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Vanth Seven Poem
I stood atop of my pointed view and felt the sharp tooth of truth.
How elegantly we lived the lie, a fictional legend always on the edge of a prequel.
But the sharp tooth of truth really cuts the fat right down to the bone.
So what now? the bitter taste of nonfiction or an unauthorized behind the scenes biography?
No no no Biography…… what are you thinking, you’re not dead yet!
There is no beauty in the truth nor secrets will she keep, just pointed teeth.
And much darker than the ink that stains your fingers.
Oh how the truth hurts, and not the good kind of pain.
No not the pain that makes you wildly creative.
Or the tickling sting of a smacked ass from one of those paperback nights.
The sharp tooth of truth has no words, it’s just a dull ache.
A dogmatic nervousness ready to argue with the will of an unreasonable child.
You know you can’t bend it nor personify the truth, it’s much too matter of fact.
But for us it’s the somatic experience that tells the tale rather than the context of the event.
That’s what keeps us lost within the pages, riding the pulse of the story.
So what are you going to do face it? Leave the audience hanging without an ending.
You’re not an extra you know. You’re not that girl killed off just as the plot takes off.
The one only remembered for her gruesome death and great tits,
I can surly tell you no one remembers her name. And why should they?
You going to join the watch of nightingales, singing your night song…….
Off key karaoke at the bottom of a bottle of Bushmills.
You can’t go out like that! You’re the star of this feature!
Bide your time amongst the unkindness of Ravens, birds of a feather…. Ya know.
Or they’ll peck the flesh right off your bones.
Lets hear it for the props and the posers, how they served you well.
But you certainly don’t need them anymore, this aint no dime store novel.
You just gotta twist the truth, if you want to loosen her bite.
It’s going to hurt like hell! But it certainly won’t lack in emotion.
That’s all the fuel you’ll need to ignite this revival.
So when the sharp tooth of truth releases her bite, and is finally pull from your waning thought.
When the blood is pouring out, grab your fountain pen and plunge it into the wound.
Draw up the blood and write the paper can be your salvation.
And when the Jazz funeral passes you by, join the precession.
Taste the music, feel the sound, all the way to the cemetery of creative writing.
Art will rises up when credence subsides.
This is when you know you have to make it up as you go along.
When you reach grave throw in some ceremonial roses, turn to face the crowd and smile.
For the show must go on.
Copyright © Vanth Seven | Year Posted 2015
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Vanth Seven Poem
The Oroborus of loves strange design leaves you dancing dangerously close to the edge of the outer darkness as you descend wriggling down the squirming coil. Eyes obscured by images. Eyes always searching through the canopy of flashing monitors. Ears deafened by screeching components that fire off adrenalin from over stimulated synapses. Sadistic by passion your heart pounds with each stroke of the keys. Liquid crystal luminescence drenching your skin as something alive. Organic light-emitting diode provides higher contrast, pale bodies’ shutters in the vibrational light. Your mind contesting all calculation the complexity of denial. Dark souls touch before eyes see. Creating the most intimate love carelessly transmitted through unsecure connections. Flirtation fluctuations turn moments to hours. Provisioning circuits setting the limits of rarefied rituals. Exalted idealization pushes perfection and the boundaries of reality. Darkness haunts your days forcing its way into your secrets, the sweetest insanity fill the creases. Lust drenches passion leaving no room for reason; you have been assimilated into loves strange design.
Copyright © Vanth Seven | Year Posted 2015
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Vanth Seven Poem
I walk the streets at night
I watch the people hurry
They spend their lives forever running
Quick hurry up and wait
But the clock ticks on She waits for no one
For all their plotting and planning they wait
Longing for the perfect day
The perfect moment
The perfect kiss
Blindly they follow complacent
Some conform to the system of check and balances
Others devoted to the proverbs of long dead forgotten kings
All the while a lifetime will pass them by as a thousand new stars are born
The clock chimed and the entire world stops
Stops for just our moment
I grasp for pieces tiny pieces of fleeting bits of time
And for just a moment I taste of dreams
Dreams that felt so close so real
I am left to mourn
My magic has failed me and wisdom too
But not time she never fails
Now spent dreams diminish
The precious pieces slipping away
That’s what Time does she makes the memories fade
How long did I wait to touch your face?
I look into the night sky and I do not recognize these stars
Nor do I have wishes left for them to hear
They have all left me along with your voice
Your voice that kept you real
But I can’t hear you now
I can’t remember
I can’t remember
I can’t remember the sound of your voice
Day steps up pushing Night aside and the wait is over
Copyright © Vanth Seven | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Vanth Seven Poem
My heart has been subtracted contracted,
Just a fractioned proportioned down sum of what it once was.
Payment for the stipend of lost loves and years gone by.
All that’s left are receipts little paper hearts.
As I idly meander some become litter lost along the way.
Prudently you hold the little paper heart.
You begin unfolding the crumples, creases, and pleats.
Modestly you hold out your hand and return my heart to me.
Whole……
Thank you my love.
But I think you should hold on to it just for safe keeping.
Copyright © Vanth Seven | Year Posted 2015
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