Matt Martin-Hall
Bio
I've been storytelling since I could form words (and probably before.) I love the vivid imagery of poetry, the unbridled ultima of surrealism, and the fragmented blur of a traumatized mind. Such defines my experience, and I love to share it
Stories (10/0)
A Dance (of Sorts) at Ol' Gil's Tavern
' The decaying skin, congealed fat, dried flesh, and scabbing blood made a soppy mess of the burlap bag. He carried it slung over his shoulder, dripping some semblance of a rusted bile onto the back of his duster; sweat stained, mud strewn, tattered, and now, gut streaked.
By Matt Martin-Hall3 years ago in Horror
Mangled
Therapy for me, typically manifests in writing and reflection through the process of writing. I think that it abstracts the heavy instances experienced to a point that allows for simpler processing. Like reducing an image to binary code for faster and more efficient ingesting. It's a process I haven't used in a while, but since I'm writing again- I thought I'd try it directly after experiencing what's conveyed below. It did, in fact, help.
By Matt Martin-Hall3 years ago in Poets
Killing Kingdom
Always fascinated by and called to existentialism in poetry and fiction, this piece hearkens back to the simplicity of such an influence. Mountains. An argument. A train roaring by. The majesty of the morning. All rise and converge, giving way to simplistic acceptance in the form of cyclical indifference. I hope Charles Bukowski would be proud; almost as much as I hope that you enjoy it.
By Matt Martin-Hall3 years ago in Poets
Disease
I'd like to dedicate this piece to anyone and everyone affected by this pandemic. As invoked in the poem, I'd like to empower you to read John Donne's Death, Be Not Proud sonnet. As a beautifully defiant piece, I found a lot of inspiration in it's rebuke of death personified. We are stronger. Stay safe everyone:
By Matt Martin-Hall3 years ago in Poets
Foliage
This piece is the one that started it all back up again. It brought me back to my voice, which has been a struggle to find for the past 15 or so years. I hope it has the power to make you feel something of what I felt when I wrote it. That is a feeling I live to impart to the world with my writing...
By Matt Martin-Hall3 years ago in Poets
The Ballad of Aberdeen
Life comes in splatters and backstroked patterns against the grain. It’s an unseen Jackson Pollock made using the kind of ink that makes canvas rise. You can only see it in cryptic cuneiforms, by running your hand against it’s blind surface and feeling purely it’s beauty rumble beneath your fingers. My thoughts are reserved in blackness, my actions independent from the latter. I’m cryptic now, so cryptic now. Speaking against the wind into the distance. The Distance, he is my friend. He is vacancy brighter illuminated by the fluorescent no to his side. I don’t belong in his company, for he is just pure Distance, an idea that holds my past. I digress. Through the window I reflect.
By Matt Martin-Hall3 years ago in Filthy
