Genesis

I.       NECROTIC AFTERBIRTH

Wounds first appear dry

Eventually they split and tear

Until it becomes who you are

In cogent clemency

Salt mines bitter wit

Derisive to the sum of wholes

Salutations stir in winding sheets

Upon the scapulars of whispered words

Tendrils dance in shadow, amongst vetch’s climb

II.     KERNICTERUS

         Misanthropic stew in rot

         Clothes the inner seal

         With an evince of reproach

         Coated generic stem to vine

         Epoxied days number near

         Reddish mount, clotting strain

         Calendar grimaces percent of claim

         Solidifying pessimistic droves of sludge

         Inevitability serrates the breeder’s guilt

III.    BELL’S PHENOMENON

         Dew thistles valley

         As moistened arrows split the spares

         Isolating tightly exposed clench

         Circumvolved oculus axis’ spin

         Gyration’s hypothetic pose

         Enabling fluid’s covetous sheath

IV.    HYPERMOBILITY SYNDROME

         Minor threat, severest to limb and bone

         Disjointed treachery sprains; birthed in lax

         Excruciating is the burning; mushrooming inside

V.      SHOW AND TELL OF TISSUES SCARRED

         Displeasure and violent throngs

         Push the impetus to nozzle high

         Urging reluctance ghost on promenade

         Piquant cells Identify anew

         Scored in searing plausible

         Violation of the indices

         Saline purge sweeps the sore

         Brackish scents begin to swirl

Igniting suppuration’s vulgar kiss

         A monitored fault line

         Corrodes receptivity

         And thus, a birth begins

         Numbness apothecary

         Slits a-stir in a briny blur

         Yet nothing is comparable to a drug inert

VI.    METAPLASIA IN JACITATION

         Phoenix imprints its trail with blood-burned flame

         Wounds shed marooned tide; cluster, frozen drips divide

         Lips yet pinched, its aim to cloud, falsetto under guise of pearl

         Altered patterns replace tendency

         Inflecting skewed canvas (prospecting of cavity)

         Deadened by, yet alive through

         A rearranged point of view; dangling; shredding skins that shed

         Delirium and Restlessness’ commingled commonalities

         Abnormally restructuring constituency

VII.   DIDACTICS OF CODA SECT

         Inception guarantees nothing

         Belly’s bloat cannot claim psychic craft

         It’s the emblem and insignia, X & Y elated in creative act

         It is what a parent needs to believe

         That said seed blooms to birth, is deemed hale  

         While pronunciation guides each word it learns to speak

        

         But, it is only through misfortune

         That the fallacy of blueprint skirts the mind

Expedited random twitch, in skull, to tips

Chirping signals loud and dry

But only one correct answer looms

Yet many choose the fault-line

As the easiest of immoral flagrancies

Walked away,

From the nesting sweet,

Abandoning,

Each and every dream,

Ignoring your role in all

Washed hands with tears still numb

Crumpled blueprint skims the can

Salt burns until endings deaden

To void with closed eye alone

Does not change the text

You are still the creator

And love is what your monster craves

For a father, the son still needs

Defective. Nil.

Abnormal. Nil

Alive. Still

Beautiful. Yes

Desires. Same

Pains. Too.

Blood still red. Like your own, is your own.

 I look forward to every Tuesday, as that's the day Open Link Night takes place over at D'verse.  This week Brian Miller is hosting the party this week, no doubt eager to get ready for a long, but inspiring night of poetry, pints and shots lining the bar.  


As for me, I like to offer something a bit different each week.  I guess you could say that, for the most part, I put down experimental pieces each week-all in the name of diversity of course.  This weeks no different.  As I spent some time the past few days trying to come up with a theme, neat game or some nifty wordplay I just wasn't feeling it. I was having a little bit of trouble finding an inspiration.  But, as seems to be the norm, when I wasn't expecting anything, an idea formed.                 

I was scanning through a Medical Dictionary, looking for inspiration and a few terms found did the trick.  This piece is intentionally choppy, disjointed and left broken.  My intent is to bring about several responses at once, discomfort, confusion, sadness, disgust and reflection.  

