Our infection has took on its life, beaming into purple skies. We have a front row seat to the show. Draped in the splendour of antiquated wisdom, we defy logic and turn shoulders to important doctors. There is no vista more beautiful than pleasure, more free than a whale in a plastic sea. We break the cellophane of the envelopes we're trapped in, little pills of magic when we're drugged and incoherent. Spilling words no one can understand. I've done it again, pursued the relapse and gaped like a still black. On a hallow ride, always a foot behind a white rabbit. I hear a muffled response, a soft goodbye lingering in the snow of my ear. Life is the betrayal of some kind of wise eyes, brother of unrestrained madness. I cut at the breath of the link. Forgiveness is a hymn, but I can't muster up the strength to sing when I'm moody and brooding. Left to wither in a blue room, there's nothing I'm interested in. The pour of the cloudburst wets the day and the sands of time are a hallucination, spiders flicking constellations at the wall of memory. I am a perfect host, a pink sunset in a looking glass of sentimental weakness. Eyes roll to the back of the head and a fountain of melting wax flows. An explosion of colours burst from the sugar vent, a chamber of explicit fun. I see a glint of sweetness consumed by this morning's dewdrop, the blood flow of a seizure etched on papyrus, a surge of reckless emotions. Consumed by ecstasy. I have no thoughts in my brain.
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Author:
Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 11th, 2021 17:35
- Category: Unclassified
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Offline)
Comments1
Do you ever write longer prose? I would love to read a book by you x
Well, I've always had a stalwart affinity for storytelling and before I discovered and fell in love with the world of poetry I wanted to be an author of novels. In English we would always write short stories, mostly about coming-of-age and war stuff. I had plans to write a psychological novel called Drifting Pearl about dead children who would gather on an abandoned beach to ruminate but they only existed in a painting in a museum, but it never took shape. Later, I also had planned to write a novel, Echo Romance, but it died in the production hell of my mind. I did manage to write a trilogy, which is a sort of epic odyssey, titled Unborn, Night of No Sleep, and Watercolour Awakening, when I was seventeen, eighteen and nineteen but upon reflection it's pretty immature and not as fleshed out as I would like. When I discovered poetry I gave up on the ideas for novels I had, because I felt more freedom and seen more colour in poetry. Also, life happens fast now and I don't have the patience or time to commit to one cohesive project like a novel. So as of right now I don't ever plan on writing a novel. Maybe if I had two minds, eight hands, and more confidence then it would be a different answer, but I'm so consumed by my poetry. I have so many ideas, whether it's a theme I want to touch more upon, or just a working title I can see imagery in. I've been quite prolific in regards to my poetry because I'm invested in it, and like I said I've got so many ideas swimming around that I want to see alive on paper. I'm writing almost everyday and already have so many poems lying around on old USBs, probably enough for a few anthologies, but I'd have to rework them because my style has changed over the last few years and I'm very meticulous about what I want to say and how I want to say it. So for now I'm only focused on my writing and have no intention or interested in writing some fictional prose. I actually used to keep a detailed diary from 2016-2018 but it was too tedious and became like a chore because I was so drugged and depressed, so I gave up on that also. Sorry for such a long response. X
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