April, of course, is National Poetry Month in the US.
Happy birthday, Shakespeare/Edward de Vere. And Wisdom Quarterly did an in house call for submissions. The rules were easy: "Repurpose something fun that tells a higher truth." Lately, we have been listening to a lot of
grindcore, an extreme genre of death metal from
Earache Records most people cannot swallow.
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| "Do it, do it, do it, you know you want to" |
Three British vegans invented it (because
vegans rock harder), and it changed American music. It was
Occupy Los Angeles close to the end, before the literally "jackbooted thugs" of the LAPD Riot Squad stormed the peaceful encampment to cheering
LA Times reporters sitting in the sidelines, after the "American Spring" was subvert by police state spies. And if
Aleksa, the "face of the movement," can be a
Cradle of Filth fan and a great kisser, why
wouldn't Wisdom Quarterly have been listening to
Carcass?
Then
MARA [the personification of death in Buddhism] said to me:
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| Selena G. listens to more than Justin B. (wwtdd) |
"Strike up
The discordant underture,
This carnal cacophony,
Perversely penned,
Transposed and decomposed
On strings fashioned from human twine."
I ask why,
But Mara carries on:
"Lovingly wound and fretted upon my bow,
Garishly incinerated.
All the dead resonate
In final death-throes."
I was vibrant as I thrashed
In movements scripted for the dead...
Orchestral horrors Mara vehemently conducts.
My corpus concertos were cordial.
I was disinterred and detuned,
All six feet below
In harmony with the deceased.
In our pre-teens we walk around every day with the knowledge that our body is about to change. We don’t know exactly when or how. All we know is that it will happen and we will come out the other end a different person.
This American Life hears from kids who are reluctantly facing puberty...any minute now. Producer Nancy Updike takes some personal questions about
death and dying to a place where they are happening all the time, the hospice.
LISTEN
Mara explained:
"My inspiration is your disintegration.
You're my latest masterpiece!
The score creeps your flesh."
All my notes seeped from sinewy frets.
"But, no, don't hold your breath," Mara added,
"As you wait for your God, or The Void, or the
Abyss of Nothingness."
Mara knew, Mara knew, and said:
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| We live our lives in blue bras and wretchedness. |
"Your usefulness is not through.
Your productivity will resume
In sordid, soiled handicrafts."
It was my afterlife's handicap.
The corrupt crescendos
Leaving me out on a
limboAnd down on my knees.
I could not rest in my piece, rest in my piece.
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| Christian terrorists in Egypt (us.msn.com) |
With deadly dynamics
I'm dead, buried, and barred,
My remains dampened and fingered,
My mortal coil barbed.
The death-bells are peeling
Ringing out as I flake
Shrieking out their recitals
In celebration of my wake.
Enter my funereality
My world two metres under
A curious habitat
A muddy trench to plunder.
Pass on to ethereality
Churned out under the sextant's blade.
We live our lives in wretchedness,
And
death is no escape.
And
Death is no escape.
Another good poem was based on Boxxy and Carlie Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe," the bestest song in the history of music...except for Katy Perry's pre-girl kissing Christian rock. But it's X-rated, so let's just remind readers who "Boxxy" is, the most beautiful girl on the WW Web.
