Fingernails tear at the flesh,
The flesh tears black and yellow.
Tired of being your Caliban, why
Can't I be Othello? Falsely
Portrayed and poorly played
My hour upon the stage, so stick
your fingers in my script and
Turn the bleeding page.
Without a doubt I too am mad, bad,
And dangerous to know. Maybe because
The goblin market is a place I like
To go. And yes I know, a good man is
Hard to find, but maybe it's because
"Good" is so truly hard to define.
I have been lost in books a while
And stuck in my imagination, this
Poem is a kind of Shellyesque corpse
Amalgamation of dead literary thoughts
Revived with the monkeys paw. I'm
Mentally paddling through an ocean
Of words I've read and Images I saw.
I have walked through fields with
Wordsworth, and been socially concerned
With Blake, Died young with Keats,
And explored many things with Yeats.
You may at this point wonder why my
Rhyme is inconsistent, or you might
Have stopped reading already because
I seem so distant. Feel free to pick at
My sing-songy scheme, or whatever is in
Your head. It matters to me very little
Because it's likely this won't be seen
Before I am dead.
I know this isn't a good poem, but it was something fun to try.
Also, I submitted this to a poetry group I belong to, We-Poets. I hope that's alright.
I like it a lot. It's fun, it conjures mental images and memories of lines of poems long forgotten. The end is almost Nihilistic, but also ironic, since of course every studied poet or mystic knows we are already dead. The title hits a heart-string for me as well, since, when I was younger, in another life, I was an English major. They shove all of these dead voices in your head so hard that it's difficult to tell which voice is your own anymore. I can seldom think of anything without some random, but related line echoing in my head. It seems to me that this piece would be fun to read aloud.