry memories of a forgotten city
that serve existence only in men’s minds.

what calls whence and wherefore, the mind
it dwells in its haven of blue and green
tripping, soaring above its dream city
will it cease to fly forever
should it encounter the rain
and lose itself in the solitude of stone?

dawn brings illumination to stone
towers that rise in the chasms of the mind
grey clouds gather to fling down the rain
covering and nourishing  hidden green
it pours down joy and tears, forever
upon the makeshift name of “city”.

soft yellow melts the cold, merciless city,
with its buildings in quiet, blissful stone
they resolve to stand forever
fragments of an unyielding mind
dawn brings the promise of green
and relief from the enduring rain.

if there was a city, if there was such a mind,
that still sought stone consumed by green
let it rust in peace forever, beneath the algid rain.

-Azuire//lastfactor&c.

Porcelain Doll

Spontaneous poetry composed from prompt “Porcelain Doll”. This fixed form of poetry was invented by kiwi-damnation, a deviantART user. You can find more information on it here.

Porcelain Doll: An Absammydarian

Alabaster your vision, under-glazed blue,
Cold to the touch, desperately
Eager to skin alive the hands that feel.

Gold your reflection, halted
in shadows, carved jungles
knarled and ugly, whispering loneliness.

Mauve your dream, splayed and nocturnal
Oblivious to pale pointed prophecies.

Quell your china soul, ruby-rust repository,
Slim and precocious you may be, silenced by tedious
Urns in their fool potter wheels, you are vocal,
Warily, and extraordinarily–
Your wonder is unmatched, even by rainbows and zark!

I dropped you.

-Azuire//lastfactor&c.

Just a Thought

If the Rohirrim, the Narnians, and the Jedi all met on a field of battle…

The Rohirrim would have, ‘Forth Eorlingas!‘

High King Peter would shout, ‘Narnia and the North!‘

What would the Jedi have? ‘Go midichlorians?’

Invasion of the Bodysnatchers/Happy S.A.D!

I tried to tell them
the aliens were coming, but
they were bodysnatched.

Happy Singles Awareness Day all =D

Experiments with Form V: Triolets

A triolet is a one stanza poem of eight lines. Its rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB. Alllines are in iambic tetrameter (however this is not a hard and fast rule): the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines, thereby making the initial and final couplets identical as well.  It began in France and is usually about love. (Just in time for Valentine’s, huh?) So get cracking.

Example 1:

You have to write a triolet
If you would make your name immortal.
To get a form that’s fit and set.
You have to write a triolet.
From free verse all you ever get
Is just another yawn or chortle.
You have to write a triolet
If you would make your name immortal.

Example 2: Birds at Winter by Thomas Hardy

Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone’
From holly and cotoneaster
Around the house. The flakes fly! – faster
Shutting indoors the crumb-outcaster
We used to see upon the lawn
Around the house. The Flakes fly faster
And all the berries now are gone!

-Azuire//lastfactor&c.