"In a Mirror, Darkly"
<< Peux-tu, veux tu me recevoir >>
I
Bad ideas don't come cheap take the use of 'crimson' to name our punk rock band really dumb young naïfs with no future ahead we bought into the dream in high school rocking out meant playing noise noise noise as the neighbors would say damned in our private hell four young men made music we came from garageland granted adding 'silence' after 'crimson' revealed our intent as unclear enter the killing fields deaf to hear how that sounds crimson silence were tools
ask the next door neighbor pounding the garage door he couldn't stand our sound creative Priam thought up our ludicrous name fans felt we were a scream rolling on the floor laugh out loud never to know how proud we were to play our bloodshed moniker I now repudiate as grandiose inane silly games pin the tail on the donkey spinning round blindfolded in fear stage fright we played off drunk as teens we couldn't care less about social rules
beyond high school I gave no thought to the future if I were college bound earning a scholarship in cross-country or track even though I got worse yellow with injuries fear and depression set in after freshman year on top of a torsion of the testicle pot helped to deal with the pain no one said no to drugs not among my friends bad trips we can't reverse damaged in the eighties my alcoholic dad taught me whom I should fear
II
Sitting under a bridge nowhere near Phnom Penh a red light beacon flashed evidently the source was not Holiday in Cambodia Pol Pot Colonial France Khmer Rouge or the Killing Fields but something less profound on LSD even a flashing red light seems clever although it clashed noticeably to ears used to a cymbal crash lip split from edge to bell dirty bloody knuckles against the snare drum rim this drummer watched the pier
as The End Cafe lurched toward the raging sea HB made a hard buck noteworthy to witness the early morning news caught the battered onslaught nothing to contribute no handles for our band but now I know Unwound united another group from Olympia three years after we split as Silence went defunct the drumsticks slipped my grip Proctor forced me to sell my beloved trap set on the cheap right bastard to his cunt friend the sheer
rip-off audacity to take full advantage of friends down on their luck egregious his abuse no real friend to Silence a spineless jellyfish Priam in name obscured this one brainless at base as libel stands stranger of name but facts remain to stand the test of time when depression unfit rapid as rabid dogs my brain for thirty years context my only wish topple the pier topple my band my teenage dream speeding toward danger
III
Whether they kicked me out of the band for missing a gig on Halloween or Priam and Zamir left to jam with Aram it no longer matters nobody cares what took place thirty years ago it keeps no one awake daylight enters the room I fall asleep in bed the pipedreams of a teen ended a splash cymbal cracked a drumstick I threw impaled into the wall remember those lost years smoke from my father's pipe dissipates in the air
Wishing never made much happen back then or now nobody knew the past informs every last step before the next the fog machine blows smoke scatters noticeable amounts of dry ice in the path of stage lights for the sake declared it looks damned cool we never got the chance to play at Budōkan outside Orange County nobody knew our sound we never got the call wonders never happen if you can't stick it out never say life's not fair
Wash off the soot and grime from inside the chimney fire burns what cannot last after the band broke up and our second attempt with just drum and bass failed soon as I sold my kit everyone moved away and I went stir crazy however many years spent learning karate I never made Shodan every reason happens because we want something but if our ship has sailed reason rears her wrecked face to remind us a harsh truth we were too lazy
IV
Shaved heads shorn clean of hair charged the air electric with brutal force to shock in awe a fear of war skinheads in flight jackets and combat boots brought hate curiously on stage to harangue and harass with physical abuse kings of the wild frontier from London to HB English Oi meant to rock
Meant to devour hardcore punk with Dischord straight edge straight outta DC's spleen under false pretenses skinheads appeared tougher than misfits born too late sick with antipathy even Baudelaire's muse couldn't rule out the deuce elegant as handsome demons Crimson Silence steered clear of throwing dice
Sinister to insist our band had a fighting chance in a dying scene covering cover bands extraordinaire their songs unoriginal takes unmistakable how the blues influences every version in style mark my words the fake book of standards came to rule punk like Sriracha sauce
Magick couldn't even save our band from doomsday when fate lowers the boom under circumstances beyond our control punk pulled the plug on our noise skill never caused failure our lack correlative to success pressed bad breaks ignorance of the law excuses no poet to unleash her black bile creativity came to me in words more than drum rhythms but for whom kill rock stars came after our demise our demo lost among childish toys
V
Since the band went defunct after eighty-seven the chance to perform live in front of a large crowd only took place during a poetry reading creativity took shape by means of the pen and a sheet of paper kindred spirits fellow travelers showed up for these events where we thrive
Maybe for a moment then burn out like a moth caught by the candle flame until I was twenty I thought I was hot shit I'd found my true calling sick in the brain my muse watched me spiral downward until I lost all sense energy low spirits followed me on the path up until our wedding
Six years later she filed for divorce confusion bit me like a viper crushed I moved to Hyde Park where I've lived for ten years I worked at the bookstore under the direction of the cellar dweller jack of all trades his name meant to hide or conceal in a Roman temple his demise caused falling
My days there were numbered by losing my aegis I lacked shield as defense unable to withstand the barrage of forces seeking my removal surrender seemed the right decision the only choice I had left was move in a fight for stalemate as endgame came swiftly I left out the front door chess ripples from center to edge in terms of power players know how brutal kind faces can become a duplicitous smile leaves a trace to disprove
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Biography
Rui Carlos da Cunha started writing poetry by mistake while trying to write lyrics for his band. He never successfully wrote any lyrics for the band; but continued to write poetry for over thirty years. If you like these poems please check out his blog:
He thanks you in advance for your interest in poetry and independent publishing like The Sick Muse.
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Introduction
My method for writing poetry may seem strange to people who don't see hidden techniques or rhyme schemes that defy convention. Each line is composed of three movements of six syllables each. Each stanza contains six lines of eighteen syllables. Each poem is made up of three stanzas of six lines per stanza. I remove line breaks in order for readers not to see or look for the rhyme scheme.
My rhyme scheme is functional but convoluted:
ABCADE FBCGDE FHIGHI
In addition to a hidden rhyme scheme and an apparent prose-style of verse, most of my poems lack punctuation to force the reader to slow down to read a poem. Lastly, nearly every poem of this format includes a hidden acrostic at the beginning of each line when taken apart. The acrostic form helps me while writing the poem with a given structure to work with. The first three poems in this series have the acrostics:
BRIDGE ACROSS BEYOND / SECOND ANNUAL REPORT / WONDER WINDOW WASHER
The last two poems have a different acrostic format:
SICK MUSE SCUM MUSICK
Acrostics may or may not say something down the three stanzas of each poem.
If viewed on a computer screen large enough to fit one long line of one hundred and eight syllables, each poem would appear as three separate long lines. Taken as a whole of thirty-seven poems the total line count of a set would equal six hundred sixty-six lines.
The number system is simply a mathematical game I play with and has no overriding attachment to ecclesiastical theological beliefs. The devil may be in the details but I don't believe in the Satan.
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