falling back

the castle in the sand fades into the sea, in a matter of 5 seconds. So what joy is there to build this kingdom made of sand ? it is the glories of the kingdom the glory of making things with our own hands

Poetry ... my sanity

I have been quite bugged by the fact that people have been coming up to me and asking me for advice on writing poetry and how to write poems. 

Well there is one simple solution ! WRITE !  No really that is really the only way that you can do it ... no matter how disgustingly difficult it may seem, the only way is to write it all out. 

Poetry to me has a different meaning to you, perhaps you write for the fun of writing, or perhaps for the money part of poetry, or perhaps fame maybe I dont know. Personally I write for the sake of sanity, yes this has been over used but really i did write for the sake of sanity. There was a period of time where i had been obsessed over Lolita and had gone so far as to loose sleep over her. This was where i began writing a poem every night before i went to bed. Just so that i could get some rest and tackle the next torturous day ahead. Lolita was my muse and my inspiration, though perhaps she will never leave my subconscious, at least she does not hold sway my heart. oh those that are late to the game ... Lolita is a constant thing on my mind and who she is...well it is revealed in the earlier posts and you just have to invert the gibberish and it will make sense. Oh apart from that, poetry has been an addiction, something  that i desire every time i get stressed or become more ... "emo" or perhaps i feel really happy, though i have not written much happy poems recently. But still the love for poetry is there. A poet is not just a writer, he is a shaman, a wielder of magic, the magic of the language to transform the mind and to shape the thoughts of the reader. We use poetic techniques to carry this on into the reader as he reads out loud the poem. images that remain in my head, take up and stay in my subconscious. So the only advice that i can actually tell you is to write everyday, every single second is to look out for images that you see and will actually remb, it does not take effort. the manner which i write is perhaps what you might call modernist where i write from a subconscious and rather rely on the stream of consciousness to run my pen. So this is the advice that i can give...

and all i can say is ... 

The flowers of malady is my sweet rose and the chains that bind the wicked they are my scarves, the cell of the prisoner, that is my abode and the voices , that is my muse. 

On my high tower.

 always hated describing my feelings... and only desired that my feeling be interpreted by  another person as they desired and therefore poetry seemed to be the best way to portray my own feelings. so here goes. A poem that i have written today. 

my heart is far from the door 
like a prostitute at Mont marte 
my heart throbs 
but not from the satisfaction of lust.

The heart beats out of rhythm 
from the on that proposes his love
love, lust 
the same?

my mirror image. 

This fear that beats within my heart 
fear to loose fear to live, fear to be 
fear to accept what is lost. 

And she stands there, my mirror self
naked and bare., in the silence 
dirt all over, thrown to the ground. 

The neighbour, NO! that "BITCH!"
empties her chamber pot 
the fools throw down their, pity crumbs 
left overs that should be given to pigs! 

I was a beauty and now 
in a new, anew 
place i am a courtesan 
playing to the fantasy of man.  (trust me, not just men alone, women as well) 

Their fantasy and i am thrown out again 
I am no fanny hill 
Don Juan visited my bed and 
he consumed me, leaving me an empty shell.

I no longer feel, as they do away
no not ! I she does not 
feel I still remember the kindness 
they drop on me.

The little girl of mont marte 
they called sweet things "my love" 
"my sweet" Now "WHORE ! " is my name 
fucking away, beating heartily.

They label us, they make us 
play their fantasy and i can no longer 
be her , no I believe it is wrong.

In the gutter ! we sleep, we pick up the 
crumbs and be as close to the dogs 
the rats my minions 
the sewers my hiding place, my saftey 
and catacomb.

I am her 
the sun sets on my abode 
my alley way where i am given 
no more a woman of meat,  a bone a flesh.

Spirit attached to the Earth
and i climb higher 
a new place, a greater height 
on the roof,  the church steeple as my footstool.

And I am, she becomes and we 
live 
to see, to be that little girl of 
Mont marte 

the belle of my city, the sky her roof 

Earth her floor
I am, and I am 
the becoming. 

Untitled

Untitled 2 By Karmen Simone 

The typewriter 

types inconsistent 

like the beat of my heart

suffering in Silence.

Silence suffocates me

These nameless formless words confront me 

and tie me up

concrete blocks tied to my feet 

Sinking deeper into an Ocean of 

Hell

Little wonder how i manage to sleep 

every night.

Silence kills me daily

as i go, say my prayers and close my eyes. 

So every night i fear the hours

the minutes with the voiceless walls. 

Only mine in the yellow room.

Echoing and bouncing off the walls built on the firm of the Earth

Like a dust i am 

This whirlwind taking me up 

height and higher

till i reach There.

Nothing is There 

No heaven, No hell, No thousand of angels meeting me at the gate.

Only there is my blissful darkness.

The coffin i rest my head.

This coptic writer, still there 

at his end, maniac and depressed. Like a

Grovelling dead

I just want to hear the voices

I just want to hear your voice. 

Ghostly reconstructions only resurface and you are hidden 

They don't amuse me.

Doing what you do best

The expert worker as i lay there bare and naked as you 

do what you do best : Killing me 

whispering, " my love"