Incubation

Well, sadly this is another demented book. :(

The imagery is vivid. Laloo is a character with many shards too her life, like a broken mirror crushed in a bleeding hand. There are images of maternity, but the child is a monster. There are images of adventure and travel and expedition, but the trip is filled with rape and murder. There is a bond with a father who understands her passion for something else, yet her dependence on him is only for what he can give her or what she can steal from him. From cars to money to a murdered girl with her heart wrapped in a tee shirt on the side of the road, no wait, I mean a dead girl in the back of a truck driven by a random sicko- the images are nothing but twisted.

Twisted isn't art, demented isn't beauty, blood and rape aren't love.

To that I say with another's words: "brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

This book doesn't disturb me, I've read worse and I know people who have had worse done to them. It doesn't shock me, it doesn't free me, it doesn't give me anything but insight into a longing for something that she does not have- and her final desire to die rather than choose life.

After her accident from throwing herself out of a car to avoid being raped, and after giving birth to a twisted monster of a machine- Laloo needs help or she will die, and she chooses to wear her red dress and keep walking. She won't make it, her illness of the mind has corrupted her body and her love for freedom has been misplaced into an unhealthy obsession which brings nothing but slavery to her true heart. She tries to lead others, to guide them, but she is blind and falling off a cliff into the sharp rocks below even as she speaks.

Readings

Enoch grumbled. It had been a long day, he was tired, his robes were a mess, and to top it all off he couldn't keep his eyes open. The master was being unreasonable. Oh sure, you could demand that an 8 year old sit still and listen all day then study all night, but that didn't make you sane for doing it...

The book was depressing. It was about a crazy girl who had a crazy doctor tell her to do crazy things until she went crazy. He needed a bite to eat, something to clear his mind from the monotony he had been chewing on all afternoon. Who cares if she was crazy!!! Ok!!! Fine!!!

Outside the cool autumn air was calling, the crisp leaves were every dazzling shade of red and yellow and orange, and the gardens out back were slowly fading into the death of winter- preparing to sleep. Enoch went to put on a cloak, his dark brown robes were fine for summer, but needed a supplement in these colder months. The fire needed a log, reminding Enoch once again of his crackling stomach.

He wasn't a type. He didn't have to listen to crazy people who thought he was. He could just leave. He also didn't need to sit still in a room and say almost nothing savoring the uncomfortable silence, silence was to be enjoyed- but not in the company of strange men. Or cats. Kat had just come into the room, he was also hungry.

"Something about that time of year" Enoch thought, over a few scones he had pilfered from the kitchen, "makes us all begin to store food like chipmunks. Interesting.

He re-opened the books.

City Eclogue

This is an interesting book. 3 points of particular interest would be the urban, beauty, and American themes that run through the poems.

The first point is the urban. Time and time again there's the "our stone" and "our steel", such as the poem "Sit In What City We're In" where it also talks about "our hive grid" and the lines of the country. It makes you think.

The second point would be the beauty, as we walk through the country and experience what it has to offer.

The third point is the American, where it talks about the greatness that the country offers, the stores and shops, and the potential for a society that's willing to grow. (Also with consequences if it fails to learn.)

2 reponses

response 1:

These poems are gruesome. Coming from a world of hate and despair, where life has no meaning, the cynical mind will attempt to look at reality and further tear it apart.

"Tell me what you know about dismemberment."

It's a sick title for a "poem". I don't mean just disgusting either, I mean mentally unstable. I should know, I've had relatives in the psych ward, and in prison for such depravities. Mental breakdowns, attempted manslaughter- just because something destroys does not mean experiencing it will enrich the human experience, the human experience can also be poisoned.

response 2:

For not being about love, these poems certainly are sensual. Cole Swenson, from "Noon":
"let me touch your lip...
...the impossible mouth or curve
within a curve what the body does
so certainly know, please"


There is a marked contrast from "love poetry" and "non-love poetry", but I don't think people really understand what love is. They reject love, which is hard, and replace it with lust, which is empty. And so they are bitter, and resolve to hate and lust and despair. Learn love instead.

I make my way through the squabbling blankets, the muffins call my snapping teeth.
With zeal, I drink down the garlic lobster, the hunger is quick to leave my belly.
But the feathers in the pillow call me back, I bridge the distance to my bed like a bull in the banks of wall street.
I am reminded of the bristling muffins…

Casually walking over the bridge I watch the ice that blankets the river and bristles in the rocks. The lobsters feather along the bottom of the squabble, but fresh bull and muffins in the hunger of my belly would taste better.
My teeth would also make quick work of the garlic, drinking down the juice.

Quick drinking has once again led me to the bridge.
Below the squabbling river bed, the leaves sink like feathers.
I throw in the garlic lobster, my hunger is sated.
For a while I consider one more of the bristling muffins, but the fat bull belly of over-eating keeps me away.

The death of Love

Love died.
Love ran free and with all life,
Love cried.
Love reached out and wiped away the strife,
Love tried.
Love was broken, and serrated with the knife,
Love sighed.
Love killed death, which through the world was rife,
When Love died.

Adonai yihoshia

Pursued, I fled.
I was hunted, there was no where left to turn.
I tried to run, my heart began to burn.
The tracker, He bled.

I was angry, my path went every way.
I was confused, and violently led astray.
He followed me, my wits began to fray-
And suddenly I was dead.

My life gone, my anger did not subside.
I did my best, thus far I had really tried.
It didn't matter, His blood wasn't satisfied-
I laid there on my bed.

I cried, I couldn't have any rest.
The bloody tracker, took my heart out from my chest.
I was at peace, was this for the best?
I laid there gushing red.

New life in me, my eyes were opened again.
I took fresh heart, away from what I'd been.
The sorrow gone now, and joy my frown did wren,
Strangely, my soul was fed.....