When Heidegger Hosts a Kegger
Nice title, eh? But is it to American? I’m thinking of using it as the title of my collection being published next May by Penned in the Margins Press as part of the Generation Txt Collective. As it’s being published by a British Press, I feel like the title shouldn’t be too Americanized or no one will get it…
On that note, I started my PhD in Philosophy Monday. Scary times. The introduction lectures all basically said ‘the next three years are going to be the hardest ever’. Nice one. So off I go to be a philosopher. Fortunately, the writing aspect aims to reflect in my philosophical work and self, so it should be a clear and concise thesis of 100,000 words. In three years, we shall see what happens, eh?
Right, so back to the important stuff- poetry. Like I was saying, a title needs to be thought for this collection. So far we’re at three: 1) When Heidegger Hosts a Kegger, 2) Metrophobia, and 3) The Discovery of the Orgasm. Interestingly, with the third choice I feel like I need to further explain it’s meaning beyond ‘it’s the title of a poem in the collection’ and I don’t like it for that reason. ’Metrophobia’ the same- it means ‘the fear or hatred of poetry’ but I don’t know if anyone else knows that. And we know my issues with the first. I just wrote a poem called ‘rapeseed’ which I like a lot as a word because it has so many levels. Attached is the poem, though not finished, but here nonetheless.
Rapeseed
Left over sunshine burns
through balconies that keep
minds from falling down.
Recycled tears flicker
on the shutter of eyelids,
flogging predictable
shower-coated cotton
skin with ill-fitted t-shirts.
Loose grips of penmanship
trade New Zealand for iced
tea. Rip the stationary in two;
frames gather dust on the mantel.
‘what to do next’ like this:
a camel-backed hourglass
dipped in caramel sauce,
twisted with wrinkles. a mouth
too small; oil dripping from
hairy pores and smaller-than-
lifesize anatomy against
blackened tongues and ill-
advice. stoned milk money
in pockets, rapeseed oil lanterns
flickering, lighting the walls on fire.
evesdropping in the night, washing
it with soap. massaged hands
that stroke the faces of family
members in picture frames.
you’re satan, you are,
brambled wrists and elbows
ache with bloody scratches.
scabs of the wicked wearing
scars as hats and delivering
babies with forked tongues.
opinions welcome :-)
Sx
