Scrap Junk Cool-The Visual Side of Writing IIPosted: April 20, 2010
Hey, I’m Jeremy Bauer! Again! Hey, whoa, hi.
In my previous post I mentioned writing in the margins (which, coincidentally, is the title of the Writing in the Community publication I am a part of this year that will be coming out soon.!.). Sometimes I have pages where I get on tangents and my margins get primo filled like they’re in an eating contest and man, can they pack away the ice cream and sauerkraut. As a sort of disclaimer (DISCLAIMER..DISCLAIM HER…HE PROBABLY DESERVES IT MORE, I SAW HIM OUT DRINKIN’ AGAIN WITH LENNY ROTGUT AND THEY WERE BURNT TOAST, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, HE DIND’T EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO CALL, OR SCREAM, OR STAY FAITHFUL, THE TOILET MADE HIM RENOUNCE GOD), I want to say that not all first scraps are good. That’s the point of revision, and I really hope The Greats have bad scraps too, and I think they do. So be gentle, young wielders of the serrated serpent e-tongue. Oh, and don’t be afraid to comment about your views on the visual side of writing, or even start a flickr or something with pictures of your own notebooks. Make connections and keep ’em hard and vibrant like computers are beating us at!
In the middle of this page is my original draft of a poem with the caption’s title. I frequently write notes to myself, sometimes even talk/write to myself, and just jot down whatever’s yelpin’ out my skull at the time. Sometimes I write future.
I’m gonna post a few more of these sometime in the near, and remember don’t be afraid to leave comments or discuss your own visual techniques in your writing, physically speaking.
Oh, and here’s what the poem looks like now:
He’s One of the Feather Children
She is an edible flower with skin
made of whispers
and veins that run black like botulism
in a can of tomatoes.
Do you know how you penetrate me like radiation fog,
making my cells contort and inflate with growing bulbs
that when the reach the brain make it dead?
(And they have)
Do I invade you like a logger to a tranquil South American forest,
stripping away pockets of life so strange
it can only be obscenely organic?
(Like you do to me)
I think in a past life we were some sort of Siamese animal
with two heads that struggled to kiss
and bodies that formed to be one
Or maybe we were both bones that interlocked to make
a young body work, or just the marrow that gelled
together to form cell-birthing chasms
(Oh, the chasms)
You are an edible flower with skin
made of whispers
and veins that run through me like botulism
fucks in cans of tomatoes.