not exactly a serial commenter. But unlike a lot of the other things that I post about, my poetry is attached to me by blood-filled veins and nerve bundles, and when it looks like no one is reading it, it hurts. I truly can't help that. I wonder why I bother to share it at all. I am not trying to guilt anyone into commenting on this entry or fishing for praise, I just feel that it's important to express my honest feelings. This is not a poetry blog, most of you are not semi-professional poets like me, and I don't expect the whole Internet to erupt in a frenzy every time I add my words to it. So, I think what I'm trying to say is...if you want to comment, please do so. I would love the crap out of you. And if you don't, I'll love the crap out of you anyway. Both of these pieces - PARTICULARLY the second one - took a lot of emotional energy to write and have been crafted with extreme care. I can only hope that you enjoy them.
* * *I Love You, Truman Capote
Dead men drain me. Tweedy, Marmite-flavoured vampirism, but horripilating and essence-draining nonetheless. When one kneels before another and tells them in at least 65 different voices what they mean to one, and, after a fashion, the object of desire smirks peacock disdain, inclines chin, adjusts ascot, and withdraws into Interview
Oh, that Spanish vesication of the heart—blisters like sequins, Kansas mailbox a turgid bladder of flame. I bat intellectual eyelashes at Conan Doyle and Wodehouse till I puke—in mutuality, they always disappoint. Not unlike a cake that doesn’t taste as lovely as it looks. If forging a “real life” human connection is really that fucking important, well—we’d do better to leap from the top of mourning and go foxtrotting down Not Bloody Likely Street.
All else having failed, we embrace things. Pop songs about looking up at the stars so the tears can’t fall out of our eyes. Gay bildungsromane and tales of youthful doom and let’s go for a jaunt to Metebellus Four in the TARDIS. Manic artistes and swish celebrities, who don’t know we exist, never will. I love you, Truman Capote
, I might say. When I read
Other Voices, Other Rooms, I gargle poignancy.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s—tears ooze like candle wax. The impregnable silence in the room after I read
In Cold Blood—oh, and, by the way, fuck that Philip Seymour Hoffman film. I mean, if I’d seen a clip and didn’t already know that he was playing you, I might have eventually figured it out, but seriously.
Capote is a thick, woolen dressing gown. X-ray shield leaden, Catholic funeral awkward, bubonic plague serious.
Infamous, on the other hand, starring Toby Jones and Daniel Craig being very fucking legit indeed, was a Technicolor silk kimono. Flimsy, perhaps, a bit meretricious, but fierce as all hell. That film broke me in two—I am currently lying with my left half in the upstairs toilet and my right somewhere near the kitchen.
I am ululating my ass off at a man who's been gone for 27 years. Yet by him, my nucleus has been chloroformed and pinioned beneath a pendular blade. Dropped like a typewriter out of a hot air balloon. Kneaded into the shape of the end by a leather glove. Locked inside a violin case that throbs euphonic like a room of blood.
Why am I still here—feet planted at the bottom of the garden, hands perched atop the gatepost of cold unknown and vision?
* * *And Another Thing, Truman Capote
I am with you in Manhattan, where dragonflies swill Veuve Clicquot,
flit pitiful, slick lips, rip profiteroles from skulls’ mouths.
Spiders toeing wine drips like buffalo chips over tablecloths,
ochreous lilies fulminating from vases like bullet holes—
El Morocco sepulchre where gowns of liquid putrefaction
crescendo as you compose your chameleon music aforethought.
Message from Hinterlandia: you and I won’t be victims
of unintelligent design as buttonholes, homunculi,
bluebottles in glass jars. Susurrating in hateful Esperanto
at facsimiles of guttersnipes stripped to bones,
willing us to slow down, lower fists, tuck chins, give in.
The house whose rafters weep blood, tailor costumes
for would-be boys neglected in allergenic mental closets,
croaking to be known. Yesterday poems recycled as nests
for unreliabilities. Lights with no reason to be live.
Vultures throbbing with sleep. Telephonic prevarication.
I am with you in Kansas, where Perry Smith was finally hanged—
at your elbow, ultimate second, tearing out into rain.
Knowing someone—once dead—believe me,
my muse will wrap duct tape over her mouth.(c) Lauren Herrera, 2011
* * *
*makes pitiful attempt at maintaining dignity*
I'm gonna go snort some angst now.
Okay, lemme say something. I want to share a pair of poems on here; they are, respectively, the opener and closer of my thesis portfolio, and also the chapbook that I'm preparing. Whenever I do post poetry here, it gets ignored. I know all you nice people have lives and can't be buggered to comment on every single entry of every single blogger on your friends lists. I know