Just To Get The Juices Flowing: “A Shipwreck” and “Fruitless” – 12 January 2013
Today, the writing bug nibbled at my fingers a little bit, and I came up with a couple interesting things, just to get the juices flowing again.
If we’re going to be really honest here, I’ve been drinking with a few friends and one asked me to write a sonnet, which I did (these things always seem to come about after I’ve been imbibing alcohol). In any case, it’s a great way to stretch the writing muscles a bit, and believe me they needed a good flexing.
The first one is a sonnet, titled “A Shipwreck”, and the second is a little… Beck-inspired, perhaps – mostly strings of nouns and verbs connected only by the prepositions and adverbs between them – a curious bit of free-writing titled “Fruitless”. Both are in free verse, although the sonnet adheres to the typical ten-syllable-per-line standard.
I’ve been burned by the fiery depths one
Too many times, and I really should have
Learned by now that, no matter how much fun
I thought we were, we’d never be that one.
When I came, it was great. When I left, well –
That’s a whole ‘nother bag of bones right there.
You were why I drew every breath, and shed
Every tear. And now I hate you for it.
It might be childish and it might be cruel,
But I don’t care. You didn’t give a shit
So why should I? Fuck your feelings, fuck your
Tears. You’re a killer, and I won’t be next.
Be a siren, but I’ll be damned if I
End up as your last and greatest shipwreck.
The intransmutable consequence of those fifty-five
Questions has to be the end of being and ague;
Central to this theory is the final glut –
In particular, its den of thieves.
It is there, ‘twixt human will and absolute discord,
Where the sun has determined it will never come to roost –
But perhaps the asteroid might.
(She has yet to decide.)
Neutrinos and chocolate have finally reconvened,
And out of this union various vitreous filaments
Of the as-is will arise.
In search of their God, they enlist the services
Of The Tapir, and all set off.
After thirty-seven moons and innumerable seeds
They’ve returned to where they began.
And in the nest, raw fields of wheat
Lie scorched in the frigid stone.
No redeeming qualities remain.
Nothing good is living.
And they wept like children.