Manic Pixie Dream - A New Poem and Free Novel

in writing •  3 years ago  (edited)

My creativity died with my third marriage.

I was soaring through my fifth novel when my wife told me she had "reconnected" with her ex... and writing stopped. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get back into that story... but creativity always finds a way.

In the throes of heartbreak, I turned to more visceral mediums such as photography and poetry. You can read a more abstract poem here and several shorter poems here... but the piece below is quite different. I hope you enjoy it.

As a special Steemit thank you for checking out my work over the past few days, here’s a free ebook of The Accidental Siren. It’s my most popular novel and has similar themes to the verses below.

(Artwork used with permission from Archan Nair.)

Manic Pixie Dream

I was—I am!—a meager writer, wishing I could finally smite her
image burning brighter, brighter. (Another memory despised.)
This is when I fell asunder, smacking dirt to end my slumber;
lungs of dust and ears of thunder, I open wide my eyes.
My chest coughs mud. My lips drip blood. My body’s galvanized
by the sweetest, softest, most delicious, angry lullabies.

From this warm defiled forest drifts a charming woman's chorus
through the branches rigor mortis and the scent of melon rain.
Along the vines and up my spine, a lovely melody divine;
it spurs me, cures me. Curse-word worthy! Lyrics drunk on apple wine;
lyrics stuck on endless loops inside my core of mind.

Through candy-coated woods I saw—wringing tight their cotton bras,
disobeying Newton’s laws—three perfect girls bathing.
In forest-fractured beams of sun their tempting bath had just begun
‘round streams of bourbon one by one they spin and turn to face me.
"Their eyes, their eyes!” I nearly scream. “Dark as coal and not a dream!"
Black despite their cheeks so cream, empty as their faces beam!

Voodoo eyes and pastel nighties, young and restless Aphrodites,
fledgling angels taking selfies; daisies woven through their hair.
Piercings, tats, and cherry schnapps, a modern Birth of Venus;
naked, sacred, breasts elated; "My God, there goes my penis..."
Dear God, you are a genius.

Lamprey three was cute, distinctive; our bond seemed fresh... unique... instinctive.
I knew the spot of every mole; which laid flat and which to pull.
Three whole years we lived together. Marriage vows and bedroom pleasures.
“You're my home and adventure!" (Now her palms are black.)
Earbuds ringing, voice still singing, “You just keep me hanging on..."
(But now her palms are black.)

I found myself in waste-deep water, a willing boy accepting slaughter,
trudging toward the goddess daughters; the hero they deserve.
Then I saw the purple bruises on the feet of all three muses,
another riddle to confuse us, how the hell these scrapes occurred!
Still I venture... undeterred.

Toothy grins and sun-kissed skin... forget black eyes and palms and shins!
Please, oh please just cleanse my sins. But then the singing quit.
The dreamscape vanished. I was banished!
In my bed, my heart left famished. Love turned counterfeit.
Romance, chivalry, sex, and love... all turned counterfeit.

Every night my soul returns. My mind plays tricks and body yearns
to see the beauties slowly turn... (But dreams are merely dreams.)
I shove my ears inside my pillow when leafless branches scrape my window
and drapes like nighties start to billow like ghosts of girls trapped in limbo!
I snatch the curtain and suck my bourbon. “Please lead me to those lovely virgins!”
(But dreams are merely dreams.)

Waking life is monochrome. This goddamn house is not my home!
I’m now convinced we’re all alone, just carbon-copy primates.
For weeks I crave that sweet illusion but I see my own reclusion,
pull myself from my delusion, and force myself to date.
"What I need’s a nice distraction to rediscover satisfaction...
A temporary mate!"

Her name’s a name I can’t remember, though I do recall a nice rear fender,
feline curves, and pleasant temper. (But I know she won't compare.)
With all the suaveness of a lynx I order two expensive drinks.
At the moment glasses clink she stares at me and starts to blink.
She’s looking at the smears of ink! They must be on my neck and cheeks!
She knows of my affairs.

Those swollen-pupiled eyes still haunt me. Perky bodies, still they taunt me.
Silent screaming while I’m eating, while I’m reading, while I’m peeing!
“Do you see them?” I ask my sister, “handprints from the time I kissed her?
Do you hear the raging whisper that grapples in my gut?"
Her eyebrows crinkle, cheekbones dimple;
“No,” she says, “you’re nuts."

I crank the music and drum the dash to Damien Rice and Johnny Cash.
In their voice... a gritty rasp? Their rhythm’s off with dusty gasps...
heaving now like lungs collapsed! But then I understood
that every lyric was inspired by the sirens they desired,
after crashing in the mire in the melancholy wood.

