Failed Poetry Attempt to Portray My Funeral and My Much Deserved Decay
I apologize for this one being so long and unwieldy and ridiculous. I should edit it, but I can't bare to look at it anymore. My brain has fizzled out and forcing myself to finish this stupid poem and actually try to organize and make sense of my nonsense ramblings found in my notebook made me never want to pick up a pen ever again. But I inevitably will because without writing I am utterly useless. And the sad reality is that my writing is utterly useless, so I am, no matter what, utterly useless either way. I wonder what will happen to all of this when I die, but then again, I won't know once I'm dead so I suppose I really don't care. The void continues to call.
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| Olivier De Sagazan - "Transfiguration" A Puppet Play for Joseph After He’s Dead Unnaturally billowing black curtains Flow down from a tearing void Colored like a bubbling oil slick Ripping through an unquiet atmosphere Populated with fluttering moths, Wailing faces painted on their wings, From the grid above, they await the torture As an unwilling audience is born Pushed out of the thickening mist And copulating trash heaps Overtaking what’s left of the earth. Watch as the theatre doors slam shut behind them Sounds of the marquee burning up And collapsing Indifferently, they’re forced to turn their fattened faces Lined with crawling lesions, Postules on the verge of explosion, Towards the nightmare stage Weaved together from impossible geometry, Pneumatic tubes heaving with unknown life Coiled around doll limbs And scrapyard crucifixes. They don’t even care to wonder What is real anymore Perhaps they know, This sentient pantomime Is bound to come for them all In the end. - Curtains part, My corpse descends. Dirtied, manipulated meat hooks Worm their way into Already scarred wrists, Boiling pool of blood Swirls unendingly underneath, Family of vivisected rats paw at howling metal crate Waiting for another darkened drop, Another mound of tortured flesh To plop loudly And squelch through the cracks on the stage. Slowly flickering lights Reveals all the imperfections Composing my squalid banquet Of badly, post-mortem tattooed ligaments Heavily mangled To fit around the screws Made from moldy collections of cigarette ash That holds my new body hastily together. It’s all set to begin A dedication to no tomorrow. First Act; Perversely smiling Butcher marionettists Dim the lights, Swing me to center stage Silencing the audible, maniacal thoughts Surging through the hungry crowd. Manipulated contours of my body Twists and dances Uncanny foxtrot Snapping to motion As the exposed bones on my fingers Paints away the gray bloat of my face With smearing, shining streaks Of bloodied grease paint And chemically dyed Amniotic fluids. Penetrating shadows Dripping from the parted black curtains Begin hammering away At untuned dulcimers, Theremins spark and explode Into dirge-like cacophonies Emitting impossibly gruesome sounds. Tiny pianos and encircling, Sentient calliopes Bounce off each other with scratchy, Unearthly tones, And catch fire, crumbling into Total abject atonal mania. All the strings and chords Screeching in sharp wails, A fiery possessed, corruptive bliss Singing uncontrollable songs Of all my past nights Sewing themselves forever shut With prancing dead stars. As my stringy veins stretch And loudly pop. My dangling body Dances beautifully around Each and every Fresh spout of discolored blood. Audience licks their mucousy fingers And claps. - Second Act; Winds drone and warble Like endless torrents of violent phantoms Bowing haunted violins That surged with insect electricity And brought forth The girl in the audience With black rings tattooed Around her gnawed fingers, The one born from the endless rain, Led in by a procession of infested cats. She mournfully watches my puppet play Beneath a crackling wax mask Still burning and forming around her uneven expression, Positioned in her final resting place Swinging from a tree. Once, in another life, In phantasmagoric cities, In secluded mountain highways, In titled graveyards Hovering over dilapidated colonial houses, We hid underneath That very same twisting, fog-drenched tree Forming and merging into one, While the insect larvae passed between Our yearning, undead tongues. Before her neck snaps, She blinks one more slow, remorseful blink, Turning the stage beneath me Into nothing but windswept mounds Of screaming, puking dirt. My puppeteers yank the fishhooks Peeling down my eyelids Wring out tears back down my sallow checks, And turn my back to the audience To face a sizzling film reel backdrop, Projecting possibilities of the hanged girl’s Hand decaying into mine As we leap through walls of acidic rain, Head first into the train tracks And return to our long-since buried Nuclear cities of transmuting, ill-fated dreams. Somehow her rigor mortis frown Cracks open, whispers to me A warning from the altered past; “I wish you could hate me. Nothing about me Has ever been real.” Shadowed ventriloquists, Sadistic agents of regret Spin my body once more And make me watch The girl clutching gifts of Cat teeth and barbed wire Become utterly devoured By dragonflies. - Third Act: One of my limbs, Gray and horrifically distended Snaps and slips off its string, Dust mites and molting spiders Called forth from the faceless crowds’ Undulating pockets of flesh To make quick work of my repair Before we inevitably continue Into this mimicry of great decay. Shadows once again sway me In jangling, impossible movements, Towards a new voice, A foreign accent, trembling through pills And long-since spoiled wine. Removed from the degeneracy And supreme ugliness of the crowd The girl sits with her aching joints Perched atop mirrored monoliths Stretched across an infinite ocean Of cobwebs, black mold, And tiny black books lined with pages of thorns, That she once watched with fatal contempt My carcass sink to the bottom of. Forever denying she left me To descend irrevocably into it all… Alone. My puppeteered form mimics great desperation, Reaching out with creaking gesticulations Trying to reach for her from across The great swirling chaos swallowing up the stage. But all the stitching, patchwork, and Rotten musculature framework Comes undone At the unbearable, glitching sounds Of familiar broken church bells Resonating out of All the audience members opened throats. Monoliths begin to topple, She succumbs to the maligned uncertainty Plaguing her once beautiful brain, My puppet falls to weeping Reduced to a weakened pile of irreparable ash Denied her embrace forever in waking Or in my long sought-after death That she and the audience Have come to celebrate. - Final Act: Black curtains finally disintegrate Coating the dust of my bones And the bones of my butchering puppeteers. Great winds of termites And pestilence Tears down the haunted amphitheater Leaving no trace Of my slack-jawed, comatose audience Or of any recollections, evidence, and remembrance Of my cut-short carnival existence. Now there’s nothing left to say, And no one left that would listen. There are no more words to write And no miserable, tired eyes to subject My pontificating sorrows to. All love lost, Sunken into the desolation I left them in, Or simply braving the ongoing Apocalyptic firmament With all thoughts of me happily erased. In the end, Attempts to portray. What’s left of me is siphoned through A freezing threshold of the quiet, Unpopulated ceremony. Secured in the destitute comfort Of infinite nothingness, With the only audience left For the remaining act Of my sordid, hopeless, monotonous puppet play Being the encroaching, inviting Waves of devouring worms. But something’s wrong… My faded tombstone Erected in the rubble, ruins, and gore of the theatre, Cracks and dissolves, Assailing wraiths with masks Of sardonically grinning martyrs, Shouting in overlapping voices of thousands, Backward clockwork loudly ticking Behind their twilight eyes, Sweep down and deface my burial, Force open my casket For my vibrating, inverted eyesockets To face the staggering horror Dripping from the governing, trembling stars. The puppet play continues Unsanctifying my death, I’m left screaming Into the downward coiling vortex of the moon As I’m forced To live through it all again. - |
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