exorcism

Spoiler

This was an experiment; I wasn't allowed to use any punctuation at the end of my lines, so it'd force myself to work on my linebreaks a bit more.

runes carve sand scarabs into your embalmed arms
wings of tattered sails and false christ limbs unfurl
at the helm of a ship whose belly is full of golden goblets
bones of thieves, curses cupped in jars

we cross rivers from floundering cats to crying sheep
sacrificed under knives of river salt
cleaning our feet by the old women washing laundry
with dark, wrinkled hands and warbling voices

we are careful not to drink because there are thorns
in the water and the roads you travelled
run down the river now like streaks of amnesia and forced forgetting
and now you run into boats and more roads to wash from your feet
next river if you can find one in a desert like this

you’re feeling yourself for leeches, fingers snagging
on loose birthmarks, pores, freckles from the long-nosed girl
you fell in love with in the heat of last summer
when there was nothing else to do

you left her behind like you left the roads behind you
forgotten and dusty and aching like the home you left
the place you visit where mother likes to say it’s the gospel written
across your cheeks and arms and stomach
where she reminds you why you don’t like to visit
and you stare at the jesus on the wall
wondering where his long nose is

but sometimes your words burn at night, staunche brands
when you twitch yourself awake, falling
from some place you never see, some place
that made you feel right, right before you hit the ground
with christ-like arms again, splayed to languages
that feel like sin in the sides of your cheeks
evangelical gasps at river-folk who wash laundry
with cramped hands, but when you use those words your skin burns
crawling with an unwanted baptism

and when you wince at prayer, mother winces too, sorry
at the way your eyes are dark, your prayers are dark and your nose is too long
too soaked with words that you can't find in the bible and you think
that jesus must be buried somewhere under the pockmarked faces of priests
raising hands, laying hands upon you, fits of wild eyes and wild cries
with river water sprinkled to your brow in chants
oh God, ohGod, please heal him

Dash it all...why must your imagery be so beautiful???

Good work as always!

~Blue

This is terrible. Burn it and trash it.

(-full review coming soon-)

Glad you tried this finally.

Wow awsome poem its really dark with such beauty.
I hate exorcism thoughthey remind me of evil devlish times.
Its was pretty good , so i give you two thumbs up.

Persephoneia wrote:

Spoiler

This was an experiment; I wasn't allowed to use any punctuation at the end of my lines, so it'd force myself to work on my linebreaks a bit more.

runes carve sand scarabs into your embalmed arms
wings of tattered sails and false christ limbs unfurl
at the helm of a ship whose belly is full of golden goblets
bones of thieves, curses cupped in jars

we cross rivers from floundering cats to crying sheep
sacrificed under knives of river salt
cleaning our feet by the old women washing laundry
with dark, wrinkled hands and warbling voices

we are careful not to drink because there are thorns
in the water and the roads you travelled
run down the river now like streaks of amnesia and forced forgetting
and now you run into boats and more roads to wash from your feet
next river if you can find one in a desert like this

you’re feeling yourself for leeches, fingers snagging
on loose birthmarks, pores, freckles from the long-nosed girl
you fell in love with in the heat of last summer
when there was nothing else to do

you left her behind like you left the roads behind you
forgotten and dusty and aching like the home you left
the place you visit where mother likes to say it’s the gospel written
across your cheeks and arms and stomach
where she reminds you why you don’t like to visit
and you stare at the jesus on the wall
wondering where his long nose is

but sometimes your words burn at night, staunche brands
when you twitch yourself awake, falling
from some place you never see, some place
that made you feel right, right before you hit the ground
with christ-like arms again, splayed to languages
that feel like sin in the sides of your cheeks
evangelical gasps at river-folk who wash laundry
with cramped hands, but when you use those words your skin burns
crawling with an unwanted baptism

and when you wince at prayer, mother winces too, sorry
at the way your eyes are dark, your prayers are dark and your nose is too long
too soaked with words that you can't find in the bible and you think
that jesus must be buried somewhere under the pockmarked faces of priests
raising hands, laying hands upon you, fits of wild eyes and wild cries
with river water sprinkled to your brow in chants
oh God, ohGod, please heal him

Back for the review. This is the one I told you to prepare for.

So have you heard of transitions? Have you heard of thematic cohesion? Its a fun thing that's also a pain to get nailed down in any one spot because it screams and screams in your mind as you pull out I bowels more and more, using it to fuel your depiction of art and meaning. After all in order to create you art you've had to digest and depict and skewer experience, tear life to pieces and reconfigure it in a way that makes sense and means something to anyone beyond banal shouting and calls for attention in the wail of the sirens that call your audience wayward.

I see both punctuation and transition interacting in a way your work hadn't experienced before and it's created a beast of sorts. Individual image and stanza breakdowns aren't so crucial here granted we've already done them before, so I'll address something I didn't before. Your voice here is too active in being complacent to what it depicts and shows. That vision problem is losing itself in aesthetic possibilities.

Just tell us something blunt somewhere. Strong and hard.