Below you can find a few of the Twitter poems I’ve posted over the last month.
I’ve been hard at work revising the second volume in The Fallen Mythos, but I’m taking some time to refocus on my science fiction novel in progress, which happens to fit the bill for the Geek & Sundry Hard Science Contest. Starting April 4 (or 5, local time) I’ll be spamming you all with plenty of info, and I’ll create a separate post once that’s up and running.
When writing poems for Twitter, the character limit doesn’t often leave space for a title (or I’m just greedy) so the poems with single-word titles are titled with the prompts themselves, whereas I cheated and posted the remaining poems as images.
Promptless
I string the tinsel
haplessly
on a branch
without a tree –
or a tree without
a bough –
and wonder where
it glimmers now?
Striking
What strikes
me the least –
aside from my wife,
she says –
is the blow
that foiled expectations
are meant to land.
Ignition
To touch
the fuse
then stand
in silent mastery –
or subtle self-deception –
as the flame ignites
and your eyes
burn
Of your former self
Tap, drop, sear
me and I will shatter
shards of viscous
potential broken
exposed and raw
but when you hit
that singular
solid place
the one
that will not be moved
the one
you always find
your fiercest blow
is but a breath
Ethereal verse
The sidewalk slick with druken dreams
– or sick, look out – don’t stand in it!
While poetry caresses scenes
your feet can tread in real shit.
So what’s the humble scribe to pen,
or arsehole, if we’re being fair?
Retire your lofty muses, then,
and let the shit be the idea.
There must be more, your instincts say –
the world a radiant, hopeful sphere,
and pretty words can still convey
the miracle of being here –
Yet even now, your shoes are stick,
and wiping reaffirms the smell;
So see the beauty in the muck:
Aim for heaven, but speak from hell.
Consensual text
“It wasn’t defiance my dear
when I said I’d prefer to wait.
If a no is so hard to hear
that you have to negotiate –
your rhetoric urging me try
and unpacking your need to mate –
then I’d better revise my reply,
’cause I’m now in a passionate state:
Go fuck yourself,” she said –
but her tone made the means
deflate.
They call it torture
When the droplet
falls
over and over
charting illusory impressions
on your face
So why is
your memory the illusion
that draws these droplets
from my eyes?
And where is the torture,
if not in our grief,
the dropping,
and the late that
forms below?
