Tearing Down the Bunker

You know, I’m going to create a tag to separate the persona poems and regular poems. I’m just going to need to find something to title that series.

Not part of the persona ones.

Tearing Down the Bunker

My lips crack into a smile/my body pulsing with joy/crackling from head to toe/as I finally break through.

I push through the stone/tentative at first/kicking aside the strangling debris/from the crumbling wall.

It’s electric, the blood pounding/and thumping through my veins/propelling me forward/to freedom and beyond.

I’m tired, fuck you, I quit/I don’t want to deal with this shit/good bye, so long, sayonara/with my foot the door I’m never looking back.

I slam headfirst into an outcrop/the edge of the wall which did not crack/dusting myself off, I bash into it again/and again and again.

It does not fall. My face is bloodied and pale./ I stand before it, my battered body aching./ Succumbing,  I fall  to my knees/ to curl up and cry.

Defeat washes over me/released from my damaged frame/I stare at the almost broken wall/and might one day try again.

From the Voice of a Mouse

I had fun with this poem (part of the persona ones) and it was especially enjoyable to write it all limerick-y. If you cringe when you get to the second stanza, third line,  don’t worry. I do too.

From the Voice of a Mouse

Master’s displeased, I can see/where he usually pays no heed to me/ he throws insults stinging like a bee/ is he as witch-touched as past Duprés?

For news of the disturbance he bellows/and grins mischievous as a mogrin’s fellow/an emotion we could not quell-oh!/ when hearing of the wolf that did not mellow.

It had a fanged grin which filled me with fright/before it bounded off into the night/into the pastures devoid of light/oh, I wish I had not seen that sight.

Such an image only caught his minds’ eye/a fancy for which he would try/on a hunt he would go, quick and spry/until he heard that monster’s death cry.

Like a hero he would go/ with his gilded spear and crafted bow/ sending the beast to the land below/and receiving his accolades tomorrow.

We begged master, please/ that wolf will have you on your knees/ ripping at your throat with deadly ease/ and you’ll die with no hand to squeeze.

But our cautions he would not have/ and instead bade us to his armor perfume and lathe/ soon armored he left, but that errant knave/ went and took his rotten stave!

Dollmaker

This poem is not is not part of the series that I mentioned before, not from anyone else’s persona but my own.

Dollmaker

Dollmaker, Dollmaker, man sans spirit/with your empty crown and empty heart/and an eye only towards those who part/while delighting in those who fear it.

You set their eyes towards the stars/as you hold the knife behind your robes/coated with blood of previous lobes/now unstrung like a useless guitar.

Blackened strings  woven through their eyes/coarsened strands to strangle perception/a tightened vise to quench conception/a tortured treatment of that which pries.

Beautiful voices you raise in praise/passing through a little golden box/the key to which you keep in your frocks/to silence any voice gath’ring ‘nays.’

You stuff them full of falsehoods and lies/masking them with pretty clothes of white/soon becoming marked black with blight/from the corruption and inward cries.

Men are not dolls for play, Dollmaker/but beings worthy of their freedoms/rulers of their own kingdoms/in the heavens or on the earth.

Your ethereal stitches won’t hold us/as we buck against eternity/snapping wires with celerity/and wiping off your corrupting pus.

You are nothing without your dolls./Dollmaker, you relish puppet’s strings/but when they leave for better things/you stand there with pitiful calls.

So go and play with your mindless toys/while I enjoy the world without/I’ll speak to others what you’re about/and bring them to higher joys.

Collin Dupré II: Pleasure Break

These strings on my fingers/flow in pure ecstasy/an ambrosia which caresses my body/ mind, heart, and soul.

It tastes as sweet as strawberries/ warm and bursting in your mouth/ succulent juices which coat your lips/ ever more pleasurable to lap up.

Delightful vibrations play their way skywards/ strumming through my perception/ enveloping my world with their touch/ and closing my senses to the reality without.

Piece by piece it falls into place/ a puzzle which makes me complete/ I resonate with the tune of the spheres/ unsympathetic with the dirge of ashes.

Something’s outside/ I hear a growl, and a crash/ a servant’s cry/ The music stops.

The power leaves my body/ draining it of life/ an offering to the song/ which consumed my frame.

I set the lute against the bed/ and go to dress./ The guards can check the disturbance/ and inform me at supper.

Collin Dupré

Oh, he’s just a hopeless, stereotypical romantic. On a side note, I think I’m going to start spacing out my stanzas like this, instead of just leaving them be.

Collin Dupré

We idled eternity by the river/lost in a wave of love/submerged in passionate embrace/and caught somewhere between lust and longing

The debris floated past, twirling and unconcerned/with life and loss, after leaving all behind/when did we become like those specks of dust/passing in the other’s eyes?

My love flew like a witch’s arrow/straight into your heart/borne on the wings of song/instead of magic which makes us part

Why then do you turn aside/stomping on my extended soul/as you take a knife to my hopes and dreams/butchering them like peasant’s meat

I beg outside your window/strumming on my lute/my voice as clear as a lark’s call/and ten times as sweet.

You ignore me regardless/a hunter with a bow/loosing an arrow which flies on/and catches this lark in its breast

I could lie at your feet for days/and you’d still kick me aside/without thought for those days at the river/and what you left behind.

Something New

I came up with the idea for a series of poems from different personas, all of which link together into a storyline (a little like a concept album, except with poetry)

This is the first.

Jack Tolk:

This town smells like ashes and shit/littered with miners and soot/black smoke burning my eyes/while the rest of my senses follow suit.

From my perch over the settlement/the high dusty cliff, a ruined outpost/abandoned but for the marching spirits/alive save the pall of ruinous riposte.

The lanterns below twinkle like stars in the sky/occasionally stealing ‘cross the night/before consumed by the stolid houses/an instant before vanishing light.

A shadow slips from a ribald alehouse/tied to the door with a leash of light and sound/drowning out slowly behind him/before disappearing at the bark of a hound.

A strange scent fills my muzzle and/sets my fur a-quiver, erect despite the breeze./growling, I shoot around and bare my fangs/but find nothing, empty air and ruins at ease.

This place accepts me no longer, I think./It pushes me away, touches me with fear/It matters not- a meal awaits./Bounding into the darkness I go.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

Why not?

I haven’t touched this since September, but why not start up again, at least erratically. Here’s a poem that I wrote a couple of months again.

The Faces of Man

Look on the faces of your fellow man/eyes burning with fiery aspirations/a blaze which shines with exalted light and/cheers a-blush with passionate exhalations.

See the cheeks which flame and turn/tender from a fading kiss./See the creases, round like the moon/trembling laughter unamiss.

Theirs is the banquet of Earth/Theirs is the feast of sun and star/Theirs is to sup from the highest peak/and bathe in light ne’er marred

Strip away the fire, strip away the flesh/rend it till blood it weeps/tear away the evanescent trappings/and what is it you keep?

Mere blood, mere bone/animalistic furor/sheer croakings, feared cawings/base slitherings to shame inure her.

To these is the banquet of Mars/gibbering at shallow marks./To these is to squabble in the shadowed valley/and from there never embark.

More wolf than man, more metal than bone/biological comps caught in the throes/of nothing more/railing against circumstance, but failing ‘gainst the flow.

We are such fragile creatures/blind as the stars, blind as the moon/straining towards sun but tumbling towards void/caught in temporal swoon.