Archive for memory

Turn of the Tide

Posted in Poetry, Social Commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 8, 2017 by beautifulimposter

There is rust upon the tongue, flakes of grit
The taste of metallic decay, bitter silences
Poisoning all thought, each stillness the longer echoing
Of all the words trapped beneath cowardice
Or strangling themselves stillborn,
Infinite infant corpses dangling faux tears
Strung grisly ornamental from spiny, crusted lashes.

Something rotten indeed
Cloying, unlovely, limping mockery
Nuzzling lascivious leaving viscous fingerprints
Stains beneath the flesh, the marks of remembrance
Bruises and cuts clawed desperate fingers digging
Oh, to remove the cancer bequeathed
Undressing bare to the bone not ever clean enough.

Bouquets of fear in full bloom thorn tearing
Wrung hands raw, wounds upon wounds
Every day, over and over and over
One moment, one touch, one word, or look, or any other abuse
The wreaths hung choking in lungs buried beneath
Crushing weights, pinned butterfly beneath the thumb of oceans
Gasping in the dark alone and alone and alone…

…when of a sudden, a match is struck,
Timid flickering, more shadow than orange burning
But warmth where there was cold, a point
Fixed, a spar to cling, then another upon another
Till there is a torrent of pricks in the night
A blaze, one into one into many and there is a raging blossom
Strong and terrible and righteous.


The Imposter Feeds The Birds

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 14, 2017 by beautifulimposter

One moment there’s an empty bench, the next there I am. It’s easy when you exist between the cracks of things, you’re always just everywhere. The daylight is weak, watery, thin gold hammered to transparency by winter’s hardness. My breath is the smoke of dragons, or at least that’s the fiction I’m maintaining today.
I rummage through the deep pockets of my great, black coat, picking through the contents, the bits of dreams, lost keys, remnants and fragments until my fingers find the bag of seed. Taking it out, I hold it in my left palm while my right hand dips in, feeling the cool slither of the grains slip sliding. A cast handful glitters briefly, suspended in air that shouldn’t be able to hold the weight of a feather, an arch shimmering bright before bounce scattering across pavement washed in slipshod wisps of snow.
They come slowly, in ones and twos, little, beetle black iridescent, wings fingering strands of cold air before alighting, heads curious tilt, ink drop eyes suspicious yet hunger overrides caution. Starlings, sparrows, little ragged pieces of fugitive night hop between the avenues of seed, needle beaks dipping, peck peck peck.
I watch them, hop and flutter, a moving mandala. Within the blue-purple-green-black feathers the faces surface slowly, rising up from deep, deep waters trapped in jeweled wings. Each feather is a screen, a frame showing the motion picture of a whole life. The stories are endless, myriad, woe and joy, smiles, tears, the rending of garments and spilling of ash, homemade pies, kisses and salt, spinning and whirling, almost more than the eye can hold, or at least more than most eyes. After a while you get used to it. I’ve often thought it’s a wonder they can fly at all, with the weight of all the souls glued to them, caught on honey sticky feathers.
The few passers by are chased by the wicked teeth of the cold, no one looks. Even if they did, they wouldn’t see, it takes a knack that most forget beyond the borders of childhood. A shame really, but that’s is the way, always forgetting, always wondering on to the the next. That’s why I make it a point to sit and feed the birds and watch the lives in the dark mirrors. For the remembering. I scatter another handful and sit back to enjoy the show.

Once More To The Sea

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I died at sea
Felt the ice cold waters
Fill my lungs with salt
We are all always returning
To salt water, curling in upon ourselves
Falling and falling and falling
Into the dark, into the safe,
Retreating with every last breath.

The grey green swells
Are a vast potter’s field
Womb or mausoleum
Vault of bones, ribs, spines
Whispering reverence, vaulted
Buttressed, a cathedral
Tolling great clangor of depths
Without memory or the need of it.

I long to be as forgetful as the Atlantic
To hold the multitudes within my salty blood
Breathing tides streaming over shingle
The last home for the lost and wandering
An embrace as cold and indifferent
As a howling norwester
Icy prow’d, high cleaving waves lapping
The edges of iron sky
Chalice gathering all the tears
Falling stately from widow’s walks.


