Great Exudations

“In reality, my art is a free confession, an attempt to clarify to myself my own relation to life.”

edvard munch

A dead rat don’t move

Unless you do its moving.

But let that steely stink

Of rat-rot drag itself back

Into the darkest cracks of your

Jelly-roll mind folds,

It will turn trapped,

Attack, and claw your dreams

Wide-wide awake.

—- Mortimer X

This is part of an experiment in poetry wherein I try to write with a different voice, one more raw and visceral, less rational. I call this alter-poet Mortimer X, for no specific reason other than he represents a certain puerile rebellion from my more lofty attempts at self-expression (high school chess club meets Malcolm X). Let me know what you think. As for Mortimer X himself, he couldn’t care less….

When ancient scrolls are bleached anew,

The paste set low to boil,

Their wisdom wafts above our land

In clouds as black as oil.

When sooted plaques enclot the stacks

And flags on masts have furled,

The skirling winds that switch and roll

Will coil then clap the world.