BLANK EPITAPH – A.G. Diedericks

a blank epitaph enshrined

in dust

blooms coal-black petals

of which her lovers pluck

one by one – here, ‘neath the seeds of repent

where requiems are born

beyond sound

beyond science

delineated in a still-life of an

open house

where she hangs

safe from the perversion

of words

absurdists have long tried

to unbolt

that which led her into

this refurbishment of memory

where she levitates

like an obstinate ghoul

taking refuge in the velvet underground.

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Frankenstein’s Bastard – A.G. Diedericks

Richard Rothwell’s portrait of Mary Shelley ~ 1840
Frankenstein’s Bastard

I malformed
from aborted bloodbaths
to bite the hands
of a kleptomaniac midwife

Dear Frankenstein

Do I,
embolden your bestial apathy
with my woes?
Am I,
merely a pantomime
for the parochial aristocracy?

fated to this warped pestilence — the stench of patricide gestates in my throat

My heart is a contaminant; an abberation that anchors the intonation of a lover’s gaze

felicity dwindles in my wake,
it dare not breach
the elongated visage of my
consumption

I am shrouded
by an opulent darkness
that fosters the penury of my soul

there’s no alienist for what lives inside of me

My bones scythe a fissure in empiric science

I am the reification of death:
cobbled by inviolable skin
with ears to inoculate the
incantation of an exorcist
My iris blackens the convex of your erstwhile sun

Halcyon birds

Plummets where i walk

. . .

Dear Frankenstein

You, who molded me from madness;
map me a path to digress from this
metastasized matter
place me in an era,
where the kinship of poetry
have not forsaken me
Where even I,
tread with shadows bereft

It Never Rains Where I Stand – A.G. Diedericks

IMG-20180507-WA0026

It never rains where I stand.

Cape Town’s water drought is rapidly approaching level zero, the city needs it more than I do. You died and I’m still waiting for that tantalizing storm they warned me about.

Your family wept for you and chose to utilize me as their scapegoat, waiting for me to immolate my emotions with looks that showed why I’m at home with foreigners and a foreigner when I’m at home.

Maybe it’s ’cause I don’t remember the memories; and I’ve foraged… all through our black & white photo albums. All I saw was anger, mirrored in the glass I removed from her hair after you couldn’t find your direction in life. And how my contempt for you was only eclipsed with self-denigration for not doing anything about it when I was still a kid.

You took me to the shop and littered my pockets with Molly candy hearts whilst my hands were tucked underneath gun control; you always knew how to circumvent the blue man group. Days spent dreaming of a dreamless sleep, breathing in asbestos and secondhand crack. Wasting away any potential we had.

I don’t want to denounce you, though. Only a coward would tell this true story and not let you to defend yourself and it’s not all your fault. I made a promise long ago to never turn out like you; I’ve kept that promise, ’cause I’m worse.

I know that I could have made more of an effort, or any effort for that matter to help improve our relationship. I know you’re still looking down on me, thinking, “he’s so full of shit!” and the worst part is, you’re not wrong.

There’s so much more that I need to say, so much more that I could do; I want to pour it out, all over this city where I rummage in desperation for the greyest cloud, waiting for the shudder of your lightning, waiting for some semblance of my elusive humanity, waiting to tell you that I became a writer…

But it won’t rain. It never rains… not where I stand.

Notes On A Suicide by Hemingway – A.G. Diedericks

The cosmos misplaced me
left me to meteor into this zeitgeist
of insipid distractions
Where i roam as an anachronism
under the city of lights
in pursuit of remnants from Lutetia
with nothing but a pen & piece
of paper to live on

Problem is I’m not a poet
Let me tell you how i know it:
I kill a reader
every time i get published
I drag ’em out
to the Battle of Normandy
and en garde my quill
up against their arsenal;
I tread belligerently
over land mines, unarmored
until there’s nothing left
of me to spill

Because who am i
without these lacerations
cut on truth
cut to the left
cut with avant garde

I look on as they flee for shelter
in colloquial boats
Washed up on the shores
of contrived obeisance

I write myself out
and into pastiche
Here..
Where i can marvel at all the
artifacts
that has since been decimated
by phosphorescent eyes

In this solitary hamlet
away from the hullabaloo
of small voices;
I swim naked in a cesspool
of regret & excuses;
The past is a rope that pulls me up
from the quagmire of my present;
The ghost of Hemingway smirks
at my attempted suicide
as he steals all the bullets from
my plagiarized shotgun

Leaving me tied to the
dénouement
of his sagacious notes,

“Your abstract is redundant. The expatriates weren’t lost in an archaic era. We Roared the 20’s with the clamour of our own literature. How is the reader supposed to find any emotive resonance in this? Your soul is still buried underneath the words, and it will only come to life once you’ve unearthed your own voice. I suggest you go and pick a fight with a bull in the streets of Pamplona; You’ll find everything you need there.”

Bipolar’s Mistress – A.G. Diedericks

Our scars were vibing together
long before we ever learnt
how to dance
She unearths the secrets
I didn’t know i had

Torn up maps & cracked compasses
subjugated by the unknown
She comes with a lot of baggage
but she packs light

We feel on the outside
blowing smoke on their mirrors
Our reflection isn’t fit for Kodak;
it is too real, and out of place
We’re the perfect faux pas

In this reality of Russian Roulette;
she’s the one lying in my chamber,
pacing with a bottle of Vodka

Tear off this pallid skin,
she decreed..
Make me forget;
shade me with your flaws
be my best regret

She was my catharsis;
when poetry couldn’t palliate
my darkness
It was her..
My Bipolar’s Mistress

Anachronistic Rant – A.G. Diedericks

ANACHRONISTIC  RANT.jpg

History void of sapience

I am the spectre

of regurgitated fallacy

I carve the crevice

in impregnable absolutes

The blood-spatter in the crevasse

of your ice sculpture

Where i birth postmodernism

and cut off the crimson springs

of solipsism

Children raised by the idiot box

extinction of libraries

words replaced by letters

A climate change

bonfire of trees

A nation impeached

acclimation to a blue bird’s speech

Hubris draped in white cloth

the sloth that doth not protest

Suffragettes suffocating

for egalitarianism

Robots dictate pedestrians

look to your alt-left

look to your alt-right

I know where i left my keys

can you help me find

my fucking mind?


The Library Bandit – A.G. Diedericks

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return.

AUTODIDACT – A.G. Diedericks

Yes

I’m uneducated

punktuated by subversion

My verses run grades in reverse

I see only art in my continuum

I am averse to your curriculum

There’s no path for me in math

No rhythm in my algorithm

No symmetry in my poetry

I bastardize

established linguistics

I do it

Just to smite the elitist erudite

My philosophy is detached from your morphology

My beleaguered elocution

poisons Ivy league institutions

I am an alumnus

from the college of sacrilege

This is the narrative of a native

in class with the iconoclasts

We block the conjecture

I put a sock in the lecturer; Leave
’em annoyed

As i rock to the literature of pink floyd

I’m tryin’ to hold this mic, but my fingers keep slippin’

like Sigmund Freud