The Nature of Water

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 31, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I used to build dams
In the little creek out back
Of my grandparents house
In a forest I was sure held
Hobbit houses within the hills
Fairies and dryads
Even the little stream
I knew, was a water nymph
Singing chirrupy burbling songs.

I’d spend hours beneath
Waiving green, watching light and shadow
Write out spells upon the clear rills
My hands black with mud
Stacking stones reverently
My own little monolith
An inuksuk, to show that I was here
Leaving my mark as the water pooled
A little glistening fingerprint.

I know now that water
Bears no marks
Has no memory
Unlike skin, unlike hearts
Or the raw earth
I wish I could go back there
Be the stream
With no memory.

But I can’t,
As they say
You can never cross the same waters twice.


Fingers Like Fire

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 3, 2015 by beautifulimposter

There is a fire burning in my 
It’s stoked by fingers reaching 
from the past


Does porcelain become brass
Under heat and flame?

Can her hands glow even brighter

Any part of her shine

As her eyes do

Through the smoke and wrack of memory?

If any fingers could stir

Cold ash to wakeful tongues

Of hiss crackling orange and red

They could only be her’s

The girl crowned and clothed

In autumn copper herself.

Does she know

That her hands run through my veins?

Still to this day

Card through the warp and weft

Of my tangled skein
Making a cat’s cradle

Cutting bloody slivers of my heart

With the same indifference any child gives

To such games?

Of course she doesn’t

I turned away from any such hope

I have my answers

Knowing I will burn again and again and again

Each time cold ashes are stirred

To quickening light

By hands that could only ever be her’s.


A Room and A Chair

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2015 by beautifulimposter

There is no conceivable measurement
Of the distance between where I am
From where I saw myself
A gulf of time and regret
Bad decisions and inaction
Old ghosts and fading memories
A scattering of busted toys
Tumbled about my feet, littering the floor
Around my chair.

Music plays faint and scratchy
Popping and hissing through the dusty silence
Voices that never fade out
Crackling reminders spinning out and on
Needle cutting tracks out of my fingerprints
Smudging bloody over skin
Smears of bright color across sepia
Twisting smokey though amber whiskey lense
Choking down fire to bitter ashes
We all do fall down…don’t we?

Rags and feathers
These instruments of faith and sex and God
Right, isn’t that how the line goes?
I was beautiful in my brokeness
But you twist yourself into those shapes of damage
And it sticks, limbs twisted
Into driftwood gnarled water carvings
Bones have memory and are hard to untangle
Too brittle, snapping under the weight of scrutiny.

Time passes like a razor
Slicing paper thin, peeling a rind
Of blank tape, spooling out
In meaningless ribbons just waiting
For a random spark
Something hungry to move from me to nothing
Faintly flickering orange greedy tongues
Leaving an empty chair
In a dusty room
With a scattering of busted toys at its feet.


Passages and Pathways

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 30, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Ok, so a while ago on my tumblr blog, which can be found here, I wrote the following piece, mostly just as a writing exercise but also as a sort of diary/journal type thing about sexuality and self-discovery and wondering if it all comes to us the same way.

