Intemperance: The Insignificant Parallel of a Denigrating Identity

Bottles by Borg de Nobel / http://borgeous.wordpress.com / used with permission /
For Poetics: Borg de Nobel @ D'Verse, hosted by Claudia Schoenfeld

listen to ‘Intemperance: The Insignificant Parallel of A Denigrating Identity’ on Audioboo

9 to nine
aligned, atop some fragile ledge-
at least that is how it once appeared-
when we regretfully never paid much attention- to the
finite desires and infinite dreams of those details deemed
as immaterial noise-whitened by conundrum and muted under
the guise of second nature-

when we had already forgotten the appearance of our first

Broken, fragmented, blurring, shard-like daggers-
driven deep, from the imagined dimension residing
only inches behind the retinae-

Corroded by dancing apparitions,
unconcerned with division or caste-open wide,
lean back-until
the spine quivers from denial-
and then
through design
beg
for antidotal reassurances-

where it won't matter
if you fabricate
the meaning and the mores
as long as the intention is
to propagate an atmosphere
unique to here

by lipstick and whitewash-
careening imagery
blends into smear-
only to seek shelter
from the dirty mugs that persevere-

the hours, drenched in withdrawal-
yet ever awakened at the slightest scent

elixirs, potions, prescient concoctions
potent yet potable
protraction in non-invasive postures-
bled fresh for that falsified sickness burrowed impossibly within

withering

bottles of what-might-have-been,
condemned by their isolated indiscretions-
validated through witless reminiscence
and the scouring that envelopes all
enlivened beasts-

Where the frothing disturbances blink-
concomitantly with exaggerated frames-
originally built for the demons of phoresy-
the remoras of your world-worthless in
many ways, yet still, you allow them passage
in bewildering effervescence,
adulations, you've grown too frail to dwell upon

and despite all things antithetical to a state of proper
being, you gain a fondness, a possessive remorse unto-


alternating chromatics
imbuing the hearth with
flames that burn
flush, flashing forth from
a lost prism's fire-
where forgotten
invitations colate and concur
in dystopia's
cascading obfuscation

Make sure you head on over to D'Verse, and read through Claudia's excellent write up.  If you're like me, you'll really find the Q and A between her and Borg de Nobel fascinating.  Finding poetic inspiration through her art was extremely easy.  In fact, it was virtually impossible not to find inspiration.  That said, if you like this piece or any of the other's from Claudia's article, do yourself a favor and check out the artist's site, lots of excellent pieces there.

And, I guess, I might as well throw in some shameless self-promotion here.  I also paint for fun, digitally though, and have an art blog as well.  While not really even in the same conversation as the work Borg does, but I do a lot of abstract, experimental painting, that perhaps you might enjoy.

Vein Puncture Theory

Leech to me

bloodletting

allowance for

this punctured cure

From pressure built

I crush within

         and here you stand

         with solution

Anticoagulation

in ephemeral state

waiting for alleviation,

questioning fate

The arterial walls condense

and the cells repent

away from me

listlessly lying

anemically

Cured, yet still

a clotted mess,

obscured

but reticent

of every

sin

until

the pressure

builds again

Anti-Bacterial

Wash-less

Unscented

Lather.  Bounce

Naturally

Carry-on

Side-pocket

Available unconditionally

During drought or shower

Caressing skin, comforting

Warm rivers flow about

Immersing flesh

Exiling sin

Any place, any time, (minute, second or hour)

Long after the valve’s done dripped

Last beads trickling down

Swirling remnants of me

Circling the drain

Bye. Bye.

Former self.

All Ill Be Gone

When a cloud hovers from above,

Wish it well, give it love,

It is your duty to provide the nudge,

For that cloud to swiftly pass,

Before its lining alters hue from grey to black,

Aisles of fading, years of deceit,

Confessionals empty this evening,

It’s not that I wish not to speak,

It’s not that I’ve no remorse and cannot grieve,

It’s just because repent is what my enemies expect of me,

Swirling waves, a magnetic lure pulls the soul,

Grasping throats in one hand,

A pain you feel, but do not understand,

A compression you know so well,

An ignorance, on which your mind,

So often lingers, so often dwells,

Amidst the children,

Out at play, each afternoon,

No worries, no cares,

Precious are the second then,

A pleasing rite, adults so unnoticeably lose passage from

Resolved we drop to knees; we chant expediently,” All ills be gone, first in front and then in back”

Red Flesh

Four walls

Watch.  Beware

Red Flesh is everywhere

Six diametrically opposed points

Five ways to comprehend

The magnitude

Sour mash and hand grenades

Violent outbursts

Senseless rage

An examination will determine

It was not the humans fault

Red Flesh is what cannot be seen

Nor can you hear it, feel it

Not a one’s been to date identified

Observe and learn

The only thing we can do

Remain.  Fight.  Make our best impressions of prosperity

We should never allow an outsider to gain an insiders’ point of view

Once within, your thoughts best shift to reincarnation and the afterlife

Red Flesh

Anomaly

Game Changer, power shifter

How can you hurt what you cannot defend against?