Archive for personal

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.

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It’s Funny In A Way (But Really It’s Not)

Posted in Journal, Prose, Writing Process with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 30, 2015 by beautifulimposter

You get one aspect of your life squared away, or at least moving in the direction where it will be possible to get things squared away and another aspect just seems to get completely fubar’d.
I’d say between late June till now-ish has been one of my most creative periods, I’ve written a lot of poetry and a couple of short stories that I’ve actually felt really good about. I have also managed to acquire a small group of friends, still in the early stages of friendship, but way more than I have had in a long fucking time and they are a bunch I really hope I can get in tight with. I have also managed to reacquire gainful employment after being out of work and pretty much worthless for far, far too long.
So here’s the thing. My life seems like it just might be getting back on track yet for some ungodly reason I am feeling so blah creatively all of a sudden. My last few poems have been flat, stale and unoriginal and even though I really want to write, the words just don’t seem to want to play fair, they keep wriggling out of my mental grasp like tadpoles. Even more so, it’s like when you’re trying to catch the tadpoles and you think you’ve got a good head on one but when you dart your hand under the water you became fooled by the distortion of light refraction, the target wasn’t even really there. Hell, even at my last couple of readings I haven’t left the stage feeling that same high, I just can’t seem to catch the rhythm of the words right and it all falls flat.
It’s almost enough to get me buying into the myth that one must suffer to create, which I know is complete bullshit. Yet at the same time it always seems that you get that one plate spinning that was wobbling, almost falling and another is on its way down. I don’t know what to make of this and even in this moment of jubilation (I was grinning like a mad idiot earlier just being able to say out loud “I have a job”) I still find this feeling of frustration and a gnawing doubt. Looking over some of my stuff, I’m finding fault, even pieces that have been publicly well received seem like hack work. I hate that, because a part of me knows that they are good but in this moment not only can I not make anything new I’m trying to destroy what I have built. The last couple of years I sort of put the question of whether or not I have any talent as a writer out of my head but only because I was much more concerned with the question of my over all value as a human being and finding myself very much lacking. As soon as that seems to even begin to turn around all of a sudden I’m back to wondering if I really have a voice, if I have anything truly worth saying even if I do.
It’s the up and down that kills me. I use this a lot in all of my writing, but I am just so tired, so bone deep weary of it all. I’m trying my best to figure it all out, I’m trying my hardest to maintain that balance, I really, truly am giving it everything I have but I am just so very tired. I know I whine a lot on here. This is the only place though I can get this shit out, just so that it’s not living inside my head any more, because it is too bloody full all of the time.
That’s it really, that’s all, thanks for listening.

Fingers Like Fire

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

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

thatrandompoet

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.

Voices of October, Lust, Heaven, and Disrepute

Posted in Poetry, Spoken Word with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Not My First Kiss

Posted in Journal, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 25, 2014 by beautifulimposter

I can’t remember my first kiss, not really. Like the actual first kiss ever, that moment in time when my lips first touched a girl’s. I kind of remember the general scenario, but for some reason that kiss has kind if faded from my memory. However, I do remember a very specific kiss from later that same day with astonishing clarity.
I had walked my girlfriend home after spending all afternoon and evening in my room after we had come to the mutual decision that we were in fact boyfriend and girlfriend now. It was the slowest walk in history as we both kind of wanted to just stay in this wonderful, new, exciting place we had found, holding hands, feet taking these baby steps, because the road was icy, she was much shorter than I was and because we didn’t want to get to the end where we knew the goodbye would have to be, even though we would be seeing each other first thing in the morning at school.
When we did at last reach her house we stopped under the street lamp just in front, in this perfect cone of yellow light. It was snowing lightly and outside of this pool of light it was pitch black all around and it kind of looked like we were all alone in this circle of pavement with white flakes gently swirling through it. I remember putting my arms around her waist, the sound my wool overcoat made against the soft, shiny fabric of her black coat that came down just to her knees. Her arms went around me, starting at my waist but then moving up around my neck, clasped lightly. I was looking down at her and she was looking up at me and we moved together at the same time and her lips were the best things I had ever tasted and I could feel the cold tip of her nose pressed against my cheek and everything was warm and there was no more time at all, it just ceased to exist so that I’m pretty sure there are still two kids kissing forever right there in their own private universe. Then there was a gentle wrenching and we moved apart, then kissed again, then apart, then another kiss, mumbling goodnights until we just couldn’t put it off any longer and she started up her driveway, turning back every few steps and I just watched her all the way up until she disappeared behind her doorway and I swear in that entire journey our eyes never left each others faces.
I know it’s really cliche but I can’t remember the walk home, not the time or distance travelled but rather just this blur of joy and new love and longing and yearning and slight wistful melancholy all at once plus about a million other madly rioting emotions I couldn’t untangle even if I wanted to. I kept pressing my finger tips lightly to my lips, like I was trying to keep that kiss on them and I swear I could still feel her, this tiny phantom girl with her arms around my neck walking in front of me the whole way home. It was the middle of winter but I didn’t feel it at all, I could have been walking bare ass naked through the snow and not given one damn. I got home and just climbed in bed, the smell of her all over my clothes, falling asleep almost as completely spent as if I’d just actually made love.
I’m sure that nostalgia and time have burnished this memory with their peculiar patina and that it may not have truly been that magical, but that is how this moment will always exist in my mind. To this day I can close my eyes at any given moment and I am there, under that street lamp in the snow as if I never moved even one inch. I guess that may be why I can’t actually remember that real very first kiss. This one holds all the others in its shadow.

