Standing in Place of Reality

Mind the view

I guess the only thing I wanted to add with this piece is some sort of explanation on my relationship with poetry. I love it, it’s fun stuff, and I bet more people read English through poetry in the run of a day than they do stories. Heck, even comic books like to dabble in it, and that’s what they make the big blockbusters out of these days. Our everyday discourse practically bubbles with poetic flourishes. Now, even though I say I love it, there’s a bit of a hesitation in my head when I write or say such a statement. Poetry is loose fitting–at best. It’s bulky and time consuming–at worst. A refrigerator is also bulky and time consuming, but with so many of us living in multi-story buildings these days, I feel like I don’t have to express much on the idea that something bulky can have convenience when it’s on your level. It’s from here that I had the inkling to try my hand at a straight up poem set around ‘horror’. I guess I like it enough to see what I can do with my time.

My hang-ups with poetry are that it’s often weirdly structured. Words don’t add up, I have to re-read sections; the whole thing gets jumbled if the author is trying to be too fancy. Yet, I like to see where words take me. Its fun, maybe not always comforting, but I like the surprise and roll with it whole hearted. The ideas that can be put into poetry take a type of written form that is hard to appreciate aloud. Words can sound good out loud, but for me they’re darn near beautiful when assembled just right. It’s that ‘a-ha’ moment in my brain that makes me want to beg for more, and get pissed off when it steers too far into artsy fartsy territory. A longer story gives me, when I’m trying my hat as the writer, more time to think things through and immerse myself. A poem always feels like I barely dipped my toes into the water. I like the things between the lines, but it’s here where poetry–and in my perception horror fiction–thrives like a rooster running the hen house. The space in between our imaginations, it plays with subconscious thoughts, rattles against them sometimes, but good poetry, maybe great poetry (who’s to say?) lives between lines.

Horror is not immune to these guidelines. To write is human, to edit divine, and a good editor knows when a reader could use a little less words between the lines.

I can’t promise this will be the last poem I ever write, apologies in advanced, but I gotta say it was a fun way to tell a story.

So, I’ll stop trying to fill what lies between, and let the poem speak for itself. I often think that great stories beg to go on, and I guess I apply this same sentiment to poetry. Now, if you’d kindly, follow me through this little dance, I would gladly be your guide...

A poem for Horror

The macabre is the store of stranger things;

Don’t look to nods or gestures,

nothing bars thought in fields of dreams.

The dance will be swift, and linger,

while I’m still leaning in.

A backdrop of fanciful tapestries, some old,

others are new and shine cold.

The view is of hollow walls, albeit warm in colour

the walls are stone. It’s in your mind, dig and sift,

pluck away like a pianist. Hold this note.

Immaculate description, to coin the sensation,

placed on the very imagination,

terror refined to the crypts

within our minds, your mind, the gentle nudge begins.

It penetrates, erodes, strips

the mind of defense

and there’s really no realistic sense

to follow a pattern of death.

Beholden Alistair was,

to the form of his body, we all knew it had to go.

The next rule is to worry

look at what has been done,

imagine it in unrealistic terms.

Hold that thought and use it as the nudge.

You are in on this together.

Gore and viscera is

worming its way into our view,

but the backdrop forbids it.

The nudge is not intended to

unsettle or dismay. It is meant

to horrify us in every way.

Alistair in every way is us,

he–or she–is meant to

dance as we dance,

embrace and waltz with us.

The view into this world is

evocatively sensual. It

never enters one’s mind

but the image of warm bodies

close and embracing

begs our eyes to keep track.

Watch closely, breathe in

and soak in the organ fight

Is she tight? Is he light?

Will they finish in our sight?

It’s not meant to be vulgar.

The whole thing is quite natural

and we all ignore common,

often in grim expressions of solemn,

honest life at the bottom.

The structure is irrelevant,

it’s about keeping the gaze, like

a roadside wreck, bodies burnt

covered in scars and crying,

at some point Alistair looks away too.

It fails to drag the attention

and he begins to hear

exactly what we expect to hear

only it’s what we can’t possibly

want to hear. The void

opens its maw, fantastic

light pours into our eyes

understanding does little to reflect

that which needs to be seen

and heard. Language

beats down upon us, scattering

the very senses from our soul

in the same manner we strip

our clothes before embracing

a starry-night’s sleep.

Naked bodies before the sky,

writhing in unknown calm

sweet nothings of dreamland.

The crude is unbecoming to

the gentle nature of us.

It holds a shelf, with taboo

and among them is you,

you squirm and blush at the

fact, you’re caught here,

coyness giving in to fear.

By now thoughts are alien,

not that you’ve been taken over

–that is what the fools believe in,

You are in a here forever,

swayed by the melody

ready for more,

Ignore the name and

pattern henceforth

Break the nothingness

Hold a gaze

Alistair’s mind is

A madman’s daze.