If you follow this blog, I probably should have let you all know that I write for my own site now. Like, a site whose title isn’t followed up with a secondary tag that tells people its a blog. It’s called The Distant Close-Up, I advertise it as much as possible and I write movie reviews for it every Monday-Friday. Just posted a review for Spider-Man: Homecoming, in fact, so go check that out (if you notice that it was posted today and not Friday, yeah… there was a wedding this past weekend and it was… uh… something).
But I started that site around five months ago, meanwhile this has been sitting around untouched, and it wouldn’t feel great on my conscience knowing that I just left something I started to die without so much as a word. So, I’ve been thinking about what I could use this blog for now that the film reviews are elsewhere.
And then it occurred to me: why not put up the poetry/song lyrics/unrelated other writing things I create on here?
Trust me, I can feel your eyes rolling, too, and I realize that’s definitely not why you chose to follow this blog. But one thing I’ve grown to understand the older I’ve gotten and the more I’ve posted such things on social media: nobody gives a shit.
Well, that’s not true. Some people do, but in large part, you can hear the crickets chirping in your head the second you hit ‘post’ – at least, that’s how my mind works.
But, I’ve felt a great urge to start writing poetry/songs again recently, and even if I post something out into the figurative, comparative ether, I’d feel better knowing it was out there somewhere. I really don’t like keeping the things I write to myself, and I’d much rather share them with people; see what they think about my writing, but also see if they can connect with it, as well. Though I listen to a lot of hardcore punk and death metal (among other completely non-similar things), I’m much more comfortable and confident with content that’s more personal than politically charged, primarily because that’s what I feel I’m best at. Just to give you all an idea of what to expect if you choose to stay.
So, the first thing I’ve got is a song/poem called “Williamsburg,” named after that small college town in Virginia I was privileged to call home for four years. The song is about nostalgia, its ineffectiveness and its lack of practicality. In reality, I am a very nostalgic person, but I wanted to approach the concept with a nihilistic vision (which will definitely be a common theme of the things I post here), and make cathartic use of some past demons, as well.
Essentially, this song would be addressed to all of the wonderful friends I made during my time there, with me asking them to cut me out of my life before I do it to them. I will admit, there is a part of me in the darkest corners that feels the temptation to purposefully alienate myself from all loved ones and feel content in loneliness. It’s supposed to come across as darkly caustic and sarcastically bitter, and I hope it does for you. I’m very much influenced by Keith Buckley of Every Time I Die, mostly his current latter day period where he remains as acerbic and clever as he ever was, but is just as emotionally evocative.
And if you’re curious about why I write in a kind of song structure, that’s because hopefully I’ll be able to use them for a band I’ll be forming relatively soon.
Without going on any longer than is necessary, enjoy:
Take me out to pasture where the sun don’t shine
’cause I’m fixin’ for an itchin’ just to make me blind.
So bring your scalpels closer and I’ll say I’m fine.
The darkness ain’t much better, but I’ll know it’s mine.
Your familiar faces
are pill pushers in the wake of death.
The first round was on the house,
each next high was all that was left.
A snake oil that saved skin,
but it still cracked with every touch.
I’m starting to wonder where I’d be
if I had only had enough.
How do you expect
to hold it all in?
Not even the best lens
could make it all fit.
Take me out! Take me out!
I shambled down to Heaven when I took the wrong fork
’cause all the liquid grain inside me locked the Devil’s door.
The voices in my head were all accounted for,
but I missed the pictures with them on the cutting floor.
Thought the knife was dull; couldn’t carve no more,
but the axe made the bark lose its permanence.
I could write your names all around the roots
’cause futility gets lost in decadence.
Picture to flame,
death without help.
If y’all don’t take me out,
I will excuse myself!
(By the neck)