Dee’s SST9 First Draft

1 Jun

Okay, It is a bit late. I really struggled with it so it is incomplete and will probably be restructured and completely flipped by next week. It is told from the perspective of the church floor so let me know if this works as I did not want it to be a ‘hey guys, please feel sorry for me’ kind of poem. I’m still really not happy with it so even posting it is making me cringe, deadlines ey, but here goes……..

What shall I say of the debris of deliverance cemented into my plywood eyes?
That which the stained glass has refused to speak of
blessed curtains scolding unspoken memories into forgetfulness.
Who shall speak of these tears melting through my layered skin?
of sulfuric repentance that drips from weary tear-ducts
They scream from their mistakes
Knowing, that I too cant save them.
But I try anyway.
Who shall speak of the 16 year old sweating from the sin of love?
Of the mother whose chest heaves of resentment.
She hides behind a soaked handkerchief
tilting a shameful body towards the embracing pulpit that stands on my head
They tread over me, but don’t know it.
I am the ground they stand on
yet, they do not notice me.
Just a quick overlook of my soft wood
that has nested, mud painted boots to saint’s shoes
I am the floor that sinners look to when burdened by sacks of sin on their eyelids
too ashamed to turn to heaven
they look at me.
Though today, it’s a celebration.
I feel it from the twerk of their feet into my polished pores
they, reacquaint me with the dust of childhood
Dragging it through rhythmic soles
Of drugged skies that mated with the slumbering leaves of dawn.
Before, I became, this
laminated ground
feeling more fragile everytime a foot greets me with its shin
Layered planks from useless veneers glued together
that never was quite good enough for stylish but good enough for cheap
so they bought me.
Toddlers, leap through the spell of a Sunday morning
they skittle around like scattered ants on a pesticide raid
Men, choked with the complacency of loose noose knotted ties
around buttoned collar-necks
Darting their eyes for the saviour
though that one right there, looks in pulling directions
his eyes, crawling though the pumpkin bubbled bottom of
the choir girl with the mermaid vocals and constrained torso.
They are dressed as if to die.
Pearls, slitting icy foundations on women’s collarbones.
Its a celebration.
The tambourine soprano greets my chipped ears
Followed by the alto of the drum
that vibrates through my wooden hips, they stomp and clamp to the united chorus of how he
“keeps on doing great things”….
is, able to do “exceedingly abundantly above”
can “break every chain of demonic bondage”
How he metamorphises sinners to priesthood.
Then I see her.
She does not smile as brightly as the rest.
Instead, she builds a home in the corner of self hate
Her face, seething with that which she can not stand to look at anymore.
She builds a fortress from the kinky tangled knots on her head
that declared her difference
from the first stutter of a step through holy doors.
She asks herself why?
Why her?
Why this time again?
Why this curse had been tattooed into her DNA
a metastatic tyranny of identity
that she was destined to conquer for the greater good of glory
A freak show existing for the saved.
Though this time, no one had paid for entrance.
Fear, claws its way through her throat
arresting the suicide spit caught in the cages of a timid digestive pathway.
her lips, teeter to a stop as she bleats out the words
“Lord save me from myself”…. again
A euphoric slaughter of the possessed lamb
They, call to the heavens
against, the Hades playing ping pong with her mind
drunk in her confusion
head, in the tablet of her hands
she dares not to look up.
I feel her
in the Niagara of her tears
that dance on the planks of my stomach.
they remind me of the rain that once cooled my skin on tropical roofless nights.
Her feet do not stab me like the others
they do not choreograph a calculated chorus of expectant miracles reflecting off the ceiling
clapping away at her insecurities
children, running past but never too close
intrigued, yet cowering from a danger that mummy had told them about
but never truly explained.
a boogeyman reincarnated
they dare not touch her.
I feel her acid wails
drowned by the accapella recital of belief.
They bellow to her
sending the most courageous to tap her with timorous hands
ready to free her from the shackles of transgression…
that which had been made in teenage sheets
with curious hands and open basket hearts
falling for the harvest of loves autumn
without realizing that love
came, cloaked in the mask of gender.
They were simply wearing their faces wrong
so could never be together.
She hiccups her way to my head
to the pulpit mounting with her salvation.
Tripping from disgrace
from the chanting stares that lynch her reality
of the fact that melanin was never meant to mix with itself as such.
Two open vaults never meant to coexist without a stick.
She needed a key to be complete
felt the scolding of the walls that echoed the dialed down chatters of her sin
passed through buzzing eardrums
a spectacle jubilation,
waiting
for the magician destined to scrub her from the damnation of putrid desires.
she flings harsh knees to my heart,
her trembling palms caressing the grains of my chizzled flesh.
We are one in rejection
in invisibility
sewn together by the stitches of imperfection…..
She feels alone
though I am here……………
Its almost done, just sort of needs a good ending/point, restructuring and to be looked at a bit more but yeah, this what I have for now.
Denie
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3 Responses to “Dee’s SST9 First Draft”

  1. MouthyPoets June 2, 2015 at 9:36 am #

    This is good especially the view point I feel like it loses it way half way through maybe cut bits you don’t like and spiral back from there .neal

  2. MouthyPoets June 3, 2015 at 11:04 am #

    Hey Dee,

    Firstly, thank you for posting despite it being really difficult for you – I really appreciate that! I don’t think you should feel cringe at all I think it is a really solid first draft and I feel like the poem is in there.

    There was lots and lots and lots of description in here, beautiful, intense, difficult description and I wonder if a challenge might help you in this point. Could you write a really simple direct version of this poem? Like

    I was standing here.
    A Pastor said X.
    I sat down.
    X walked in.

    … Do you get me? A short, simply, version with no descriptive words, just a logging of events in the poem?

    Then this might help you work out:
    1. where to end the poem
    2. what you might be able to cut/refine in the poem
    3. you might be able to add some of these lines to ad some clear concise movement/direction amongst the flood of descriptive emotion (that I actually really like but it would be nice to have some clear action to hold onto amongst it all).

    Does this make sense? Give it a go and let me know what you think. Feels like a really important poem and I definitely don’t feel like it’s an ‘feel sorry for you’ kind of poem at all.

    Debris

  3. Anne June 4, 2015 at 10:32 pm #

    Really impressed that you’ve gone with this idea. Love the fact that you are writing from the view point of the floor, some great description, light and dark, I feel the sense of disappointment from the floor, abandonment which works really well. I feel like I need to print this out and read a hard copy as its rammed with stuff! But I’m going to wait until your next draft I think.
    Hope you give debris’ idea a go as a way into structuring this as I think it’s a really useful tool.

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