art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Until Next Time
Could I be the devil on your shoulder Perhaps that's what I want to be Sprinkling my manipulations Over your conscience Wicked deviations And subtle Subversions No not the devil Not nearly as obvious . Art is subjective It colostomises Emotional response Annal retention is fine As a metaphor For striving and vanity I don't stutter but I ... Forget... The original proclamation I intended Art is subjective Counter culture is counter intuitive But the necessity For progress Movements of meaningful Dislocation of my foot From your haunted rectums . Burn tradition for that edge Caustic causation Ripped biceps Plunging fist side second Into the Rumfull belly Of the apothecary Gatekeeping I reach from within The withered skull Of poetic anal cysts And break through portcullis With the shards Of the looking glass Or the watery pool Of some forgotten bastard Narcissus or Athena Cupid in putridity Where eagles dare fly Beyond reason For more than The search for Heavens and heathens Profane you say reading Aloud in the hallowed Halls Of the artistic elite Where only the critical Stand Filling their rectums via their Portcullis mouths With vol-au-vents Only a handful Could afford ... So it is by virtue Of staring and hearing The works of the architects Of art before thy Breached the sac amniotic Into this world of Redundant performance And beautiful bleeding mantras . Before thy weened From mother's teats of milk And feasted instead on Not just the sweet nectar But sour and savoury . That I continue forth With no thought to Sticking purely to Tradition . Performative never Subjective always Committed to make You think To help Clear your haunted rectums . With a deftness of touch That swings like a pendulum dong From subtle dissatisfaction To brutal ambiguilation .. Creativity naively starts with a conversation Between my own self and the one I talk about . Between the technically proficient . And the subversive instigator . The conversation is never wholly satisfying Like the masturbatory materials of the early days of the internet But is meaningful for forward motion For loosening those tightened bowels . As you read and fear or feel and reel In agonised ecstasy Wretching and reeking Reaching for reason Swallowed by literary treason . Of my own creation . You're welcome . Worshipping and workshopping Is available in the lobby . Criticisms and ablations Are justly welcome . I am not ayatollah No Zeus or Hermes . I am merely the . Scribe Who breathed Life Into their anal canals . Until next time . Lonely . I am easy to find by the shattered pieces of regret . As another part of me Cracks and displaces Leaving my whole A little less whole . Like a ceramic keepsake As it takes hold of me This impossible sadness . In clothes Or standing naked Except for tears and blood . The deepest blues Tainted by My frailty and fragility . Unprotected From the cold And exposed to judgement . my own guilt failings . Who I was When you were alive . has been stripped . My flesh unhidden From the elements . Perhaps maybe my sacrifice Will give me peace . As I stand there A monument of sorrow . Shame strips m.e Not for A word similar To eroticism . But for descaling and delineation . To exorcise my own haunted Intestinal tracts . Lay bare my disenfranchised Prefrontal lobe and vagus nerve . Fire and fury Shit and piss Blood and semen Creation and destruction . Always the twain shall meet . Until next time
By Paul Stewart10 months ago in Poets
Creative Endeavor Unofficial Challenge UPDATE/REMINDER!
Hi all! I just wanted to post this as a quick reminder/plug for my ongoing Creative Endeavor Unofficial Challenge, for which there are still about two and half weeks of submission time open! There have been ten BRILLIANT entries so far, for which I am deeply grateful and by which I am most inspired. I intentionally made the submission period quite long, however - so there is still plenty of time if any of you out there in the land of Vocal are interested in joining in!
