the uses of language smack their head on
low-hanging ceilings often
always reaching limits and never
breaking
through.
What good is language if it always fails me when it is needed most?
Month: December 2012
the creative soul in eleven lines
One creative soul of magma,
growing one year a minute,
stuck in an old iron refridgerator with a door welded shut,
power full tilt,
trapped five miles under the surface of our world and buried in an abandoned
uranium mine.
A soul cooling and pressing the edges of its existence
against unmovable barriers
that are ironically always moving on a micro level,
with the ability of pure language
and the inability to speak.
existence in a distal phalange
nothing moves
sets
or stops for minutes
as the
first shrill tingles run
from my eyes
carving across my scalp and
warmly clawing deep into my spine.
There was no hatred centuries deep
or stares that slashed like a butcher's cleaver,
only laughter,
snotting,
and tears.
An end is a beginning,
which is an end
unceremoniously followed by a beginning
until the pattern is old,
but really only an end.
No end to love
but a prelude in life leading to more
disappointment
or perhaps
something better.
Hope is for the naive fairy-tale guzzlers,
those with depraved common sense,
and anyone who can't tell
asshole-vampire/bondage-fiction/romance
from reality.
Andy Veilleux 