The Mirror is Constantly Tilted at Forty-five Degrees

Posted in Journal, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2014 by beautifulimposter

My birthday is coming up soon. I’m saying this only to provide some context for the state of my mind, not for any possible response this event might elicit. In point of fact if there are any birthday related remarks that end up in the comments section of any of the various social media this post might show up in those comments will be deleted and their perpetrators will be hunted down with extreme prejudice. I don’t really like to acknowledge my birth any more than I absolutely have to as I’m convinced that the fact that I manged to successfully not die for another year isn’t particularly worth commemorating in any significant fashion. That, however, is rather secondary to my thoughts of late.
Contained on this blog are roughly twenty years of my life. I started writing seriously, poetry in particular, when I was around fourteen and that very first poem can be found on here as well as every other piece I consider to be kind of good enough up to the present. I used to write as a young child as well, but never very seriously, mostly just heavily plagiarizing from the various fantasy series I used to read, Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms specifically but I never really thought of writing as something I would want to do until I was a teenager. I probably never would have started writing poetry if it hadn’t been for a project in my ninth grade English class and the subsequent support of my teacher Mrs. Crossen. She really seemed to like what I wrote and I would often spend my lunch in her classroom, showing her each new piece. I wonder now though if I was ever really excited about the words or just that I found something I was good at, in fact, I think about it quite often.
All my life I heard the word “potential” used around me, about me, it was something I was apparently full of, teachers and parents and other miscellaneous family were always going on about how much I had or looking at me rather sternly and telling me I was wasting it. The thing is, I never saw it, this miraculous potential. I was average, I am average, just like the majority of the human beings on this planet. I would never say that I excelled at anything in my life or had any particularly outstanding talents. I’m alright in a variety of fields, but I’d never go beyond describing my intellect, physical prowess or appearance, social interaction, or any other skill or characteristic to go beyond general competence. Sometimes I wonder if that is really why I latched on to this idea of being a writer, because suddenly I was good at something and it was something a lot of other people weren’t. I question if I ever really had passion at all or if it was just another mask I put on to blend in, fit somewhere, even if that somewhere happened to be the fringe.
I used to write every day, but as the years passed I slowed down, until at times it’s been months between pieces. I’ve never seriously sought publication, I haven’t gone through the arduous process of submission and rejection in endless cycle. Twenty years and a handful of pieces have appeared in print, most of those in my high school yearbook mostly because I was the only other person to submit. This was supposed to be something I wanted to do, a direction and a path to follow, what I based a lot of important decisions around but if I really wanted to do it, don’t you think I would have actually done it by now, or at least tried?
I think maybe that what I liked more than the words was the recognition. Within a limited group I was “The Writer”, passionate, intellectual, iconoclastic, and I received a certain amount of respect. If I really tried to make this a profession, if I went beyond the comfortable circle jerk of local readings and poetry blogs I think I would find out that the thought lingering and nagging at the back of my brain was correct, that I am mediocre at best. That would then be the end, the whole conceit crashing down and I don’t think I could take that. So I have stayed safe, preserved this kind of fantasy by never leaving the little pond with all my little fishy friends, where I can enjoy this illusion of being big. If I don’t really try I can’t fail.
Hey, I chose the monicker of “Imposter” for myself right? Deep down I think I know that I am a fake. All the words are indeed mine, but the motivation behind them is just to project something that really isn’t there, the distraction a magician needs to make the switch before the “ooo’s” and “ahhs”. I feel some times like I pretend at everything, mask upon mask upon mask, until I am not even sure who I really am any more, or if there is a me left inside. At the last, maybe there’s just the empty space inside the smallest nesting doll and that’s it. It’s gotten to the point were mirrors are frightening, there’s this person in them and I’m not sure who it is any more, like the reflection is not even familiar. Perhaps writing is the illusion I show myself, to allow me to believe I have something remotely like a purpose, that I still have dreams.
Who knows? I don’t and I’m not even really sure if I could stand up to the answers. Truth has always been my greatest enemy and I really don’t think I’m strong enough to really take it. I know I am not writing this for any insight. I’m writing just to get this out. It has always been a very ironic occurrence that these little personal ramblings always elicit the most comment, mostly in the form of fairly useless self help platitudes I think are more for the commentator’s benefit than for mine. That being said, I want to close with this, I am not writing this for attention or sympathy or pity. I can hear the scoff of disbelief as this is being put up on the world wide web, the thing is, I don’t see it as the crying wolf everyone else probably will. I put this personal shit out there not as a shout but as a single tiny voice in a crowd of billions, a tiny single raindrop in an ocean of constant information that is then consumed by all of the other opinions and confessions and sound bites and memes or other effluent that clutters up the margins of the information super highway. I make these little confessionals with the same intent as someone going out to the middle of the woods to scream out their frustrations, not to be heard but just to do it. So, just to nip any thoughts of offering your two cents in the bud, I wouldn’t waste your breath on this piece. Seriously, I am The Beautiful Imposter, so how can you believe any of this?

