~Quodlibet (XLV-XLVIII)~
By WordWulf, 18th Apr 2011 | Follow this author
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Posted in WikinutWritingPoetry
~ pocketful of faith ~ drowning in three feet of water ~ the haves are purposefully indifferent ~ the have-nots don’t know the difference ~ there is no such thing as a child stranger ~ lions eat them anyway ~ are they cowards when they run away ~
- ~Hinge Philosophy~
- ~XLV. Poison by Definition~
- ~XLVI. Cries from the Heap~
- ~XLVII. Never-Mind Walls~
- ~XLVIII. Expendable~
~Hinge Philosophy~
A friend of mine suggested I take a stab at hinge philosophy as applied to writing. A man I admire and respect, I listened closely to his advice. As I understand it, hinge is writing events, seeing them as they appear in your mind, connected and recorded simply because of that. As I edit and rework Quodlibet it has occurred to me that the piece is an example of hinge writing. There is always background conversation, events occurring simultaneously in our minds while our bodies are involved in other activities such as driving the car or making love. So we may slip from a gruesome assassination while viewing an episode of Dexter into a sexual fantasy. The two may meld into a death/love scenario, which is real and which surreal. That distinction is a matter of perception and interpretation. I suppose I consider myself a minor hinge philosopher. A stone dapped on a pond continents afar and centuries between makes waves that tempt my senses and I realize all happenstance is connected and seldom what it appears. I don’t swim or fly in airplanes but my mind and spirit always have.
~XLV. Poison by Definition~
The man with the bible came
he stole their religion
life ain’t no watership
it sure as hell comes down
ain’t no thing born holy
some man spoonin’ up evil
they called him Jesus
and they blew his ass down
she make the wind
and blow my faith away
some kind o’ woman
I’m going to meet you
little bit o’ crazy in the afternoon
~XLVI. Cries from the Heap~
American Camp Interlude
a mournful cry from mountain speak
they are dirges on the wind
a city weeps its promises
and broken citizens call
“Help us with your dollar more
a crust, a can of beans”
Beggars born and prisoners
violent babies created
shaped by the hand of man
Who am I Mister Mister
A flood of doubt remains
five percent dance on the faces of the rest
~XLVII. Never-Mind Walls~
Children, we are no house apart
whose face Creator seize divided
those eyes closed, each beating breast
never-mind walls existent
when open hearts cease restriction
refuse to erect walls anew
these barriers standing will fall
La-la-la-la, a Children we are
nothing less, so the more
we may come to be a bit
of what we were a-when
there were strangers everywhere and yet
none strangers, welcome all
~XLVIII. Expendable~
We are ant people
we crawl carefully through life
a humbling load on our back
the lion people, they fuck us
take our crumbs away
we beg for what is left to survive
anger wins us over until they roar
we are born coward on their breath
these fierce beasts in the city
make currency of our flesh
wipe themselves on our skin
wad us up, throw us away
~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Introduction By~
~Rune~
~Howling Dog Press/Omega~
~Quodlibet (XXVII-XL)~
Comments
19th Apr 2011 (#)
Powerful stuff this Hinge writing, I like it... and you are right it is they way we think...free flowing yet connecting somehow blending into one thought. Wonderful poetry I enjoy reading it and have learned so much form your unique and artful style...thank you.
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19th Apr 2011 (#)
Thank-yoiu, Delicia. I am glad to find a sub-genre to fit into, I think. Michael Annis informed me I was a genre unto myself. That's a scary hidey hole:-)
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22nd Apr 2011 (#)
Your originality and creativity are amazing! Thanks!
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26th Apr 2011 (#)
I agree with Mike and Delicia--this genre suits you. Very potent writing, this war of 'ants and lions'. You're a true artist.
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