I want you to understand:
I offer no phrasal hieroglyphs
But, only a transfer of experience,
Delivered in pressurized words,
Warped further by your joys and terrors.
Success comes in the resonance of syllables
Like a portrait, painted on the skull’s liner,
Still there after the gaze.
My pages will burn beyond the dissectors.
I bend the fleeting lust of my decrepit mind
To form the vacuum of images,
Trapping words and holding time
In a catalogue of echoes.
I love all your stuff, but its the last 4 lines of this poem I can't get out of my head. Something about "catalogue of echoes" is just fucking eerie as hell. The best way I can explain it is that if Vincent was a fan of poetry he would most certainly have horns raised after reading the last line of this poem...
ReplyDeleteI've been chasing these four lines since I wrote them. I honestly feel they are the best I've yet written. I use them as a benchmark of my capabilities.
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