Worm and Zee Writing

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I remember telling an English teacher that what most inspired me to be a writer was Lewis Carroll. She was surprised by this, saying she would never have guessed based on my writing. This English teacher was and still is one of our greatest supporters, so I want to thank her to the moon and back, but I also want to give Worm tremendous thanks as well. When I had told that teacher that Lewis Carroll is what inspired me to start writing, I had forgotten the most important moment of my writing career. Even though Lewis Carroll is my favourite author and his works have given me inspiration and majorly influenced my writing, the person who actually inspired me to become a writer was Worm. She was the one who proposed we write Ignorance and Bliss—the works which I feel mark when I began considering myself a writer. Her writing has sparked my writing, her skill has led me to strive towards improvement myself, so much of what makes me the writer I am today has been from the direct impact Worm had and continues to have on me. So, let’s shout it in unison,

THANK YOU WORM !!!! YOU ARE THE BEST !!!!!

at the dock with my brother.

the water laps at the shore.

the birds call to eachother.

the sand bites my knees.

i wish for more caladiums & flowers

over the concrete which has paved its stay.

it is a beautiful day.

i am paranoid as he photographs the flora—

i am far from fond of being near cameras.

writing captures well enough for me, after all,

but i supposed i know i am wrong.

nothing remembers better than photographs do.

there is a lonely bloom like the shortest sunflower i’ve ever seen.

the wind has picked up, & in the distance i hear geese.

there is an outlier here i see; a large flower among a bush of small.

i wish i could name it of the top of my head.

it looks sad—

its leaves are spotted brown,

its head is hung down,

it stares at the ground.

there is a little white moth here,

it’s maybe as mere as my thumbnail.

it is quite cute,

although it looks like a tooth.

the lake sings in waves,

a mother’s morning lullaby.

the water rolls as it meets the boat ramp,

then it folds in on itself, then over again;

sisyphus could never toil so much as nature does,

and nature does toil for no crime at all.

I have the urge to write.

About what? I don’t quite know.

A prompt would help me think,

But I want to write lost.

I struggle to fully ignite

My mind, like fire to snow—

A snuffed match does but sink

Into the half-melted frost.

I have the urge to write,

And nothing else will do.

I have nothing to write about,

But I shall write either way.

I once gave my mind flight,

And with ease it then flew;

Delicate wings it had sprout,

And it has since been astray.

Echoing in the light spaces, ringing in the bright places,

Living where my heart races, dwelling within the walls I hit,

Is a little room in which I sit; a little room in which I barely fit;

A little room that lets me soar; a little room with winds that roar;

A little room with a messy floor. But I care not about the dirt

When my ribs hang, heave, hurt, and tears down my cheeks do flirt,

So cocky, with the ghost of amusement that my body cannot refuse

To humour as like to a bruise brushed on my skin in a flit, quick,

Left with a kiss; a smidge of wormwood lipstick on my flickering lit wick;

It burns like the bright yellow sun, so warm and it I so gladly beckon;

It follows at first but ahead I let it run, as it I so gladly lose sight of;

It disappears like a fussing dove, and I let it fly to the spaces above.

I let it fly to the light spaces above; soar in winds which roar and shove;

Tear down the sky with claws and love. The light spaces of my chest

Trap my heart without rest when it wails and writhes and is wrest.

The bright places of my skull are maintained by beeswax candle

A-many; the flames, frigid, unsnarl that stubborn, sanguine glee

Which I had fought fire to be free of, but yet I never could be.

A blank and empty page

swims and sweals and wisps away.

The edges recoil from the blaze,

but seen doesn't mean saved.

A blackend, ruined paper

fights and bites and burns.

The flame is all yours,

the ashes remember.

A black hole opens in the booklet,

all-consuming, and wholly swallows it.

It claws, thrashes, goes out in a fit,

drowns in embers until the pain quits.

Snap. Snap. Snapping.

Snarl. Snarl. Snarling.

Bare its bare, broken teeth—

bite, bleed, but barely skin deep.

With light footsteps,

in light foxtrot,

it fights, roots set,

in fury of rot.

Growling, hissing,

gone, long missing,

a murmur, muffled,

murdered, it mumbles.

