Hemorrhaging

Creative Forums Creative Writing
1

That from which the pulse beats
As drums bashing repeatedly
With a wild stare, an accompanied blush
The distant scape beckons

Raw energy, expansive space
Running forwards, spinning
Waving arms in all directions
Felling trees, launching an axe

This is when the adrenaline really spouts
Now racing straight
Continuing past the fires
Snake veins and 8 stroke heart, heat

Spent scapes left behind
Along an unseen path
Demarcated, well demarcated
Unseen through bloodshot eyes

…

“My Goddddddddd, this takes me to eternity and back”
Shuffling and coiling, along the red production line
Steam and grease and iron spinning
Past waking hours, lust knows no rest

Work, as a door, fist marks, indentations
Then, as the pavement, head marks, concussions
What’s left for sleep is passed over
Bricks bashed in with the face

“Maaaaake it more, take more, mooorree, Goddamn…”
Head, hands, face peeling time from the mold
A bat and a screaming headache
Spinning Visage, broken drywall

Pulling the strings above
Stilted motions of strength
Making them move
To pull the roof in

…

Then that which stopped short
Standing still next to a rail and a river
Carefully observing it flow
In increasingly predictable streams

No purpose
Empty, as if anemic
Waiting silently even to death
Still, watching, listening

2

Your poem seems to be about intensity.
Maybe I’m wrong, but that is how I see it for now.
I’ve had dreams about intensity too. Words don’t really carry feelings the way a first hand experience does.

3

Stuart, i see something different, see forging ahead, incessant toil and wERY BUT SLOW PROGRESSION AT GREAT COST, and thoughtless treadmill like existence, wit the knowledge that it is, when you come down to it, all for nought.

It is very nihilistic, and doesn’t offer any view of a bridge, a leap, into an alternative. It is comforting, and predictably responsible.

The structure of this piece reminds me of the myth of Sisyphus. a modern version, more personal, stylized.

4

Realism, setting goals so reasonable and clear, that one will not only meet them but surpass them, a shedding of youthful fantasies, like throwing out winter coats for the summer, a welcome cost for the sake of space and simplicity.

5

Stuart, despite what you wrote just above this, your poem kind of reminded me of Siddhartha’s experience…the end of one and the beginning of another which ultimately will lead to what he truly wants and values.

6

What I wrote subsequently is the representation of the beginning of making qualitative values.