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I am the decaying. by ~BeeCrest:iconBeeCrest:



I am the decaying

There is no spoon,
no hunger,
the soup will spoil...

The bowl's audience
is a one man show;
the spectacular joke.

The moldy bread
cannot compare
with his sitting act
of sludged responses.

It's a whisper
of clunky exhales,
Dribbles of blinks,
and subtle rocking.

And his interaction;
confusing the meal.
He says he is 57,
but the knife heard 17,
and the tablecloth 83.

He also does magic.
The blood vanishes
into the rotting floor
as it runs off lips
and fingernails,
elbows and ears...

There is no pulse,
no response,
so the soup will spoil
after the man
takes a bow
He'll never rise from.
Creative Commons License
Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
:iconbeecrest:

Author's Comments

This is what I come up with after being sick for a couple of days with some nasty cough, and feel the stabs of stress in my chest. I think they've penetrated a lung, or have pierced the breast plate. The end of this piece has been more or less BS-ed as well cuz I only wrote up to magic in my notebook.

And I have no idea what this poem means. I'm too freaked out to care...

Comments


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:icondeltabeta:
WHOA!!! Are you sure you don't know what this means really? This is amazing...It is about a man who has lived lies and doesn't know how to fully express his feelings he then realizes that all his life he were not feeling the truth inside, so he just passed on. The objects he surrounded himself with even knew how torn he was...This is great! :D I love it! :D

--
I've left DeviantArt Because of this: [link]
:iconsomething44:
Nice poem! Love the flow in it. Plus, the imagery really helped build up the atmosphere. Good job!

--
Some people say they haven't yet found themselves. But the self is not something one finds; it is something one creates.
:iconshimaandtempis:
You are an incredible poet, hun. I really, really like these, but this stanza really stands out to me:

"And his interaction;
confusing the meal.
He says he is 57,
but the knife heard 17,
and the tablecloth 83."

Honestly, that was my favorite. You may be ill, but your mind is still working!!

--
My only accomplishment as an artist is I got fanart into Newtype USA's April 2006 issue. But hey, that's works for me.
:iconbeecrest:
...That totally works for me XD

And well, I haven't tried to analyze it. Hell, I was just writing how I sorta felt. Monday night I was feeling really shitty from being sick, and just just ended up writing something with a somewhat grotesque scene. Then I read "Moulin Rouge Spectacular Spectacular" on a site so I decided to incorporate acting into it with the idea of seeing an act when all the man is doing is sitting. Not as trivial as an infamous speaker merely sitting in lecture halls as people listen to his silence, but it works. And it just made a circle into death where the soup is still there spoiling, but the man is gone in a sense. The soup honestly came from me eating a bowl of soup (the only thing I ate that day) and feeling worse as I ate it. And again, the grotesque nature is me feeling like crap (although I'm sure your infection has been much worse from how it sounds x.x). All in all I didn't think too much about the meaning behind it >__>

Yeah, my explanation really didn't give a meaning, and is just long. I'll goes with yours XD He's definitely living lies though, cuz I have been as well. *cough*

--
If I were a tachikoma, I'd link up to someone meditating and download enlightment.

:dygel:
:icondeltabeta:
Well I guess I interpreted this poem pretty well. :D

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I've left DeviantArt Because of this: [link]
:iconfllnthblnk:
I agree with ~ShimaAndTempis--I loved that stanza in particular.

--
Clearfield Review: Prose, Poetry, Art.
:icondeathtothemannequins:
I <3 your flow of words and how you play each off the other.

--
"A creative mind can be a gift and a curse, offering fantastic inspiration one moment, but wild suggestions of impending doom the next." -K-os

I claimed Walter from Hellsing at Bishie-Stalkers-Club! (Hahaha, he's mine biatches!)
:iconpenfencer:
The first line threw me, as "There is no spoon" instantly brought The Matrix to mind, but I enjoyed the poem once I got past that stumbling block and read it all the way through. I particularly liked this part:

"And his interaction;
confusing the meal.
He says he is 57,
but the knife heard 17,
and the tablecloth 83."

Normally I'd want those numbers written-out, but I like them as digits in this instance.

Details

March 11, 2008
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