Hardly heard, hardly here.

Its heart hums—who hears?

How high it must hiss, hurt,

to be buried in bloodied dirt.

Love like a listless soul

stuck on river Styx, lulled

by lonely, lost screams

of sinners in daydreams.

bury me in the garden ,

carpe diem , for i die .

thus always to tyrants ,

but let me surrender this fight .

i want to yield , i want to sway .

i want to feel , my own way .

danse macabre over graves ,

stomping on the hearts of knaves ,

whilst the queen sits on her throne —

a cracked-to-bits gravestone .

i want to deal , i want to play .

i want to feel , my own way .

i know time is fleeting , fickle .

the sands slip past my fingertips

in a slow , swift , steady trickle .

enjoying fun realises tempus fugit .

i want to heal , i want to fray .

i want to feel , my own way .

memento mori , i hear her whispers ;

lady death , you cannot miss her .

as eternal deep calleth unto deep .

my eternal deep is a sea of sleep .

i want to reel , i want to lay .

i want to feel , my own way .

Not often do I think;

"It should have been me."

I quite like to pride myself

on the appreciation of others.

I like to think, think, think,

"They have worked

long and hard

and deserve all that they get."

I quite like to be

kind.

Or, as kind as I can be.

And I like to help, where I can.

I would not consider myself envious—

and it is because of this, that I would say

that not often do I think;

"It should have been me."

But tonight, I admit,

that I dream a horrible dream.

I dream of Her fingers in my hair,

and Her laugh in my ear.

Touch dancing on skin, a want

so visceral

that I've begun to peel away

where I dream Her hands lay.

I dream of Her,

and She is the sun,

and a ring in my eyes She makes

because I will never look at anything

the same way.

Not often do I think;

"It should have been me."

But, goodness, sometimes—

Sometimes I dream an envious dream,

and sometimes I wish I were someone else.

That way, I'd get the pleasure

of meeting Her

(This poem contains spoilers for the Iron Lung film)

Golden honey fit for a god, a queen, a jester.

Amber pain cries from my soul like rain on soil.

I bleed gold, do you call me wealthy or lesser?

I bleed honey, do you call me lovely or leave me to rot?

Buzzing fills my head, a hive of bees

Busy distracting me from my thoughts.

I am at a loss.

Let me try, let me thrive,

Let me feast among beast and men,

Let me be, let me cry, let me die.

Dine fine on my flesh, I am your ambrose.

Fine wine at my best, I am your nectar.

Shine fine, douse my heart, I am your ambrose.

Fine line, cross my stars, I am your nectar.

Golden honey fit for a god, queen, or jester.

Amber running like tears cutting down rosy cheeks.

Divine feasts are surplused with a glowing nectar.

You not need lie through bleary eyes and salty streaks.

I dreamt a dream where I’d seen a world inside-out.

You stood there, I was scared, my thoughts were a pyre.

The clouds lay heavy with many droplets of doubt.

Smoke rose around me, grey surmounting up higher.

A courtesy of Dionysus—we sing skolia and serve wine

At this symposium. Like a ghost, you linger longer in the hall

Until it’s long past dusk. The cheer leaves my ears ringing after we dine

And drink and dance our worries away. Echoes now ring off the wall.

Now in the night we near eachother, alone for this while.

And for a brief heartbeat, I see you genuinely smile.

　I am stalking through spring fields, snow fading and sun flaming, when a shadow overhead looms. My initial thought is relief; finally, refuge from the heat. The second is hesitation; halting and, to the a-hovering thing, heeling my head back to heed it.

　The revenant veers, reels back, and the soft sun sees down on my eyes once more. Then it bears its teeth, rings of ivy weaved among weeping rust. No slight fragment of fear sings in my soul at the sight. The breeze brushes against my bruised skin gently, so gently, and I face the foreboding figure with a friendly smile—a defence valiant against its snarling thorns. And yet it bites, metal against monster in a murderous moment; it snaps a soaring jet with its jaws, engine sputtering with bramble juttering through wings man-made.

