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[it’s a metaphor, metaletitpour]
JCD Kerwin

stab the stylus
into skin
[rip];
place the paper
‘gainst my heart:
pulp and fiber flitter
[drip].
sanguine rivers
slip
‘round my toes:
mix it with
ink to turn
my veins to black.
fill the room with
keats’s breathings from
my asphyxiating
lungs
while you
feast on dusty bones.
cover your painted eyes
with
masks to hide
death falling new
upon the floor.

(December, 2013)

Waltz of the Flydragon

Had something. Then I didn’t. Then I did. Still not sure. All I know is I was mad/upset about something at the time. Also, “fly” ‘cos its usually considered insignificant, but a dragon isn’t…Yeah…Get it? I tried.

And I this still needs work.

Waltz of the Flydragon
JCD Kerwin

I pound fists against the wasteland like I’m beating out the reflection on the windowpanes, the reflection I don’t want to see that the world keeps shining back; the one I want to make fade into a thousand shattered Neverwases and Yestermemories. I phantomdream. I phantomdream in the claustrophobic every days, silently dreaming everyone’s pandemic voices into some sort of half-assed remedy for the moment’s pain. I make-believe. I make-believe of happy fucking butterflies and hackneyed, skipping stones gallivanting across Walden pond made tepid and trivial in every grownup’s dead and buried imagination. Maybe I will take a boat and sail, stop and drop an anchor, and wait until the whole damn vessel sinks. The dead water to carry us home like all the ships before.… (The sea maiden and me: We will dance in suspension like the frost fish.)

But I am not finished.

I light up cities and jump-start my own heart, shouting at gods like I’m Oblivion. I will stare at you with glowing irises, like I am captured, freeze-framed in the night by a thousand spotlights. Catch your own lost dreams within my eyes; count your memories and fairytales within the spark. I make supernovas collide. But someday when I’ll dance on cosmic stars, you won’t see because you never opened your eyes. My heart will skip beats and you will miss it when I leave the room, miss it when I grab hold of whatever dragon I dug from whatever faraway mountain I dreamed, once upon a time.…

Now I inhale, breathe ink dust, and explode.

(August, 2013)

Ink Trails

Now that I read this, I’m not at all fond of it. Even after revising the thing, it is, quite frankly, shite. (But isn’t that how we always think of our stuff?)

My paper boat by Aljaz Toman (sharkowskixchaos on devaintART)

Ink trails
JCD Kerwin

We used to sleep ‘till noon on Sundays because on Saturday nights we drowned in Manhattan, drinking each other under the city moon. Just tasting you made me an alcoholic.

You missed Louisiana and crayfish. I promised to take you back to wooden bridges and hot summer days as soon as I finished chasing my dreams. You never waited. I lost you where my eyes turned violet in the dark; the place we watched the stars all night and dreamed we weren’t at all that small.

We made origami from newspapers that belonged to homeless men who died upon the streets.

I remember paper boats in the distance and laughing in the night. We never listened to voices that told us Forever might someday end.

I watched you drift away on our paper ship; I watched you sink and fade, soggy to the sea. Paper ink floated with your hair while your smile became lost among the Funnies.

Now I stand on skyscrapers, sending paper airplanes into the city-sea. I watch them sail away with every memory of you.

(Nov. 2011)

Bring a Jacket When You Leave

I’ve moved a lot of my stuff off this online art community. I do enjoy lots of the art and some rather cool people on there, but as a whole, I guess I never felt it was much of a “community” (more like a middle school). I really never thought it was very beneficial in terms of helping one grow as an artist, either. Hell, the best critiques I ever got weren’t even when I was in college, which is where I should have gotten them. I–

I digress.

Here’s a poem. But first, some background: M has blue eyes, thus the “Blue.” Also, I’m a painter. “Majored” in it as well as writing  in high school. There you go. Now go have fun. Remember to zip up your jacket. It’s cold outside.

Knickamickarickatee
J.C.D. Kerwin

[The artist hasn’t slept in days.]

I’m stuck inside my head again,
It’s nice to be back insane
and kicking.

I can’t escape the lyrics
I keep overplaying in my mind.
They keep the blood dripping from
my forehead and the acid from
burning down my spine.

[Keeps me on my toes, you know.]

I twitch explosions in my sleep
when the nightmares come calling
and my nails start clawing
at skin that sticks like film
to bone.

I’ve been smoking pencils
like they’ve got nicotine
but nothing’s really
like it seems.
(Just like these poems
I think are gold but
are really chicken shit on paper.)

I splutter, scribble
half-written pieces of
abstract paintings I can’t even get
myself to buck up and paint
anymore.
I stomp them to pieces
on the floor.

[They were fun, once upon a turpen-time.]

I got hiccups in my head,
so I cough blood onto paper
like Pollock stains
hoping the word ink pains
splatter something better
than these level five migraines
I can’t escape.

I got my squirt guns blazing,
so I sit here waiting
for the inkblooddrops to start forming
words to make sense of worlds
I’m avoiding
with coffee cups and headphones
every bullshit droning day.

Time to give it a rest with the bullshit,
fairytalehero reason that’s not pleasing
to anyone, no one,
anymore.

Maybe these dirty ketchup stains
only look good on broken refrigerators
with crying compressors
after all.

[I spell sauve moi in the tomato sludge.]

Nov., 2011
Revised September 2015