True Story

Posted in Journal, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 8, 2014 by beautifulimposter

This actually happened once upon a time. To this day I am not sure if it was a particularly vivid dream, one so real as to have taken on the properties of actual memory as the years have passed, or an actual waking hallucination. Whatever the case, it’s something that has haunted me ever since it happened, a scene that has played out over and over again behind my eyes.
I was twelve or thirteen and was walking home from school. One if the reasons I think of this as a memory is just how vivid this one mundane event was. Everything was exactly as it would have been if I were walking home, every detail, all the streets the same, the houses all in the right spots and order, all of the right landmarks. Normally in my dreams even the every day events don’t match up that exactly with reality. I dream of regular stuff all the time, you know, office stuff, being at school, whatever, but the geography and inhabitants of this slumber world are all off in ways sometimes subtle, sometimes glaringly obvious but the fact is always that dream world and waking world never mirror each other so exactly.
It was a sunny day, warm and the sky was a perfectly clear blue. I was just at the entrance to this wooded, overgrown alleyway that I used as a short cut when I happened to turn slightly and look back, eyes up to the sky. Then, out of nowhere, everything was fire. The sky itself seemed to ignite, not like sooty red orange Hollywood bullshit explosion but white hot liquid flames rolling over the sky in waves like I was being shown the gates of hell opening over my head. There was a vast, gulping sucking noise, I swear I could hear it, my hair was moved by the hot wind of this giant inhalation and I couldn’t breath. My chest constricted and my heart clenched, it was painful, like I was just stopped, a finger pressed to some gear in my body that jammed the machinery but the pistons still wanted to fire and the pressure was building. I saw the whole world just consumed, eaten up in this blast, everything just gone and my vision blinked out, going to black the same way a tv screen does when you shut it off.
All of this happened in an instant, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I remember gasping, like I’d been holding my breath and my head was clanging, purple and green shadows exploding off and on in front of my eyes, dizziness nearly dropping me to my knees. This is the other weird thing, these very clear remembrances of sensation. On the rare occasions when I remember dreams I remember the pictures and the words but there are no sensations, no smells, no touches or tastes and most certainly no pain. I was shaken, afraid and disoriented, just standing there. I don’t clearly remember the rest of the walk home (which does lend the “it was all just a dream” theory some more credibility) but the fact remains that this has stuck with me from that day to this.
In my life I’ve had some dreams that have lingered in my head, for days, sometimes even weeks, the details so clear that the echoes remain and my mind keeps replaying them over and over even during my waking hours. This one is different though. Firstly, I’ve remembered these events now for approximately twenty three years which is far longer than it have held on to any dream and it also beats out some actual memories that have faded or become in distinct or completely forgotten only to be recalled when someone else brings them up. Secondly, in any case where I remember a dream it’s more of a haunting, an inability to think of anything else, almost an obsession that gradually fades away depending on how vivid and personal the details of the dream where. This vision is different. Like a memory it lies dormant, sometimes being recalled because of similar events or feelings, sometimes just popping up out if the blue but it comes and goes. To this day I’m not sure what this was but it lingers in me. It was the first time I tasted death I think, the precise moment in time that my mortality was made completely, painfully and unmistakably a fact of existence. From that day, everything has been coloured by this vision, the flames, the heat, all crackling around the edges of every other moment the way reels if film are burnt up as they pass through the projector.
I think in the end this is where I started having a problem with reality. From then on I could never distinguish between the two.