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Sometimes pressure helps. I was under the gun once, long ago, and I wrote this Sonnet in three minutes:
Okay, reading it now, it’s pretty juvenile, huh? I wish I could get past that stage but I’ve yet to discover the secret.
I recently embarked on a quest to write a song—a Dirge, actually, after being inspired by the famous Lyke-Wake Dirge. I was proud of my work, and commissioned my musical associate Q-Dawg to work on the music. Then I took a look at the Lyke-Wake Dirge again, and realized how much I suck. Since the authorship is lost in the sands of time, I guess it would be okay to reprint it here:
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past, 5
—Every nighte and alle,
To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
—Every nighte and alle, 10
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane
—Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane; 15
And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass,
—Every nighte and alle,
To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule. 20
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
—Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink, 25
—Every nighte and alle,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane,
—Every nighte and alle, 30
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, 35
And Christe receive thy saule.
See what I mean? If you thought that was Gobbledy-gook, go back and read it again, slowly and out loud this time. I’ll wait.
Now do you see? What a powerful piece, as the author gives life to the old maxim, “As you sow so shall you reap.”
So my dirge sucks like a four-dollar hooker (that is to say, badly), although I’m still working on it. That primarily leaves women (what the hell else would I write about?) I wrote this the other night—again in a flash—about a girl I know. I can’t decide whether the material warrants expanding it into full on blush-inducing foolery or not:
Cordero
I listen to her voice. I like the way it goes up and down,
Like she knows things, but doesn’t know things.
When she laughs, she sounds like a little girl.
When she’s reproachful her voice is husky—
I would say flirtatious—
But with her I can’t tell.
Every once in a while, in the middle of a sentence,
Her voice rises up, sing-songy,
Like someone doing that Sound of Music Song,
And then drops back down, lower than she started from,
So that the last syllable is little more than a growl.
It makes her sound mysterious,
Like a women with secrets, that she might share,
But probably won’t.
It also makes her sound unsure,
Like she knows the words she’s using,
And maybe most of their meanings,
But the voice inflections are a complete enigma to her.
I like that.
I like how her voice goes up and down.
Maybe I’ll let that go for a while.
Then there are the dreams. My dreams are pretty fucked-up, which is no surprise to anyone who knows me. I mean, it’s not like my regular life is winning any John Q. Normal awards. So why should my dreams be any different?
I have the regular dreams, that seem almost normal until you think about them, and realize how truly weird they are. These dreams are packed with stimuli encountered throughout my week, as well as material that I’m sure is sponsored by my subconscious (the bastard), as well as a bunch of shit that probably doesn’t mean anything (at least, I hope not).
Sometimes I dream in Code. I’m not talking about deep-seated issues (although I do that too), but honest-to-goodness Book of Daniel or Revelations weird mystical where’s-a-Gnostic-sect-when-you-need-one Code. I used to stress about what this Code was, so I could figure out the meanings of the dreams, but I’ve since given up. If I’m meant to figure it out, I will. (Did you buy that? ‘Cause it’s all a lie. I still obsess about it all the time.)
Occasionally, and this is rare, I dream in poetry—not good poetry—but I suppose that’s because it comes from my subconscious. It’s like Dr. Seuss narrates my dream (if he were channeling Edgar Allen Poe). These dreams are pretty vivid, and if I act quickly upon waking I can usually get all the words down.
But I still don’t know what it means. It’s not written in Code like the other stuff, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. So I thought maybe you could tell me. This isn’t rhetorical. I really want to know: what the hell am I dreaming about here?
Grey ash falls softly from the sky
Idly, he thinks, “Who had to die?”
The ash lands on the ground like fresh-packed snow
He thinks, “I hope it was no one that I know.”
There was a time, Death came not oft’.
When the town was sleepy and soft.
But all that changed upon HIS arrival
And now the only game is survival.
Now Death hangs in the air like mist
And soon it could be you that’s kissed.
For there never is much rhyme or reason
Who has to die next in this killing season.
It could be your neighbor who goes.
(On the bright side, there go his woes.)
And fall from the sky in ashes so grey.
Hyperion
© 2000-2012 by Hyperion All Rights Reserved. I'm guessing most of you are too stupid to read this far down, so I feel no compunction about bragging to my friends about your wife/girlfirend/mother/irish setter