By Gabriel Huizenga10 months ago in Poets
The Room I Locked Away from Time
At the very end of the upstairs corridor, where the light gives up and the floorboards grow quiet, there is a door no one notices anymore. It’s plain, swallowed by dust and shadow, its edges blurred into the wallpaper as if the house itself has tried to forget it exists. I rarely walk that far. Still, sometimes—while turning into one of the rooms I still use—I feel my gaze tugged toward it, the way a half-remembered dream tugs at waking thought. The moment never lasts. My eyes tire easily these days, and memory has learned to stay silent. The house and I have aged together, fading in tandem. Colors that once announced themselves proudly—the buttery yellow walls, the sharp blue of my eyes, the copper brightness of my hair—have dulled into the same tired gray. Cracks spread across plaster and skin alike, fine and branching. The stairs complain under my weight, my knees answering them with their own brittle music. There is a heaviness here, a stale stillness that smells faintly of endings. We wait together, the house and I. Not for anything specific—just for what always comes eventually. My days follow a well-worn path. I wake in the bedroom nearest the stairs and cross the hall to the bathroom, where the pipes groan like old men stretching stiff joints. I shuffle down to the kitchen for toast and tea, settling in front of a small black-and-white television where familiar voices tell stories that never surprise me. It passes the time. The climb back upstairs feels steeper every day. I spend the late morning in what used to be my workroom, maneuvering between stacks of yellowed pages and unopened boxes to reach the oak desk where my typewriter still waits. There was a time when inspiration arrived easily—when sunlight spilled through tall windows and the street below offered endless characters. I used to watch the world and then race to the keys, eager to capture it. Now the curtains stay closed, and when I type, the words arrive tangled and thin. Still, the sound of the keys comforts me. It reminds me who I was. At five o’clock sharp, the doorbell rings. The days are marked by who stands on the other side. Groceries twice a week. A nurse with polite concern and practiced cheer. Bags of pills delivered with solemn efficiency—some meant to keep me here, others meant to make it easier when I’m not. On Saturdays, neighborhood boys linger awkwardly on my step, pretending to want chores. Their mothers hover nearby, ready to insist. I grumble, but I let the boys rake leaves or pull weeds. It’s easier than arguing. Sundays are the worst. That’s when the church women come—smiling too brightly, armed with casseroles and good intentions. They clean, they cook, they fold my laundry with a familiarity I never invited. One sits with me while I eat, telling me how loved I am. I nod and imagine being forgotten entirely, the way some people are found long after the world has moved on without them. When they finally leave, I close the door with relief and count the days until I must endure it again. Each night ends the same way: a slow bath, a careful climb, and a whispered plea to a God I’m told cares deeply for me—to please, finally, let this all be over. Until one Sunday, something changes. One of the women arrives late, breathless, apologizing for bringing her daughter along. The child perches at the table, barely tall enough to see her plate, staring at me with fearless curiosity. Her hair is a vivid red. Her eyes are bright and searching. I scowl. She laughs. I bare my teeth. She mirrors me, tongue out, delighted. Her mother scolds her just as the girl bolts from the room, laughter echoing up the stairs. I stop the woman before she can follow. “I’ll get her.” The climb feels longer than usual, but I follow the sound of giggles down the dark hallway. The child stands before the forgotten door, her small hand hovering near the knob. She looks at it the way one looks at something familiar but unnamed. Then she turns to me, and the breath leaves my chest. I have stood here before. Not as I am now—but as a child, tugging at my mother’s hand, begging to be let inside. I remember sealing that room shut after grief hollowed me out, after love was lost faster than I could understand. I had told myself it was easier to lock happiness away than risk losing it again. The door resists, stiff with disuse, but I turn the knob anyway. Light explodes into the hallway. Sunset pours through stained glass, scattering rainbows across pristine walls. Crystal mobiles sway gently from the ceiling, chiming softly as we step inside. The room is untouched by time—bright, warm, alive. My childhood couch waits in rosy velvet. The air hums with memory. The girl slips her hand into mine. I lift her without effort, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep and forgotten as she brushes the crystals and sends them singing. The sound that joins them startles me. It’s my own laugh. The women find us there later—me on the couch, reading aloud, the child curled happily at my side. They hesitate in the doorway, unsure. “I forgot this room existed,” I tell them. “It was where I was happiest.” I never closed the door again. Light returns to the hallway. The boys come inside instead of staying in the yard. The women help me sort my stories, the good ones, the ones worth sharing. I open the curtains. I write again—not out of habit, but joy. And now, when sleep comes, my prayer has changed. It is no longer a plea to be released—but gratitude, whispered softly, for the stubborn kindness that led me back to myself.
By LUNA EDITH10 months ago in Poets