I tried again a few months later with my pretty next-door neighbor
still sparring with an arbitrator for kids and pets and dough.
“Why’d you leave?” I ask while kissing. “Couldn’t breathe,” she says, unzipping.
Interweaved and limbs all twisting, my fingers graze a swollen toe.
Her foot is gashed and ankle slashed like claws had cut her to and fro.
Only then she finally whispered, “I needed to let go."

"I love you"’s such a sick cliché, a sentimental cabaret,
a stock diversion we often say to those we hurt the most.
Please toss those fucking words away and let that fucking phrase decay!
Hold me in your arms, I pray, and tell me something true:
“I’ve got your back,” “You’re safe with me,” or “I will never hurt you."
"We’ll beat the odds. We'll become gods!"
(And I will never hurt you.)

Now Tinder stirs my hibernation with the vow of new sensations,
so I trade my past fixations for this app I should deplore.
I can't show desperation in the pits of Fuckboy Nation;
told to curb infatuation for the women I adore
who have sex as their vocation, and can come through pulse vibration,
bellies starved for validation while others beg to be called “whore."
Then there’s charting ovulation, making certain approbation,
teensy bits of lubrication, sometimes oral (if they implore).
I fight ejaculation on the verge of exaltation
when I see hallucinations of their eyes like iron ore.
On their palms, black pigmentation, so I quit these degradations
and return to masturbation. (Sex through Tinder, nevermore!)

A year ago that dreamscape cursed me; libido dry and heart still thirsty.
Though hungry women tried to nurse me, I paid my famine forward.
Then it happened late September—another bar, another bender—
a graceful girl, gaze so tender, perched and winked and ordered
one for me and one for she, then led me to her orchard.
Eyes and ears and dreams and fears, I strolled into that orchard...

I stare inside her eyes and wait (incase her pupils dilate)
—a misfit cherub surrogate—but her irises stay blue.
The second night I buy her flowers. On the third we share a shower.
Since we're nude I overpower my fear of deja vu
and check her feet for torn-up tissue, but her skin’s as good as new;
ankles, shins, and calves and toes, all soft and good as new!

Four dates in she has my heart, so I call her “work of art”
because she’s statuesque and smart. Blue highlights frame her face.
Five dates in she reads my writing. Six, the sex remains exciting.
Seven. Eight. And still no fighting! Only tenderness and grace.
This woman’s now my hiding place, the hearth beneath my fireplace,
my kind confession, safe obsession; my first and last embrace.

My girl dons a pastel gown and leads me dashing through the town.
The rain will never slow us down! Through neon streets we play.
Tonight I clasp three trepid words—two simple pronouns, one savage verb
and stop my girl beside the curb and grow the balls to say:
“I love you...!”
Then she grins and spins and runs away.

“I love you too!” my lover cries, a flittering, drunken flutterby
glancing back with eight-ball eyes and blowing me a kiss.
Puddles splash beneath my feet. My ribcage aches from rapid beats.
As I chase that demon sweet, her shoes depart the gleaming street.
I lunge at her and grab her feet then watch with joy our grand retreat!
Our soaring souls are now complete!

High above the cars and bars her arms are stretched toward moon and stars.
I scream aloud, “The world’s ours!” and laugh in exultation.
From this height a new perspective; the Earth, I see, is all connected.
A seven-billion soul collective! A stunning meditation.
A few of them are introspective. Half of them are egg-infested.
The other half shares one objective: to search for their salvation;
to search for validation in dark eyes of inspiration.
Vandalized from procreation. Tearing thighs for levitation.

The air is thinning. My head is spinning.
“Higher, higher!” I shout, grinning. “It’s such a perfect day!”
My hand keeps gripping. (Her ankle’s slipping.)
My mind keeps tripping through clouds of grey.
“Our breath’s in sync! Our souls are linked!
Please smother me with palms of ink!” (Her shin begins to fray.)
“You're my treasure. You're my zephyr.
You keep me hanging on.
We’ll live together. We’ll live forever!
You just keep me hanging on...”


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Love your poetry style. keep sharing the good work buddy @jakevanderark

Thanks @vishal1. I'll keep 'em coming!

  ·  3 years ago (edited)

The hippies had it wrong - Love isn't Free, of attachment and weight
The hipsters have it wrong - their concept of polyamoury as no-strings

But a collective memory lingers, from our deepest roots,
of love untempered by ego - free of loss-fear

And it's always seemed to me, that in this aspect of human existence,
so filled with uncertainty and pain for many people,
there had to be another way.

Perhaps Mckenna had it right, and our solace was found on the mushroom-dotted plains of Africa long ago.

good job mate. I loved your style!