deepundergroundpoetry.com
Individuation: 1
Even looking at the page in this way
needing to shit, needing to shower
needing to eat, needing to rest
not really needing any of those things
just needing to feel how it felt.
That pattern was a necessity
now it comes as an option
and therefore loses its urgency
and all its meaning
even though I know I could always make it mean.
See, somewhere in between falling asleep
and my alarm that wakes me
in to an unemployed world
so that I hungrily jog to the boxing gym
where I spend an hour feeling just how disposable stress is
even amidst the bills, the cancer scares and the knife.
Fourteen rounds on the bag and stress doesn't stand a chance.
But, somewhere in between those two beautiful moments
is where the parts of me I haven't met play.
They show me videos of trophies covered in human skin,
boxes of misshapen dirty teeth that I store in my mouth.
They show me a moon close enough to kick
and a young boy I know milking a cow as it lays down on its side.
I have pieced these little fuckers together.
I know that there were four sides to the trophy and four layers of skin. I know that teeth dictate anxiety. I know that the full moon, larger than usual, speaks of the feminine side and I know that cows get milked standing up.
I know that writing for me has been dangerously ordinary.
It bared no more weight than a sneeze or a good stretch.
There was always more life in a good meal, a good fuck or trading blows.
It was disposable. I write fast. This will take me under four minutes. I don't think about it. I might stop to scratch a part of my face or raise my eyebrows and line of sight in question of why I bother. It's fast. Dangerously ordinary. I feel the direct application of more skill when I cut an onion.
It is life that holds it. That key they search for. The question that is thrown about. The mode of comparison. The Achilles heel of the wounded trumpet. The trick is a simple one to master, but at the same time a vicious prick when it wants. You simply open yourself up. Like the asshole of an unloved queer in the unexpected company of a stud who got too drunk or the starving cunt staring at me from a stranger's bed. You open up; you declare that you are hungry. You remind yourself of this every time you awaken.
You accept that you know nothing of the minutes
that are yet to pass
NOTHING
And you open up for what they might contain
Then you are living
You are soaking up moments
OTHERWISE
you are painting them silent before they have spoken.
Now I am using words.
Now I have to remember my obligation.
Now Four minutes can become half an hour
Not because I have to think about the order
or the form
but because I have to think of you.
Do you get it?
Then it hits me, the final line
the closer,
the one that means I could highlight everything above this
and hit delete.
The one that you take to bed with you
The one that opens you up...
The 'now' only passes in to the future
if we decide to take it with us.
Remember that. That is the closer even though this comes after. If you are not enjoying your now, then drop it before the resonance of the second hand ticks away at your inability to act freely.
You are cordially invited to enjoy yourself.
needing to shit, needing to shower
needing to eat, needing to rest
not really needing any of those things
just needing to feel how it felt.
That pattern was a necessity
now it comes as an option
and therefore loses its urgency
and all its meaning
even though I know I could always make it mean.
See, somewhere in between falling asleep
and my alarm that wakes me
in to an unemployed world
so that I hungrily jog to the boxing gym
where I spend an hour feeling just how disposable stress is
even amidst the bills, the cancer scares and the knife.
Fourteen rounds on the bag and stress doesn't stand a chance.
But, somewhere in between those two beautiful moments
is where the parts of me I haven't met play.
They show me videos of trophies covered in human skin,
boxes of misshapen dirty teeth that I store in my mouth.
They show me a moon close enough to kick
and a young boy I know milking a cow as it lays down on its side.
I have pieced these little fuckers together.
I know that there were four sides to the trophy and four layers of skin. I know that teeth dictate anxiety. I know that the full moon, larger than usual, speaks of the feminine side and I know that cows get milked standing up.
I know that writing for me has been dangerously ordinary.
It bared no more weight than a sneeze or a good stretch.
There was always more life in a good meal, a good fuck or trading blows.
It was disposable. I write fast. This will take me under four minutes. I don't think about it. I might stop to scratch a part of my face or raise my eyebrows and line of sight in question of why I bother. It's fast. Dangerously ordinary. I feel the direct application of more skill when I cut an onion.
It is life that holds it. That key they search for. The question that is thrown about. The mode of comparison. The Achilles heel of the wounded trumpet. The trick is a simple one to master, but at the same time a vicious prick when it wants. You simply open yourself up. Like the asshole of an unloved queer in the unexpected company of a stud who got too drunk or the starving cunt staring at me from a stranger's bed. You open up; you declare that you are hungry. You remind yourself of this every time you awaken.
