The imposter has struck again, swift, merciless, and deep. My pen was dripping sweet dark juices onto the page and I was gripped by that familiar rushing high I can only find in the narrow space between the page and the ink. But enough of this prosy horseshit, seriously, I have written something new and strange and it must be shared, put out into the world like a sackful of unwanted puppies or young fairytale sons to seek its fortune and place in life. There I go again getting all attempted witty again, bah, this introduction is running four legged away from me, but I shall catch it, slick salmon of the mind even though salmon have no legs whatsoever…there, I have taken my mess and they’re starting to kick in now. So, this piece is a little bit different, most notably in style, the line lengths I have chosen are shorter than I have been using and it seems almost breathless and tangled which I like and I hope works. I change my voice only reluctantly, so this is an experiment of sorts. The other difference to this piece is that rather than exploring a continued line of thought on melancholy and self vituperation/castigation, it explores another topic much on my own mind constantly which is that of identity. I have often been puzzled by this concept of who I am or who others are to ourselves or each other and how a concrete form is almost impossibly imposed on something that by it’s very nature seems constantly fluid. This is also an experiment as I haven’t played with this concept in a while and I hope I am doing some justice to a line of thought that takes up a great deal of my mind. In any event, at long last, here it is, brand new mind fucking from the one, the only, the insidious imposter. As always, I hope someone out there finds something within these words of some worth, enjoy all, cheers.

There is no me,
Perhaps there was once
Only the semblance now
Residual fleshly facade
Hollow as an old tree,
Overcoated scarecrow armature
Rag dressed and draped,
Mutable shifting sands
Gurgling tide voiced
Drift swirl rattle leaves
Homunculus clay moulded
Under grubby multitude of fingers
Print whorl’d slick skin
Mottled snake scales sloughing,
Stolen breath filling
Bellows leathern lungs
Machine wondrous strange
Steam billowing
Clink clank rattle gulp whirring
Calliope wheeze
Dancing in place
Old ballerina music box foot impaled
Splay limbed marionette akimbo
Dangling upon blue-red-violet thin vein strings
Bony fingertips twiggy twitching life
Made to move
To the beat of ravens wings or Leonard Cohen’s left foot tapping,
Tom Waits throat clearing chair slam bang
Jig tumbling, fumbling
Lost in labyrinthine reels
Of celluloid tape
Showing flicker flash silvered slivers
Of a life or lives
Spinning Rumplestiltskin
Gold out of dross plain nonsense
Mouthing profound gibberish
Pretentious front of the class little child mewling
Nightmare dream warp and weft
Creating vague nothings out of whole cloth,
Rube Golberg clanking grease construct
Of spare parts
An idol, an emblem
Sign of a sign of a sign which is not the thing itself but
A semblance, a seeming only
Standing overcoated in the rain
With an upturned umbrella catching the drip drops
Which may in fact be me
But is not because
There is no me.


3 Responses to “Identity”

  1. lyrics are poems carefully pruned to allow happy coexistance with music Says:

    Option a:
    Your are a reflection of infinite possibilities through the filter of your being. Out of all things a poet might offer, you represent a continually changing perspective. Your being allows a context to be established. Poetic creations become snapshots of selected ideas plucked from the infinite.

    As the “ink” dries on your current creation’s last word, listen for a quiet voice encouraging you to try again.

  2. who am i to judge Says:

    idle musing…
    consider a written creation where you have imagined it in complete form prior to pen touching page

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