Back to the Poetry

Turds of future past.

Apr 01, 2024

Hello again, masochistic readers. Greetings, new victims.

In case it wasn’t obvious, I have no idea what I’m doing. While some surety would be comforting, if I ever declare I know absolutely what I am doing, please take me behind the barn and turn me into bacon or hot wings, please.

I began writing poetry when prose gave me the middle finger. I wasn’t a particular connoisseur of poetry. Never read a whole book of poetry by anyone. But the words would come when I tried, and this soothed the terror of having no words. It was shit, but it was words and words meant I was writing and writing meant I was a writer. After a while of this I had a turdpile. I reached out to the only published poet I knew and asked her how she got published. She said she was never chosen, so she started her own publishing company. I was shocked.

Then she said to send her what I had and she’d see if they would be interested in publishing.

Holy shit.

The rest of the story is it became a collection of poetry.

I have an adversarial relationship with myself. I am a circus of doubt. I’m suspicious and paranoid. Cowardly. It used to be worse, so much worse, but the struggle continues. I’m comfortable enough now in my writing to say I’m better than the collection of turds in that book. I CAN WRITE BETTER TURDS NOW.

And now that I believe I’m an improved turdbuilder, this book haunts me. First books should be burned upon creation. But I failed to burn it and now it’s out there in the wild waiting in ambush to smear itself on the unwary. There’s also the problem of the internet, and my previous writing there. I can’t burn that, ever. Only the Sun can do that now, and it might because it’s at peak activity, but the odds are low.

I have doubts and concerns now about it being published. I want to take it off of Amazon. It’s not yet. But it’s not my intent to air the issue here. It’s too easy to be ungrateful. It’s too easy to be an asshole. I may write more about this in the future, but not now. Maybe never.

Remember, I know nothing. I have no education, no mentors, no editor, no colleagues. It’s just me flinging my shit. So, I’m going a different route. I’m going to use black magic on my black magic. I’m going to publish the book here on Substack, bit by bit, maybe do some edits and add some commentary to each turdladen poem.

Yep, that’s right, I’m going to show you the turds I don’t want you to see.

One of the reasons I’m doing this is that I’ve been pecking for awhile at an essay about pets specifically and animals in general. Add to this that I was recently house/petsitting for my sister and one of her cats went missing on my watch. It fucked me up. I’m still fucked up about it. My sister is heartbroken. Everything is shit. I don’t want to write about pets.

Synchronicity is cruel sometimes.

I’m also battling to survive financially. I have no job, no steady steam of income. I got turned down for a “general laborer” job! WTF. It’s all precarious improvisation now. Rent is due. I’m not sure what to do and so I don’t want to do anything. My brain is mush. (Don’t feel sorry. A lot of this is self-engineered.)

So this is what I have to offer for the time being. Enjoy the turds.

Yours in fraternal dissonance,

—C

Noose of the Muses

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Quarterly unveilings of shiny new things
Crowdsource strategies to crown the next king 
Digitally accelerated mnemonic breeding
of Ponzied multilevel white noise thinking 
Script and schedule regular news briefings— 
A hydra of fireside chats to keep us scheming 
Oh, the purring, whirring
So soothing, confidence boosting

Lies!
Lies that will not bear consequence’s weight
Watch as our illusions evaporate
Insidious, the name of this sadistic storyline 
For fighting the binds only tightens them
In defeating our enemies, we become them 
Tearing out chapters rewrites them, 
Inspires more of the same vein

No! Don’t take my word
History’s colon is packed with it
Despite an Everest of conquered foes
draining out their lifeblood between our toes
In spite of our god-blessed might,
emancipations and conjured Rights
Legions of our demons’ hearts still beat
Ten fucking thousand years of rinse and repeat

Sit and spin!
The self-fellatio of the faithful
Acting out the end days of Icarus and Babel
Slays like Cain but claims it’s Abel
Penned the Fall, paints the stain of sin
Sprinkles it all with the spice of antichrists
Defcons for the ripening armageddons
Expectation’s reflection—annihilation baked right in

Ho!
This theme cruise was birthed to the reef 
A lifestyle preordained to the deep 
Farer’s fear and deckhand’s shame
Officer Anger, the High Pope of Hope 
Captain Pride and his lovely bride, Blame
All will surrender to grief
Time for the lifeboats, dear dreamers 

Time to abandon S.S. Belief

Tip Jar

BONUS ROUND

I found a “new to me” band. I like them. This song kinda has a highbrow porn soundtrack vibe but it’s classy, trippy, and soothing. And man, I need some soothing. Take a listen.