conquistadors -- first state
May. 16th, 2001 04:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saint_monkeyi'm chosing conquistadors as my next project to tackle. (see the list below, (btw, if any of you are so inclined, most of the ideas i come up with are not very specific to me, "A6 reaction", and "manufactured evidence" for example, seem like projects that anyone could do, and have very different takes on, so if you are in a bind and need an "assignment," feel free to use one.)) as part of the process, i thought i'd catalog the work in livejournal. (Why not?) this way we can trace the progress a pretty shitty little poem written in the summer of 1995, as it turns into a pretty shitty little artist's handmade book in a limited edition of five. They'll be a lot of posts today and tomorrow, because i've a lot of material to add, (i've been working on this for a few weeks already.)
That said, here is "conquistadors" as it was first jotted down in 1995
its hard to say to you
so you can see
our lives of endless
toil
searching vast deserts of tile
on every available plane
to find the wealth of nourishment
needed to make our
endless bretheren
we communicate by scout
the messenger sent to be shot
his body torn to pieces
as the throng sets out
mesmerized by his oration
"vast oceans...
wealth untold"
by the thousands we
hear them coming
their marching feet ring
like sabbath bells
whem they arrive
become mired and die
bodies encased by
rich amber hued sugar
scatter and slowly they sink
but the messenger's head spouts his prophecy still
"vast oceans...
wealth untold"
and the horde takes to foot
marches out still
and the mother
must make more
to bolster the tide
layer on layer
the horror continues
the carcasses hang
suspended
as in the air
each grisly corpse left
never to rot
no expression on any
still face
thorax and abdomen
contorted in pain
they all die
but still thay all come
"vast oceans...
wealth untold"
this is the fate of the singular mind
and at last i alone am only alive
typing that out, i can see that there is much room for refinement. in 1995 i had not yet abandoned simile, so there is some of that to be striken "feet ringing like sabboth bells," plus the beginning and end seem tacked on, the opening was like many of mine, a sort of stream of consciousness thing that falls into the rhythm of the forming poem. room for a lot of work there, plus the end, with it's sort of Moby Dick-ish "now I alone must tell you the tale," sort of thing, seems like an odd shift in tone, from narrator to participant/survivor. there is much work to be done.
That said, here is "conquistadors" as it was first jotted down in 1995
its hard to say to you
so you can see
our lives of endless
toil
searching vast deserts of tile
on every available plane
to find the wealth of nourishment
needed to make our
endless bretheren
we communicate by scout
the messenger sent to be shot
his body torn to pieces
as the throng sets out
mesmerized by his oration
"vast oceans...
wealth untold"
by the thousands we
hear them coming
their marching feet ring
like sabbath bells
whem they arrive
become mired and die
bodies encased by
rich amber hued sugar
scatter and slowly they sink
but the messenger's head spouts his prophecy still
"vast oceans...
wealth untold"
and the horde takes to foot
marches out still
and the mother
must make more
to bolster the tide
layer on layer
the horror continues
the carcasses hang
suspended
as in the air
each grisly corpse left
never to rot
no expression on any
still face
thorax and abdomen
contorted in pain
they all die
but still thay all come
"vast oceans...
wealth untold"
this is the fate of the singular mind
and at last i alone am only alive
typing that out, i can see that there is much room for refinement. in 1995 i had not yet abandoned simile, so there is some of that to be striken "feet ringing like sabboth bells," plus the beginning and end seem tacked on, the opening was like many of mine, a sort of stream of consciousness thing that falls into the rhythm of the forming poem. room for a lot of work there, plus the end, with it's sort of Moby Dick-ish "now I alone must tell you the tale," sort of thing, seems like an odd shift in tone, from narrator to participant/survivor. there is much work to be done.