You accept that you know nothing of the minutes
that are yet to pass
NOTHING
And you open up for what they might contain
Then you are living
You are soaking up moments
OTHERWISE
you are painting them silent before they have spoken.
Now I am using words.
Now I have to remember my obligation.
Now Four minutes can become half an hour
Not because I have to think about the order
or the form
but because I have to think of you.
Do you get it?
Then it hits me, the final line
the closer,
the one that means I could highlight everything above this
and hit delete.
The one that you take to bed with you
The one that opens you up...
The 'now' only passes in to the future
if we decide to take it with us.
Remember that. That is the closer even though this comes after. If you are not enjoying your now, then drop it before the resonance of the second hand ticks away at your inability to act freely.
You are cordially invited to enjoy yourself.
Published 21st Jan 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
That last line holds so much weight. Great piece of thought provoking writing Jamie.
and
I should invest in a punch bag... maybe.
and
I should invest in a punch bag... maybe.
21st Jan 2015 8:26pm
Jamie these lines really struck me..
It is life that holds it. That key they search for. The question that is thrown about. The mode of comparison. The Achilles heel of the wounded trumpet. The trick is a simple one to master, but at the same time a vicious prick when it wants. You simply open yourself up. Like the asshole of an unloved queer in the unexpected company of a stud who got too drunk or the starving cunt staring at me from a stranger's bed. You open up; you declare that you are hungry. You remind yourself of this every time you awaken.
bloody brilliant you open up no holds barred with such raw ease.. with love and respect Crim
It is life that holds it. That key they search for. The question that is thrown about. The mode of comparison. The Achilles heel of the wounded trumpet. The trick is a simple one to master, but at the same time a vicious prick when it wants. You simply open yourself up. Like the asshole of an unloved queer in the unexpected company of a stud who got too drunk or the starving cunt staring at me from a stranger's bed. You open up; you declare that you are hungry. You remind yourself of this every time you awaken.
bloody brilliant you open up no holds barred with such raw ease.. with love and respect Crim
With a packed bong and a phone in my hand i sit here tranquilized by your piece, the simple fact that everything you wrote, i personally have experienced. Writing for me is similar to yours. When one has lost their identity they slip up, make endless mistakes and are left with one simple choice: either evolve into who this has taken you to be or give in, shrivelling away with excuses, never realising how great of a person you were before all of this experience has become a towering definition of who we are.
I've been there too, i chose to learn. And what I've learnt is that my writing both enhanced and suffered at numerous points. As did my life, my emotions and my humility.
I've been there too, i chose to learn. And what I've learnt is that my writing both enhanced and suffered at numerous points. As did my life, my emotions and my humility.
this is the most irritating thing about you:
"It was disposable. I write fast. This will take me under four minutes. I don't think about it. I might stop to scratch a part of my face or raise my eyebrows and line of sight in question of why I bother. It's fast. Dangerously ordinary. I feel the direct application of more skill when I cut an onion."
because it's f**king true. (are we still allowed to say "fucking" in the comments?) everything just rolls out of you like drinks mixing and serving themselves with little umbrellas to highlight the fact that these are no ordinary cocktails of personal experience/philosophy/miracle-gro/poetry, as much as they say they are.
anyway, definitely one to read and come back to for inspiration, and read again. i like this onion quite a lot, PJ.
apologies for the weird simile earlier...
"It was disposable. I write fast. This will take me under four minutes. I don't think about it. I might stop to scratch a part of my face or raise my eyebrows and line of sight in question of why I bother. It's fast. Dangerously ordinary. I feel the direct application of more skill when I cut an onion."
because it's f**king true. (are we still allowed to say "fucking" in the comments?) everything just rolls out of you like drinks mixing and serving themselves with little umbrellas to highlight the fact that these are no ordinary cocktails of personal experience/philosophy/miracle-gro/poetry, as much as they say they are.
anyway, definitely one to read and come back to for inspiration, and read again. i like this onion quite a lot, PJ.
apologies for the weird simile earlier...
23rd Jan 2015 11:34pm
the poet considering the reader: you see, that is what makes you worthy of your talent, & it's what makes your poetry necessary. many of us are joyful when you post new work, bc it will contain something that we need, absolutely need...
26th Jan 2015 9:19pm
7th May 2015 5:41pm
i am so blown away by this. a teary blown away that peels back the feeling from the pen; the knowing from the ink. remembering gives power to now.
22nd Sep 2017 00:19am
I haven't been on here for quite some time. Thank you for your words.
