On Flammability

for jordan

it is here,
exploding outwards
a tired, foppish consumption,
lazy and spreading, like oil leaking from an engine block.
a dead star –
compressed
and blooming out, breaking out,
maybe just another moth from a folded cocoon,
but maybe something toeing the border of the revolution.
it's not a light,
so much as a shiver.
a tremble of the tendons,
graced fingertips,
but mostly the smudge of ink on the left hand
and the pen-cramp of metacarpals.
you walk in the dim, soullessness of my carpal tunnel.

most likely, this has been done before.
most definitely.
but still, we do it.
we trace the grain of transcendence
and taste the blood of a good poem
vampiric for a warm, young words,
tender and tiny as the toes of newborns.
it's not so much the oldness of it that thrills us,
but the cultivation of something new
from the compost,
the fleshless fertilizer
of Plath,
Frost,
Owen.
now look,
this has turned into a dedication.
you map the roads and the alleys of her soul and come away with nothing.

regard it quietly.
with reverence and respect,
and don't overuse it.
treat it tenderly, and with conviction,
delicate as the patient, spun construction of a cobweb,
thread by thread,
the glisten of soul and romance, drawn out like a sigh.
just kids, they say.
stupid and inexperienced.
but the waters run deep in us, kid.
we will carve canyons in this hot, red land with our hands
and don't worry.
there is always time for one last dance,
and one last joke.
we shiver in the pale glow of our fallen gods.

it is here,

a tired opening line

exploding outwards
a tired, foppish consumption,
lazy and spreading, like oil leaking from an engine block.

is the "like" there really necessary? I would think this better serves as a metaphor than a simile

a dead star –
compressed

show, don't tell.

and blooming out, breaking out,
maybe just another moth from a folded cocoon,
but maybe something toeing the border of the revolution.
it's not a light,
so much as a shiver.
a tremble of the tendons,
graced fingertips,
but mostly the smudge of ink on the left hand
and the pen-cramp of metacarpals.
you walk in the dim, soullessness of my carpal tunnel.

'maybe this, maybe that, mostly this...'
I tire of your suppositions.

most likely, this has been done before.
most definitely.

...

but still, we do it.
we trace the grain of transcendence
and taste the blood of a good poem
vampiric for a warm, young words,

I'd suggest "vampish". It rolls on the tongue better, for me.

tender and tiny as the toes of newborns.
it's not so much the oldness of it that thrills us,
but the cultivation of something new
from the compost,
the fleshless fertilizer
of Plath,
Frost,
Owen.

Name dropping never gets one too far. And...

now look,
this has turned into a dedication.

look! you agree with me. Still, admitting to the problem isn't solving it.

you map the roads and the alleys of her soul and come away with nothing.

regard it quietly.
with reverence and respect,
and don't overuse it.
treat it tenderly, and with conviction,
delicate as the patient, spun construction of a cobweb,
thread by thread,
the glisten of soul and romance, drawn out like a sigh.

You're being almost wasteful with your words, really.

just kids, they say.
stupid and inexperienced.
but the waters run deep in us, kid.
we will carve canyons in this hot, red land with our hands
and don't worry.
there is always time for one last dance,
and one last joke.
we shiver in the pale glow of our fallen gods.

Ah, yes. Art about art. Or art about art about art? I think I'd like the latter more. This suffers from the same sense of poetical masturbation that most artaboutart has. Beyond that, though: You have lots and lots of disjointed images here, and I'm not really seeing them sewed together at all. Coherence is often your friend, if only a summertime one. That is to say: for all you've written here, what do you really have?

Whence >> Many thanks for your critique! I would, however, like to point out that this was not so much as an exercise in poetic masturbation and dithering on artaboutart as much as a poem written for a friend, about a friend. Perhaps, then, this was too personal to post here...

Regardless, thanks.

-Kylan

fair enough, then.
:p