Archive for stories

Dispatches From the Front

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2017 by beautifulimposter

The traffic signals are glass and plastic jewels
Smeared across the windshield
Cheap and gaudy ornamentation suspended
In pools of bruise purple black nighttime sky
While constellations of headlights form and dissolve
Stars afloat, hovering above the slick pavement.

Constant motion, vibrations, humming
Complicated rhythms of hands on wheel,
Feet on the pedals tapping Morse code gibberish
Underpinning radio hiss crackle
Disembodied voices, music, things forgotten
Things remembered by halves, rising and falling
Beneath oily waters, yet never quite breaching.

Bodies come and go, vague shapes
Defined by rustlings in the black,
Faces floating ghosts, masks smiling, grim, in between
Conversations drifting currents around rocky shores
Incomprehensible yet demanding, insistent
Inviting, but the address is lost, the directions
Seem to be in a foreign language.

He’s not really here or there, out of phase
The dial tuned just out of sync
A whole world of in betweens
Caught in the middle of point A to B
Möbius twisting, the cat forever in that box
Tires spinning out forever, still in motion
As a billion moving pictures flicker past.

The stories gather like storm clouds on a lazy tongue
Thick, pouring out in streamers of blue smoke haze
Littering the floorboards, curling up at the edges
Leaves and old photographs
Pinned wriggling between dime-store paperback
Yellowing pages, leaved through, well thumbed
Favorite passages recited prayer beads.

They aren’t his stories, those dried up long ago
Back when his tongue rusted to the roof of his mouth
He just gathers, stitching them together
Her shy smile to his lonely fumbling
Their boisterous revelry to his towering silence
Fingers calloused from needling onion skins
Piles of manuscript, instruction manuals for disused objects.

No rhyme, no reason, dispatches
For disinterested commanders,
From no mans but his land, a pilgrims travel guide
The points of interest among drifting bodies
Sliding past upon the sidewalk banks
The living, the dead, the dreamers
All with stories waiting to be gathered.

November

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on November 21, 2016 by beautifulimposter

The bitter knives of winter
Are grinding their flinty edges
Hidden discreetly in the folds
Clever and cunning
Finding all the cracks and crannies
Stabbing cold and deep
Into the scurrying masses.

Everyone becomes a dragon,
Smoking breath rising into blooms
Of flaming leaves rattling above
Crackling orange and yellow
Autumn dripping ashes and embers
Flicked from the fag end of November
In swirling arabesques.

The sidewalks look picked clean,
Bare boned, save for rags and scraps
Fugitives all bow-headed, meek
Beneath the lash of winter’s stirring tongue
Furtive dashing from one haven
Of warmth and light to another,
Near numbed fingers desperately clutching
Venti peppermint mochas.

I like to imagine the stories that chase them
Like mongrel dogs tipping at their heels
As I watch, cocooned in glass and steel
Adrift upon the early morning streets
Yet temporarily marooned,
Waiting for the next summons,
Listening to my mind weaving tall tales
To and audience of me.

New Skin

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on August 4, 2015 by beautifulimposter

It is a cycle
We step out of
Our robes of dust
Shedding cells as fine powder
Residue of past selves
Lingering motes twisting
Choreographies within sunbeams.

It is renewal
A disrobing, fresh and pink
Flushed from the steam
Grit and fingerprints littering
The drain, all the evidence
Washed away
The blood and sweat and scars
All the stories forgotten.

If only it were that easy
If only the ink
Did not seep beneath the page
Yet it does, we bear the stains
A thousand hands
Leave lines on flesh or bone or nerve
The best achievement
Only a rough scraping.

Yet sorrows can be overwritten
The text can be edited
Tumorous passages excised
With patience
With time
With a steady hand
Psalms can replace poison pen letters
If you choose your authors well.

Keep Them Secret, Keep Them Safe

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2015 by beautifulimposter

When I was a boy
The clouds were dragons, vast, mighty
With the night gathering beneath their wings
Their purple blue orange gold red flaming breath
Carving the sunset out of the midnight lapis horizon
Turning trees and mountains and houses
Into the black shadows of themselves,
Theater scenery backdrops
Setting the stage for new dreams.

I’ve never encountered an average city street
Even by daylight I can always find the strangeness
The rumble beneath the grating
Isn’t the subway, it is breathing
Chthonic stentorian snorts and gasps
Rattling windows that sometimes reflect
Showers of sparks from nowhere
That settle upon the hair and eyelashes
Of all the girls and boys
Revealing the princes and princesses
Whichever they might be.

I’ve followed streams that were the trench dug
By giant’s clubs as they climbed back to the heights
Fee fi foe fumming, bending the trees like blades of grass
I’ve seen the thrones of trolls
Scattered about with the bleached stoney bones of their foes
Watched as a nymph winked at me when she was a badger
Walked alone through vast throngs
Of fair folk and fine, dancing to their tunes
(Though not for a hundred years, for I know the steps
And the trick of them)
Drunk upon a thousand and one tales.

