And the Words Go On


And the Words Go On

By

Louise M. Hart

Welcome to my relapse

It takes the form of a serpent

Vomiting vowels and consonants

From a mouth it does not trust

Which sizzle in its throat

Like acid from a burning gut

Words that should be cast out

Like Eve’s rotten apple

To vanish into trampled earth

Like vile obstructive dust

 

I cough up narratives like phlegm

My toxic tongue vibrates with boredom

Licking gasping cracks

Where hearts should lie

A rimming echo of the mind

That cannot control it

Servant to thought’s self-destructive thrusts

 

Why does my mind beckon torment?

When all around there are none

Torment is my only friend

Constant companion in all weathers

For whilst fairer faces look away

Afraid that perceiving might lead to wrinkles

Subjectivity must always have its say

 

Thus, I shall never again rent my soul

It is better to exist alone

Than be every woman to no one every day

 

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Except Yourself


Except Yourself

I travelled north to learn how to be free

But the shrieking gulls delivered my spirit

To Nemo’s tomb

Buried beneath 20,000 leagues of despair

Under a doom sated sea

A fisher of souls, swept to her watery demise

By waves that tempted my mind

And stung my weary eyes

Lapping the frail shore of my bored

Consciousness

I roared from the depths

Of my soul’s new found distress

And swallowed the sea water’s acrid foam

Like a fleet of melting acid ice cream cones

My thoughts nourished by the taste of its cool duplicity

Being caught between the to and fro

Of my unique soul’s existence and human homogeneity

I had become invisible, both on land and sea

Like a single splash of water on a pier-less shore

Depositing no residue of my life or piteous form

One day, I stepped into troubled waters

Where I witnessed rising from his/her liquid bed

Like Poseidon’s changeling son/daughter

The angel of the north

Who spoke to me, “It’s not so bad, up here, with the haggis

And the local beer

Better rain upon a sunny head

Than sun shining beyond a mind

That is dull as lead”

“Like mine,” I screamed

“It is not your home location,” S/he equivocated

“Inducing your mental rot

Your soul is sick

For existence has failed to offer you a role

In this season’s production

Of the dominant model

Of the anti-social whole

This is not how life should be…

This is not how life should be”

Angel of truth

Lancelot, inhabiting a nautical incarnation

Of Avalon, for the kilted generation

Riding against the tide, with limbs of lace and leather

Your presence warmed my heart

Like rays of sun in wintry weather

Words slid from your tongue

Like a gentle elixir

I drank them slowly

And let them fix me

In 2008 I moved from the West Midlands to Scotland. In 2014 I returned home, where the air is more polluted but I learned to breathe, again.

*Except Yourself was originally posted on ArtiPeeps.com.Thank you, Nicky Mortlock for permitting me to republish it, here.

Live Life as Art


“LIVE in celebration of the pain that makes you

And break the ties that bind you to your melancholic nature”

My daemon bride cried aloud

Devoid of a soul I comprised mere flesh and bones

Exhumed from a tomb of my own making

My heart a perpetual beat away from death’s sweet eternity

My mind rendered blank with the noise of my interior distress

And echoes of duality

“Enter me! Enter me! I offer you redemption from the cursory LIFE”

The daemon’s eyes glowed like the embers of her inky black insides

I looked into her eyes and entered AS a nervous youth

Nakedly vulnerable in translucent skin

And searching for my unique and authentic

Poetic voice

On that night I made love with a daemon and found my mortal soul

Projecting my consciousness in the imprints I created

On the heart of human hatred

And the tarnished soil of materiality

“Enlightenment is the capacity to transcend reality,” she claimed

“And live life as (thou) art”

(Meant to be)

Poetry is not the province of academia; it is the voice of the soul. Listen to the bitter-sweet sounds it enunciates.

Sunday morning sickness


Sunday Morning Sickness

Chemically unbalanced
Half the world is made insane
We are dependent on prescription pills
With unpronounceable names
Pharmaceutically overdosed
On the concepts of suffering and pain

Consuming substances, like Big Mac suppers
That make us do as we are told
We are chained, like dogs, to our T.V. screens
And warned never to grow old
Affectively blunted
Like Frankenstein’s culturally constructed bride
We are the emasculated end product of our creator’s terminal ill health

A marketable sickness, the human condition bleeds, like an open wound
And whilst, medicine eases infections
It cannot heal the soul
Predating conception, we were born to destroy ourselves

NOW AVAILABLE-A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart http://www.amazon.com/Life-Reborn-Louise-M-Hart

The Poetics of Pain


I SUPPOSE

I know not your name
For you arrive like a rush of blood
Spilling meaning upon paper.
Dry is the ink
Defining my mind’s imprint upon corporeality.
Dead is my natural pose
Slumped
Above a laptop.

I know not your purpose
You, however, presume to know my own
Shouting words within my hollow whole
And threatening my soul’s duality.
Receptive to all sententious prose
-A figure of speech
No parenthesis.

MY RESPONSE TO HEAD SHRINKERS

You can silence me with pills
Deafen me with therapy
But, as long as I can think
I shall always be myself

A poet reborn or…just pretending?


I do not purport to be a great poet, or even a good one. I aim to capture the unpredictable ebb and flow of thought as it intersects with text on my laptop screen. For writing not only reflects the consciousness of the writer, but her soul. Thus, when someone reads my poetry, they access part of me that is forbidden to the eye.

In my new poetry collection, I have stripped myself bare. Like discarded garments, my outer layers reveal the surface of my intent. Beneath, I am as vulnerable as a child. I shiver in the presence of pedagogues, those who truly understand the poetic form and fear that my amateurism will be exposed.

After 20 years of writing poetry, I am still a virgin; not penetrated by the sharp pen of scholastic formalism,
I am merely myself.

Truth is pretence.

A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart is available from amazon, barnes and noble and most respected retailers.

For updates, please follow me on twitter. @shunterthompson