A little black dot, balance, decaying leaves, morning dew, and infinite jest.
There's a little black dot on the Sun today... it's the same old thing as yesterday... except for the writers featured on the show. Nothing yesterday about them, until tomorrow, but who puts a timer on art, anyway? In episode 30 on Prose. Radio, the words roll smoothly with the likes of Mariah, area_man, LARGE, The Villaires, and the man of area once more, who closes the show with the complexity of family.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYvrATECLOQ
And here are the pieces featured.
ttps://www.theprose.com/post/814482/a-violence-unfamiliar-to-most https://www.theprose.com/post/814486/balancing-the-bar https://www.theprose.com/post/814424
https://www.theprose.com/post/814475/first-words-of-day-in-the-morning-dew https://www.theprose.com/post/814476/infinite-jest
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
First Words of Day, in the Morning Dew
Poets.
Where others are tortured
by sleeplessness
We turn torment into art form
And lay into it tooth and nail
With all the entrails
Hanging loose
So juices spill, rolling down
The crevasse...
Blotted up from the chin
onto a diner serviette and
repressed in print...
The pain still fresh expressed
like from a grinding mill
where sand is powdered
into dream...
Sweet is our profession
With the only hand on the call
Box being as transparent as a
Vesper
As it hovers over a heart
In the breaking darkness of dawn
When it has just freshly been Forgiven...
Languid in our vision, as cool
And calm as palm fronds
Swaying as the
Breeze exudes
The breath,
The word becoming new life
As dead sheets are turned...
And the corners are tucked
5/4/24
Bunny Villaire
& Mavia Villaire
Infinite Jest
My sister is educated
She’s a college professor
A bona fide feminist
She teaches people
Who don’t know
What toilet to use
How to shit all over
Other people’s lives
It’s been a while
Since we’ve talked
She tells me
That I’m a real writer
Which makes me sad
That I’m such an asshole
About her passion
And that she
Cannot see
That she’s one too
David Burdett
5/4/2024
Fade Away
Eyes green, hair blonde, skintight and makeup on,
Wild, free, still naive, never going to happen to me,
Drunken nights, unsure, endless fights, insecure,
Dark days, hidden face, out of place and in a haze,
Endless nights, numbing pain, there's nothing left to say,
Eyes gray, fade away, hair thin, thin skin,
Despondent and caged, life blurs, quickly aged,
Puncture.
Void
walking through a dark night
a dark cobbled street
not a single light visible
till
till i saw a dingy bulb through a presumably dampened cracked french window
hunger there was plenty
i elbowed through the glass and entered the room
empty it was
from there i entered another room
empty too
the only lit house was dampened with emptiness
as always
i had reached my conclusion just by the second room
the second page
so i decided to walk through the emptiness
walk through more rooms
that i did
room after room i found lit low watt bulbs but noone there
there were books with pages so damp that they were almost see-through
wooden sculptures with dust
but i kept thinking that someone must have switched on the bulbs
i reached the fusebox only to find that the bulbs were direct
yet they hadnt fused so someone must have lit them soon
finally i reached the only room at the first floor
it had a terrace but to a dark sky
that only room had a paper glued to the wall
the paper read
" so you like so many before you have reached here -
you will go from here too
this is not a haunted house
nor a cured curse
this is lit emptiness
and if ever in life you want to think of lit emptiness
of buffered mutiny
of rampant tyranny
of adjectivised mysery
of a pulse contingent life
and
and
of a lit emptiness
visit this house on the darkest street again
and maybe that time the street is lit
but this house is dark
that will still be lit emptiness"
3 kinds of followers
The sycophant
is hateful to himself and those around him. Striving and clawing at power he strips down his own identity, and that which was there as a child is hidden or killed as a sacrifice to the demon of covetousness. He agrees with those in power, and changes with the season, following behind and picking up the crumbs they leave him, knowing in his heart that he will always have this station unless by chance his leader dies and he might rise through intimidation.
The coward
never hurts at all, until the night comes down and he lays awake in bed writhing against the right and wrong, but in the day in safety stays and hides under the shadow. Defining righteous justice as that which can protect him. And so he does as he is told to measure his survival, all the while callous to those who suffer beside him. He will clamor and put down the ones around him in his need to ensure that the might of the mighty fights to hold on to the assets he brings.
The fool
does not know better, he wanders where he will. Feeling like he leads his life, though he never tries to live. Every wind of doctrine blows about his mind, confounding and arousing a shallow curiosity brought down as expertise of things he'll never see spoken from the mouths of other fools behind a screen. Each and every moment of his minor perception is carefully crafted to lead him in a direction away from light and life and honor, and he never will know better.