See, I kept the glasses, kept them secret, kept them safe
Most get lost or worse still cracked
The lenses fixed upon youth’s eyes in the beginning
The visions of castles and caves of wonders,
Boxes that hold songs, even whole worlds
Soon fade, become forgotten, or skewed and horrible,
Twisting minds and bodies
Into shapes of rage and terror and hate
Always be wary of the broken ones
Wary, but help them see right and true again if you can
Remember, the helpful will in their turn be helped
It says so in the faerie tales and they never lie.

Musing Aloud

Posted in Prose, Spoken Word with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 9, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Blogging for Blogging’s Sake

Posted in Fun stuff, Journal, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 10, 2012 by beautifulimposter

My writing muscles have been allowed to atrophy for far too long, so here I am just putting words on the screen just to say I have done it, to have written something.  I don’t know what it is I am going to write about, but then again, I rarely ever do, when I write my poems they just sort of come out, I stare at a page and maybe have a vague idea of what I might like to say and the words just start appearing.  This could be why I am not cut out to be a writer in the professional sense.  I have no craft to speak of, no discipline, just a general love of words and imagination which results in some occasionally impressive, but always very sporadic writing.  I keep hoping that I will write my novel one day, whatever it may end up being about, but I have more than half reconciled myself to the idea that this may never happen.  It doesn’t bother my as much as it used to, that thought, that I may never be a “writer” but sometimes it still cuts through me like a hot, blunt, rusty saw.  Of course, by now anyone who reads this blog knows full well I go through these periods of proliferation, dearth, and despair in a sort of endless cycle, so in reading this they might say to themselves “shut up and make some more of them there pretty word pictures” rather than just hearing my whine some more, but to them I say tough shit, I have to live with this in my head, no so do you, suck it up and take it.  I am just rambling, and I know it, this is in no way going to be profound or revelatory, just words coming out of my head as fast as I can type them.  There is no focus or meaning, I just want sound, the click clack of keys and the creation of text, something born just out of my consciousness, that did not exist in any concrete way before this very moment.  I sometimes wish I could just stream my thoughts, tune my brain to a WiFi frequency and just upload all of my hideous, wondrous, strange, ideas and fancies to the ether and let them attack all those helpless, innocent minds out there.  I have this stuff in me, this morass of creative firmament, raw nothing waiting to become something and I just can’t seem to find the path to bring it form.  I hesitate to use a religious image here, as I know this will get me shunned from intelligentsia circles and will hopelessly offend some of my readers, however it is apt so I don’t give a fuck.  I get this feeling like I am God in Michelangelo’s central panel of the Sistine Chapel always frozen inches away from touching Adam’s finger to bring him life.  So yeah, I just compared myself to God, but just go with it, it is this idea of permanent frustration and impotence of the creator being unable to bring life to the creation, always just out of reach.  That is my thought for now, just that.  It may not have been worth reading, it may not even have been worth putting out there in the first place, but it is mine and I made it just now, and even though it is sort of a bastard child of diary entry and actual creativity I am still almost proud that I did it.  Thanks as always for reading/listening if you actually did bother to do either.  I hope to be back again soon, but until then I leave you with the immortal words of Tigger, TTFN, ta-ta for now.

 

Year One

Posted in Fun stuff, Journal, Poetry, Previously published elsewhere with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 7, 2012 by beautifulimposter

Well kiddies, The Beautiful Imposter is one year old today.  Not a huge deal in the grand scheme of things, but I thought it worth mentioning that for the last 365 days I have been poisoning the precincts of the interweb with my particular brand of mad ramblings, ravings and scribblings, all at the suggestion of my sister.  So blame her, it is, as usual all her fault, which is why nature made younger siblings.  The last year has been at least a trifle trying to say the least, but having this forum has been able to offer a wonderful outlet and has given me purpose when I needed direction so very much.  I have produced some of the best work of my life so far which I probably would not have done if I had not started this blog.  I want to thank all of the people who have taken the time to read or comment, as let’s face it, a writer without at least and audience of one is just talking to himself.  That’s all I really have for now, but fear not, this next year in the life of The Imposter shall be even more infuriatingly arcane, obscure, and pretentious than the last.  In closing, I am re-posting the first poem  of the blog, a piece that when I wrote it was the first thing that I felt had a voice of its own, and has been one of the very, very few pieces that I felt completely satisfied with.  It got a bit overlooked though I think as I kind of buried it in a flurry of subsequent posts, so here I am, dusting it off, wiping its little cheeks with a spit on piece of kleenex and bringing it out to meet all the nice people again.  Cheers one and all, I leave you with the words I have always felt have been the best waring for this places …Here There Be…