poetry critical

online poetry workshop

letter from an aspiring overman



Box my ears with electricity,
they're swollen from years of ill tasting
soul-lacking vibrations
made to look gold with spray-paint.
Dig deeper;
there are spirits buried
in that bright red pit,
amid menial
contraindications and
unsightly phrase.
The rest lick your boots,
kiss dirt for a penny or
two from your satchel.
(No respect from us and
no respect from them.)
They've become the shade behind
this Earth, lunar eclipse burning
an embarrassed eyehole through the moon.
They've become unsatisfactory even to themselves,
their confusion is obvious as the
bird flying into the just cleaned glass window.
|They cannot grasp why they are ( ).|
If I stood before them today, if I
made clear the reason for their existence:
I would be chastised off stage.
So I do what I may,
hint towards a greater underlying
blood vessel running dry,
hope that they catch on by the time
that apathy is no longer a trait descriptive
of the living.
We create what we may and what we
have never had the spare time to create.
In the end;
knowledge will pull us through
this stopped up dam
to see everything that
the other side of the sun has to offer,
to become no less than
what we're meant to be.

26 Nov 04

Rated 6 (6) by 1 users.
Active (1): 6
Inactive (0):

(define the words in this poem)
(42 more poems by this author)

Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha


this was really good. offered me a little guidance and a little bit of understanding. i really liked this.
 — unknown

I like this and will revisit when I have something to say. Remind me sometime with a comment on one of mine if you get the chance.
 — InMyBlood

I don't know what to say, Shelby. I like it. It makes me think of apocalypse.
 — unknown

i love readind your magick, shelby.
although, i don't often have anythin
to say--to critique. the words make
me think. I say, bravo to exersizing
minds. poor poor people. they don't
really listen, do they? with minds of
stone, and knowledge--thinking that
they have enough.  but what are we
ment to be, shelbster?       --peanut
 — unknown

I do really like this, but had a hard time deciding what the subject matter was for a little too long in the poem.  In the first stanza, it seems that "ears" is the subject (swollen and spray-painted).  There are spirits buried in stanzas 2 & 3, and I assumed on first read they all were buried, and was puzzled by "the rest" in stanza 4.

The good news is that all of the above is easy enough to fix, and overall this is a pretty hip poem.
 — mikkirat

thin queue.
 — ShelbyS

*sigh* determinism. perfect.
 — thirdeyris

knowledge is not an end to any means
thus spraken zarathustra!!
 — LucyMidnight