ugly stage

Having given out the last of his
pocket change to the homeless man
sitting outside his house, with his
cardboard manifesto in hand, the
lung came home empty-handed.
The lights were off, because the
eyes did not pay the utilities, having
resigned themselves from their
jobs at the publishing house.
Now they walk about taking
in the dark like they were
hungry for it. Dropping his keys
on the kitchen table, the lung
opens the fridge to find the tongue,
who wanted to simulate how it would feel
to go lonely and without embrace.
On the television, the mouth spits
headline after headline about the
recent crime committed by the
nose, who smelt iron bars
and forged a knife to cut
through a family of hairs.
Sitting quietly in the dark,
the static of the television
filling the room with buzz,
like an errant insect, like
the wilting of a summer flower,
the lung is waiting patiently
to tell the heart to help him.
Recently, he has been losing
his way home. Journeys on
the subway lead to streets
he does not recognise;
Fresh Love on the Chopping Block road,
A Body without Organs street,
Please Hold Me avenue.
The lung feels lost
without the heart.
He can only breathe
slowly now, taking in
all the nothing left in
her wake, all the nothing
there is in a quiet home
in an unassuming suburb.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.

FREEWRITING EXERCISE #72

Like all love, it happened
at an inconvenient time /
doubling over in the grass /
the whirr of a lawnmower
still running rounds down
the cul-de-sac / lying there
with his half-trimmed lawn /
I wonder what he must have
seen / His nostrils, filled with
the afterglow of shorn blades /
His breath coming in and out
like his daily routine for the
past half-century / I wonder
if there was anybody at home /
when his soul decided to pay
a visit / Somehow thinking of
death, I can’t help but think
of capitalism / I cannot remove
the worker from the cadaver /
Maybe he was happy, then /
retired after working twenty
long years / in the darkest,
sootiest coal mine / or he quit
his job at a local accounting firm
when all the numbers began to
blur / the blades of their edges
growing wild and free / or maybe
he has children / maybe he has
perpetuated the systemic problems
which pervade the earth / maybe
he had a good time / eating barbecue
in his backyard with his various
unmemorable relatives / that does not
matter / Death has come to lie
on the grass with him / staring
at the sky / trying to make out
shapes in the clouds / Thinking
of it that way a date could be
nice / after they found him
just lying there / content /
the fire department with all
their sons of sons / finished
his arduous task / I like to
think of it as being ferried
across the river styx / and
seeing on the other side /
everyone that you’ve touched
and left behind / it will be sad /
but the lawn will be so beautiful

FREEWRITING EXERCISE #71

Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash

My head, tumbling down
a stair; a crick in the neck,
the world as a rotoscope,
step upon step upon step;
my head, a last minute
addition to a bowling alley;
my teeth, pins waiting to
be put into flesh, and my
tongue waxed and polished;
my body is a body of water,
in the same way a lake is
an ocean in training, and
no matter how much I pee
I do not shrink; my eyes are
the beams of lighthouses
cast out far into the foggy
night, looking for the back
side of passersby ships;
my arms are the trunks
of elephants; my legs,
having walked hundreds
of miles, are somehow
still too unsatisfactory;
the mirror in the bath
is covered in grime and
blood; I do not bear to
look at the intersection
of the two halves of
my body; the curve
of a bell, the warp
of a ruler; like
I’m carrying a
bowling ball
always; it’s like
I cannot avoid
talking about
my body without
calling it my body.
I cannot avoid my body
without.

FREEWRITING EXERCISE #70

Photo by Chilam Siu on Unsplash

I can fit all my faces into the headspace of a book.
In the book, between every line a confession waits.
Waiting for confession, I sit in the pews of the church.
Spewing sermon and half-baked prayer I am mindful.
Mind full of ideas half-baked in the sun like roadkill.
Killers or their supporters all about the morning roads.
Mourning, now, violence in another country, or lack thereof.
Their lack of compassion is because they are filled with hate.
I hate the way they do not recognise their own selves.
Barely recognising myself in the mornings, I wash up.
On a shore faraway from here, the body of boys wash up.
I am fascinated with bodies – of boys, of girls, of myself.
I would like to put my selves in a museum for everyone to see.
To see is to validate, to acknowledge one’s ugly feelings.
I feel ugly when I think that everyone could think like that.
To think that calling for the slaughter of protestors is good.
To talk about deaths with laughter, to protest otherwise.
Other wise men have already left this world for better pastures.
Yet, there is no better past for us to have been born in.
To be born is a blessing and a curse, but I live on still.
I live; I still grow; I accept; I become better; I live; I live; I live.

FREEWRITING EXERCISE #69

Photo by Frankie Lopez on Unsplash

your shape in the dark /
a swan’s neck craning
about the moon / O love
your voice / a whisper in
an empty room / a finger
on the spine / delicate
as if to cut / catch in
the throat / chamber
loaded and private /
in my head it is so
plush / so quiet but
for the soft bloom /
of your chest’s rise
and fall / waves on
flesh / ripples of a
calendar / an unread
journal / filled with
visionary poets who
do not matter now /
now my body is but a
conduit for your body /
the gap between each
finger / coloured in
with yours / quiet /
quiet / listen now /
come in closer /
do you hear the little
drummer boy / who
bangs his drum at all
hours of the night /
walking in circles upon
circles in my chest /
he is the pride of
my life / my life as
a marching band /
jubilee / a parade
in your honour /
schoolchildren
forming your face
on the endless green

FREEWRITING EXERCISE #68

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Charting a path, navigating the dense
straggly-vined rainforest, past lives we
have left to hang and dry, look at how
brown their bodies are, these woven
hemp-rope effigies, these forgotten
memories and elegies; with a machete
in hand I cut through the past time
line by line. Forging a clearing in
the middle of nowhere we send
prayers in thick billowing shirts
of smoke into the heavens. Come
find me, come find us. I cut the poem here.