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February 29, 2008
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his memories are making a glorious mud</u>


i.

it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.

it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates

its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,

where she stops, lets the carver out
to start again from the beginning...

no lumberjack lives here,
no whiskered axe-man wakes to the rooster.
a daring cedar deadened him flat as toads who nap
beneath some winter stones. his brain was stapled to earth
with a mighty red branch and there have spread rumors.
the truth? his memories are making a glorious mud.

ii.

years ago, the wife recalls, someone invented a camera,
she says, just so that pictures of him living, at snarl, his foot upon
his victim's chest, could be placed in shoe boxes,
later made to drape each hallway
as posters to the past.

peach cobbler is served behind the bird and people embrace
each other for the first time in years. they begin to consider
what the names of their children mean. someone mentions olivia,
a name not one of them would think to name anyone,
symbolizes peace. olivia, of all names, they say.

there is a whispered conversation, some low giggles,
about the casket being constructed of wood.
what else could be done?
nothing.
isn't it hilarious, though?
a casket made of wood?
for a lumberjack!


iii.

i, i cannot believe he... where is my camera?

iv.

several drinks are served. see, an esophagus
becomes a straw when people celebrate death
and i know that trees will eventually fall
on those that fell them.

it is only sensible—we drink to forget

and a man that has killed a thousand trees
is meant to be buried by one.
i was going to say a lot here, but now i don't feel like it.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2011-01-03
Elegant and powerful in its simplicity, his memories are making a glorious mud by ~getbeneathmebird is worth a second read. And a third. ( Featured by nycterent )
:icononthemetro:
onthemetro Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014
"several drinks are served. see, an esophagus
becomes a straw when people celebrate death
and i know that trees will eventually fall
on those that fell them.

it is only sensible—we drink to forget

and a man that has killed a thousand trees
is meant to be buried by one."


Cripes, this is damn good poetry.

I have a feeling I'll be spending the day filling my favorites with the entire contents of your gallery. Thank you for being here.
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:iconsubstanceabuse:
substanceabuse Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2013
God damn you for always making me feel like I should stop even trying to think I can write.


I miss you, and everyone, I feel so completely
out of touch.
Reply
:iconwrittenrevolt:
WrittenRevolt Featured By Owner May 13, 2011
Hey, congratulations on being in $Moonbeam13's Pimps & Whoas! :clap: You've been featured in #theWrittenRevolution – check it out here. :heart:
Reply
:iconrequiemsandreveries:
RequiemsandReveries Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2011
Wow, really powerful the way you did the line breaks and the italics all for emphasis. I like the ending. I think it's funny and ironic. Nice job
Reply
:iconfantasmorte:
fantasmorte Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2011
wow, I love the imagery here. great job, well worth a dd :)
Reply
:iconkmotsko:
kmotsko Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2011  Hobbyist Photographer
You have quite a way with words. I like the irony and the little repetition you use here. Part i. in particular was really thought-provoking. Thanks for sharing this!
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:iconabcat:
AbCat Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2011   Writer
I really like the stuffed bird analogy, not only does it give me a craving for kentucky fried bird, but it's a neat and image-laden way in to the funeral wake. The smartarse in me is fighting to mention that whole chicken/turkey/duck/ostrich is not usually served at these occasions, and it is also harbouring a thought that most coffins are made of wood; this strengthens the inanity of the chatter at the end of ii but takes away from the close.

Totally loving the last stanza of i. The title phrase is some really sick and disturbing gore, yessir.
Reply
:iconnonier:
NonieR Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2011
And are you overloaded with people correcting "It is her" to "It is she"?
Reply
:iconsymphonyinwilde:
SymphonyInWilde Featured By Owner Jan 3, 2011  Student Writer
Out of curiosity, and because loads of poets on here seem to make this choice: why no capitals and yet punctuation? And why do you split it into sections, "i," "ii," etc.? It's really popular on here right now and it's beyond me why - but in this piece it looks like it might mean something, so I thought I'd go ahead and ask.
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