Son of a Hit

Auspicious beginnings rear auspicious breeds

Mine began at inception

Genetically infected

By a predilection towards deception

And so a hit man I became

The first hit took place upon conception

Where I died during delivery

As cord bound noose about my throat

Yet I was revived

Blue eyes clouded by a touch of grey

I wasn’t supposed to survive,

This was never the intention of the seed that sparked my life

Therefore fostered I became

As days would follow

Knowledge I soaked

Detailing the plots and the plans

To which this intelligence would unveil

They were a simple lot

The ones who called me son

They were not my blood

But this did not stop them

From loving me as their own

The son they could never have

And so a fondness within me grew

An attachment bonded me to these two

Yet even they could see it early

In my eyes something was not correct

They wished the world for my life

However, I had another path in mind

Investigations taught me well

How I was the weapon used

I was the means to an end

For a man betraying vows

For a man who cared not for morality

My birthing was a masquerade

In fact I was the centerpiece behind a frame

That would live to become both cause and cover up

Yet truth was told, the truth I knew

The planning was ingenious

The paternal forethought was clever

The execution of his plan was careful and resolute.

He pricked holes in his lambskin coats, knowing mother had a tunnel that couldn’t cope.  He understood her greatest flaw was her passion for life that all things happen, for a reason.

Her devotion to religion, her belief system, taught her to behave predictable.  He knew this and more.   

When she found out first, that I was alive inside, she swelled up; I became the blessing she had always sought.  The doctors and professionals explained her life would very likely be lost, if she continued forward down this path.  She wouldn’t stray; it was not her way, even when they said it was an unlikely scenario that either of us would ever breathe after delivery took its toll.  Even then she clung to the faint hope, that a family we would be, as she returned from her recovery. 

As days grew close, the woman saw, a glimmering wonder within her husbands’ eye.  She knew a deception had been played, yet she couldn’t prove the matter.  There would be no basis for any claim.  Yet, the paranoia did not matter much, she was grateful for the wonder in her womb.  She was in love with the idea, a mother she would be.

The day then came.

Blood was everywhere.

Flooding stainless steel

She had no chance- in so much pain

We both knew it couldn’t last

Out of mercy I pushed forth

Ending her journey

Beginning mine

To the much chagrin of the paternoster my father would never see in me.

Feigned grief he shed

Tears trickled down

Method acting at its best

A smile only peaked upon his cheeks

The day he received the return on policy

The next afternoon

He pretended his grief had grown

That I was too much a chore,

Too delicate and fragile for his type to bear

The plot was impossible to prove

Yet the figures added perfect

To the master plot he spun

If it weren’t for me

Vengeful justice would have never swam

For her, she deserved better

So retribution was left to me

I had to become

The hit man I was birthed to be

Many hours

Plotting, learning, watching, waiting

Late nights documenting routine

Swallowing the vomit he induced in me

Then one day he stopped and stared

Approached the car, unaware of who I was

Intently, behind the wheel, I heard the tapping on the glass

Neck I turned as glass beside dipped down,

Between steel and air

He asked who I was and why I was there

 I wanted to scream, “Remember me”

I’ve got his eyes

Perhaps jawline too

“Tired, needed a break” was all my lips could stir

He walked away and stared back again

Shook his head and left my stay

The next day, an anniversary of birth,

And as a gift to myself, an accident I had

For all the years I’ve buried down,

Each vision of impulse

Every plotted point I’ve had

The collision was severe

Crashing metal driving steel

Eclipsed a budding metropolis

At the intersection of Main and 1st

Our cars met head on

Accidental but mentally rehearsed

The police examined me as I recovered.  They took careful notice, of the stitches on both head and hand.  They thought it was too coincidental to be a coincidence at all.  What were the odds, that on my birthday, I should collide, with the man who provided me life?  Too Oedipal to go unnoticed.  Too impossible to believe, but a case like this they’d never before seen.  A man like me they wished well.  For not only did a car betray my lane, the driver happed be the man who had birthed my seed.  Like a crocodile, tears thickly made their way.  Slow and methodically, I didn’t bite; it was all they had. 

And prove they could not

And with one act of will

I made things right, I took away his life,

Inheriting his everything

This was hit number two

But the cogs kept spinning, severe and fierce

I realized that every trace of him must be wiped clear

I searched for others and more there were

Many seeds of his, alive out there

Abandoned sons and daughters

Estranged lovers and displaced kin

Espoused in anonymity

Each year a gift I endow

Simply noting

They’re not alone

That people do care for you

And thus the third hit was done

I’ve since stopped count

Yet continue on I do

Until another figures this all out

The traces and the history

Of a family steeped in infamy

And if that child should concoct

A vengeful plot, in their father’s name

For disallowing them the possibility

 To ask the questions they keep. 

 To which I would tell that child, I know exactly how you feel, where you’ve been.

Completing the cycle, where the last hit, will again be me.