Tag Archives: dotson

Primordial Primogeniture

How simply does one become a god? To gain rightful omniscience and see the world for what it is? To know the world as it should be? I bring to you a story of a boy whose choice to become a man started with a devastatingly cold shower, one that kickstarted his dead heart and brought the warmth back to his chest. There is nothing but the light within him now.

Primogeniture

The cards are not so black and white

like pictures in a movie,

but blue and black and purple too

like fields of flowers,

oh so new.

The dice are set

upon a table.

As they roll,

stuck up on the gable

are seen so many heads

missing but a label.

Gamble, gamble, gamble, ramble…

A man so deeply cut

running through the bramble.

Proprietors chase

at fervent pace

only for so to

win, against you,

that race.

Pitter patter on the pond.

Rain drops

and dew drops

flit upon a single little palm frond.

Nearing the beach,

a god i so beseech,

to help me in my time of need.

I am ignored,

for it is time

for me to accede.

This firstborn son

becomes The Sun.

Turn The Page, Open The Door

Not much to say today but good afternoon! I hope everyone’s having a wonderful pride month and is getting outside as much as possible. Please enjoy the poem today, friends.

Phases

Does your heart trace a thousand laces?

Does your heart lie and die in knots?

And it rots as you can tell by the spots?

Does your heart pace a thousand places?

Wondering and dundering,

ever the old fool?

Whose tool you break and shake like a fool?

Does your heart race a thousand races?

Fiddling and falling in broken arms and torn heels?

Spinning and spooling, of fate, those wheels.

Perhaps, this time, you’ll be the one that steals.

Horrid Passions

Before you sits a monster, in a chair. It looks at you from across the table with beady, piercing eyes. It feels no remorse, no consequence. Your anger at the pain of the victims… There will be no closure. As if screaming into a brick wall. Enjoy the poem, friends.

Final Interrogation

Hardened hides,

cleft in two,

shorn apart

by sharpened knives

that perform their duties

with devastating precision.

Weapons,

not tools.

We both know the purpose

was never

for rope and fish,

but men and dogs,

carefully dissected.

You monster.

They had families!

Those poor little men

and their poor little puppies…

You’ll hang for this.

You’ll burn for this.

Won’t be long now

before the jury comes up guilty

and you are sent away

to be eaten by worms.

“Worms,” oozes and bubbles out from between the monster’s lips.

Things of Glass and Ire

Good morning, friends! Lost souls and faceless monsters cry out from the deep, hoping and praying for a respite from their torrid fate. They sing their ghastly hymns and haunt their hallowed haunts, awaiting someone who will never come to take them away to a place they’ll never go. Heaven seems a place just out of reach. Please enjoy the poem.

The Faceless One

The faceless one

so watches in the mirror

as fog covers eyes

so he cannot see

and as fog covers his mouth

so he cannot speak.

“I have no face, yet I must be!”

he cries into the darkness.

Now if only words came out

and anyone could hear them.

He’ll move his hands to where his nose should be,

feeling nothing but a smooth facade,

knowing not the way he breathes

and ending with a somber nod.

How broken is the machine

when probing diagnostics

find no extant diagnosis

and all there is to show

are fields of broken things

and the tips of deftly clipped wings?

As the fog closes in,

it gets harder to breathe.

Esoteric Ablutions

Hiding, secretly, covertly under the stairs, you think of ways to wash yourself. Sitting there, on a dusty mattress, pondering your cleanliness. No matter how many times you wash your hands… How can you be sure? Please enjoy the poem, friends.

Interregnum

Peridot and periwinkle,

pox and pax romana,

pleat and pedigrees,

all words that come to mind

and rest within that little wrinkle.

I do so miss

feeling that feeling,

the one I knew

could never last.

Perhaps you’d like to study

that peculiar way a heart shatters,

how the impact velocity

and momentum

change the shape of shards.

Maybe then you’ll find

what it is you’re looking for.

It’s funny,

in that funny little way

that things always are,

the way I know.

You think I don’t hate the way my mind works?

The way it bends and twists

and flexes and breaks,

over and over and over again,

spiraling down into the abyss,

locked forever

in phantasmic bliss.

Fleeting and illusory.

Perhaps two words

that in practice

would be found contradictory,

for how can a thing be fleeting

when it didn’t exist in the first place?

To be loved

is surely so

to be lost as well

upstream

without a paddle

heading towards the falls,

only there is no river down below,

but blackness

stretching down and down.

Throw a rock

and you’ll never hear the sound.