Poetic Interlude XII

I was thumbing through a lost notebook, Gentle Reader, and for this week’s Poetic Interlude I thought I’d post some of the unpolished fragments I found. A few of them have been worked over since, turned and tuned; these are the roughs. Mostly, they are orphaned lines, alone in the world. Enjoy.

I.
Recall the thrill of Novocaine
Though heart is soft as stone,
The winter dawn is jubilant:
The frost on brambles shone.
I end my vigil, for tonight –
My Uncle fades to bone.
 
I know no comfort, deaf to grief,
The room is flat, and oil;
Like hangover, I’m cross and crisp
My eyes begin to boil.
The sun, she rises anyway:
We sift him in the soil.
 
II.
I don’t know whence these demons came
Or through which mental door;
I know I’ll either kill or cry-
My psyche is at war:
I might claw out my viscera,
Or maybe slit my face:
Bisect my lower lip and jaw
And cut them into lace.
It’s possible I’ll murder you,
And tear into your skin –
A mouthful of carotid will
Not relieve my sin,
Or the turmoil that I’m in.
 
III.
I’m lost in vague miasma, the ash of what was thought –
I buy another bottle, and contemplate my lot:
 
IV.
Climb we now to hateful bed,
A hundred horrors in our head:
Anger, pain – prop up the eye;
The spiteful hours trickle by.
 

 

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

 

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About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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