I think I can pinpoint the exact moment. The very specific instant where girls went from things kind of like me only better dressed, cleaner, and sort of annoying to mysterious receptacles of all things beautiful, magical, strange, in other words, the object of desire. Well, the object of desire for me, others have obviously had this little epiphany for themselves about whatever gender they ended up desiring. That’s not the point though, the point is I can clearly recall that mental gear shift that has subsequently come to dominate large portions of my adult life quite often with disastrous, gut wrenching pain and self loathing, yay 🙂
I was re-watching Willow (and right here anyone reading this just got weirded out, looking at the paragraph above and wondering “where the fuck is he going with this, dear God?!?!?”) at around ten or eleven. It’s always been one of my favorite movies and up until then that was because it had sword fighting, monsters, magic, and kickass one liners. Then, completely out of the blue, in comes Sorsha, daughter of the evil queen who changes sides out of love and helps save the day. I’d seen this film a million times before and until this moment she had to me just been like Madmartigen only with boobs and a cooler sword. Now, all of a sudden I’m wondering what kissing her might be like, and thinking it would be pretty awesome, and wishing I was Val Kilmer leaning over her as she slept and wanting her to think I was cool and all this other stuff that just came flooding through my brain all at once leaving me kind of dazed and feeling pleasantly yet still somewhat inexplicably embarrassingly warm all over. That was it, just this one little instant and I went from just being a kind of shy, imaginative kid to a gibbering ball of new, strange urges and socially crippling awkwardness. Ahh, the joys of life eh? For some reason I’ve been pondering this a great deal of late, wondering if this is a universal thing, sexuality just a light switch being flicked on for everyone, going from a vague indifference to near levels of insanity at just one precise moment in time or if it’s more gradual for others. I’m always curious about this strange affliction of being human we all suffer from, how experience and chemistry shape each of us, usually in an attempt to figure out why I feel so disconnected from people. So I thought I’d put this out there, both as an exercise in my own writing (which everything I personally post on tumblr is) but also to maybe gather a bit more data in my ongoing quest to understand things a bit better, both about others trepidatiously navigating dark, turbulent waters without compass, map or other nautical navigational tools that would beat this analogy into the ground as well as myself. Do any of you out there remember? Was there an “ah ha” moment or a series of little steps on the path to the pursuit of something that tends to take a place if great prominence in our lives, this quest for The Other? This is just me wondering, answer if you wish, whether you do or not I will say as always cheers for now. Oh, and if you are still involved in the quest, I wish you good fortune. 🙂

Now, earlier today one of the people kindly enough to follow my blog on tumblr by the name of uglyintrigue added this little anecdote of their own experience.

“I remember trudging through a field at 11 or 12 years old with my two best friends (boys), it was a hot summer day and I sighed, “ugh, I’m getting sweaty”, one of them told me that I sweat perfume, that was it- something so simple triggered that feeling of warmth and butterflies and everything sweet. I’ve only ever experienced that rush of anticipation and attraction in regard to men.”

One particular exchange in this little vignette went on to inspire me to write the following poem and the reason I am telling you all this is because not only am I proud of the piece that came about but I am also fascinated by the strange paths inspiration can take. Without any further ado, here then is the end result, I hope you enjoy it:

June was ripe golden
Sweet fruit waiting to be plucked
Full of promise, wild and free
The days ahead rolling out laden
With adventure and building tree forts
Diving head long like sleek pike into the mill pond
Along with a million billion other dreams.

We were jeans and t-shirt trudging
Ambling aimless towards something
Not in any hurry to get there
I watched your nimble fingers pluck the seeds
From a stem of grass, nails grubby
Absently letting them fall
Breadcrumbs along a path we could never
Walk down again.

The light hit you different that day
The sheen of perspiration a luminous glow
Drawing your face in lines that tangled
With something dark and warm inside me
As your hip nudged mine without purpose
I got my breath tied up in your hair
Along with a stray breeze
I felt dizzy and stars spun through the dusty air.

I blinked and you became poetry and strangeness
My companion of a dozen summers
Now an alien full of grace and fear and…ache
Filling my brain with words I’d never heard
Wanting to spout endless verses
A hopeless, awkward Cyrano
Walking in the shadow of Roxanne.

You’re face screwed up then
The crinkles around your eyes, the dance
Of the freckles over the bridge of your nose
The most beautiful geographies I’d ever seen
As you grumbled
“Ugh, I’m all sweaty”
My heart wanted to explode from my lips
Yet the only sonnet I could muster was
“You sweat perfume”

You turned then
Like the wheel of time revolving in battered sneakers
The dawn of your face beneath bronze cloud hair
You didn’t say anything, just gave me a little smile
Punched my shoulder and walked on
To this day I still have that smile
In an old pair of jeans
I take out every now and then
Remembering the summer we walked off
Leaving the children we were
In a June field.