　With a hidden caution in the crested shadows it casts, the creature lowers its form, looming still as it leans to let the jet onto the soft field in front of me. Blood and scraps of metal and machinery and fuel and whatever else to see from such a sight sprawls at my feet. The world is mine. The thing—thorns, fangs, and all—bows to me, and I sense its fear in the air mixed with the foul smells of the mangled metal fowl. The world is mine. I decline.

　This thing, so tall, thinks I am the threat. This thing, with bared teeth and barbed thorns in a wreath, thinks it must submit to me. This thing that seized a jet by the throat from the sky thinks the world is mine. I pity it. I deny it. I am a mere fraction of its height. The world is mine, it fears. I decline.

　Backwards I step, a droplet in an infinite waltz of life, and the revenant rears its head and rams its antlers of rowan and willow and twisted wood into the remains of the plane, insisting that the world is mine. I still decline.

　Then the creature, distraught by the thought that I disapprove of its present, takes the plane with its paws and bats it off over mountain and forest and sea, past the horizon, off the end of the planet. Tremendous, the echo carries across the world from end to end, and as chaos rings and people scream, I still stand there in the spring-green field. The world is mine, it whispers as the whole world roars. I decline, as the world seems to be yours.

Poetic words dance, still.

Pages rustle, then spill.

A pen to paper it meets,

and from ink, the poem bleeds—

a weary wish of shallows deep.

Empty rooms blushed by dust,

dirt, dead buds, smell of rust.

And roses lie in the streets.

To be admired, not seen.

Pulp on pavement, they cannot weep.

A pot in the window.

Dreams on wire wound low.

Kept safe and sound by the sheets,

you imagine life is threading beads.

Flowers shower you in your sleep.

…

Petals of white beauty.

Pure and divine Calla lilies.

They call my name with a burning fervour,

and lure me even closer, ever further.

Stars in blue constellations;

clustered blossoms are Chatham’s giants.

They beg, “forget me not”, they beg in tears,

they beg and beg, and beg yet to deafened ears.

Blood on thorns, loss and love.

Vines entwined, arched above.

Rosy cheeks and church bells sing.

Union to ruin, a broken ring.

…

A present from all not,

sits on the shelf to rot.

Life gifts you foxgloves, a freit,

hydrangeas, and morning glories.

But all you see are red fires you keep.

Shade of trees give for all

love of mother floral.

The sun blazes down in warbling heat.

Leaves fall in yellows, browns, and greens.

The willow will always wilt and weep.

Koi; stand tall, wise, and great.

Love the life left of late.

Whites and golds, a gasp that fleets.

Carpe diem, the day you seize.

Overhead, droplets shimmer, take a leap.

I run my hands along the walls of this room.

Stanza means room in Italian.

Every step taken I count;

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…"

There is no light, no sight. It's pitch dark.

"Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six." I meet an end.

This room is large isn't it? Fifty-six paces.

Though, there are flaws to my imagination.

I did not put one foot after the other with no gaps.

So I suppose I must do it all again.

Why am I counting how large the room is?

I should be looking for an exit. Except it's barren.

There are no windows. There are no doors.

There is no light switch. No texture on the walls, even.

'Word' in French is 'terme'.

Terme also means 'end'.

Terme also means 'boundary'.

Terme also means 'duration'.

I have found the terme of this stanza.

The borders of this room I'm stuck in.

Does he ever sleep at night?

Or does he just keep rolling that boulder higher,

failing every time yet continuing to try reaching Hade’s sky,

nevermind that it holds no light?

And even yet, it’s not near high enough—it’s never near high enough—to reach any end, to escape Tartarus, to escape punishment!

So all the while, his labours meet palms roughened and time worthless and a whole world palled to this slope; his home, the soil he plods along up and down forevermore.

One must imagine, wonder, is Sisyphus content?

Does he find a purpose in this punishment?

Or does he curse his own hubris under his breath?

Does he wish the gods would look away and let him rest?

What happens if Sisyphus falters?

Does the boulder roll down, regress?

Does he risk his own blood shed?

One must imagine, one must wonder,

what goes through his mind?

It is only speculation, you can only theorise.

Is Sisyphus afraid of death and blight?

Or is he used to it? Numbed to it?

Turning a blind eye? Or waiting for even more to die?

One must imagine, wonder, does Sisyphus cry?

Or has he accepted his fate and ignored his hurt pride?