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

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Author’s Note: This piece began as an unfiltered braindump, not as a considered response to a challenge. In revising it, I recognised that the accumulation, rupture, and return within the poem were themselves a truer reflection of how I create. For that reason, it became a second entry for Gabriel Huizenga’s Creative Endeavor challenge—not as an explanation of process, but as an enactment of it.

My first entry