deepundergroundpoetry.com
Strange
It feels almost unnatural. Closing my eyes and just letting my fingers take me wherever they want to go. It's times like these that I'm thankful for having taught myself how to type the way I do. My brain is too full again. It seems strange that my head can be full to bursting with the sound of dozens of voices that I can't remember.. Whispers and shouting alike. Soft and slow they drone on and on and on. They need to learn some manners and stop interrupting one another quite so often. Not that I couldn't stand to learn the same lesson, seeing as I interrupt people more often than I can keep track of.
Even so, there's a sort of music. A whimsical rhythm to the world itself at the time that I can hardly stand but to capture it in the only way I know how. I'm all about the lyrical, literary, and grammatical. It's all rules to me, and are the only rules really meant to be followed in my mind. Everything else is all hay and barley, chucks and wagons; they mean nothing to me. Speech itself is a stem of the rules that has little value.
Stranger still how the rhythm intensifies and seems to find, if just for a moment, an earthly cast in which to set itself. How upbeat and dramatic it grows until the inbetween of my picking, typing fingers. Only in that interrum does it seems to mellow and a truly become again a real rhythm. A child can beat on all pots and pans in the kitchen, but that says little for the beat he may provide. In the same way I plink out whatever I can, spilling out one and then another; scooping out the mush and throwing it as hard as I can. They say that reading an inkblot will tell a therapist who you are, but what does that say for the one who makes the inkblots? What does he see? In the same way, can an artist really tell if someone appreciates his work?
Strange, indeed, that each of my monologues has its own voice to accompany. How, then, do I know if it really is my own monologue? I'm just writing whatever the voice in my head says. I'm the eager assistant, jogging down the every word of his employer. Strange that the voice in my head dictates the gender of the characters I use in my analogies.
How very strange that I still can't let go.
Even so, there's a sort of music. A whimsical rhythm to the world itself at the time that I can hardly stand but to capture it in the only way I know how. I'm all about the lyrical, literary, and grammatical. It's all rules to me, and are the only rules really meant to be followed in my mind. Everything else is all hay and barley, chucks and wagons; they mean nothing to me. Speech itself is a stem of the rules that has little value.
Stranger still how the rhythm intensifies and seems to find, if just for a moment, an earthly cast in which to set itself. How upbeat and dramatic it grows until the inbetween of my picking, typing fingers. Only in that interrum does it seems to mellow and a truly become again a real rhythm. A child can beat on all pots and pans in the kitchen, but that says little for the beat he may provide. In the same way I plink out whatever I can, spilling out one and then another; scooping out the mush and throwing it as hard as I can. They say that reading an inkblot will tell a therapist who you are, but what does that say for the one who makes the inkblots? What does he see? In the same way, can an artist really tell if someone appreciates his work?
Strange, indeed, that each of my monologues has its own voice to accompany. How, then, do I know if it really is my own monologue? I'm just writing whatever the voice in my head says. I'm the eager assistant, jogging down the every word of his employer. Strange that the voice in my head dictates the gender of the characters I use in my analogies.
How very strange that I still can't let go.
Published 8th Dec 2012
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