I left home for an education. What I found was that while maths runs the universes, art is what makes it all mean something to us. The following poems are a tiny sample from a collection written during a 15-month episode of psychosis, induced by technology, identity crisis, and bad chemicals. I was told not to wake up before the sun rises, and every night the sun went down on my frustration. I learned that everything cycles in its own season for its own reason, but if I learned anything in the process, it was that facing fears is the ultimate gift, whether it be testing realities or defying your own logic. Madness tore me apart, and love put me back together. Today I sleep soundly in a city that wakes me up more and more each day. These poems are for a city filled with voices and visions of madness.
the people’s republic
Love is the most creative endeavor;
let’s start with that.
To love is to make,
so make love, and be happy.
How far have you made it?
To that sun-riven kiss, or
your daily crumbs?
It takes love to live life.
So go where the love is, but don’t be afraid.
Mistakes can be friendly, after all, and love is never a mistake.
…and thus deconstructed a well structured intuition of when
(and when not) to speak….
civil war, pt. 2
Snow drew the night. No light for months, only eyes.
Constellations sank below tree lines, fission-paired starseeds.
Red, yellow, and blue, twinkling between trunks and drifts.
And peering through black in the grey, they smothered still,
Waiting for summer.
Who were these creatures who knew no dark in darkness?
Night slowed down the trees, rivers, and forest family, hibernating.
But the stars blinked night vision rays through all of it.
Watching and waiting, in telescope bunker perched on the horizon,
Saw only projections in far reaches—events devoid of infochaos—
Filmy clouds of light mirroring shadow puppets on my firewalls.
The starseeds knew to stay among the trees; pondmist dancing unto itself.
Snow carried smoke rings from the horizon that Telescope would watch,
Nomads that crossed the ice between the cabin and the treeline—
Trappers to trappists knew the stars well enough. Both ate them, and lived.
Only rarely would they eat much else. The stars bore their appetites alone.
But the nomads conferred when the stars emerged from Forest.
Both travelled in packs, but smoke ring figures moved much slower than the speed of light.
Telescope saw it all one day: Snow was buried, Stars seen through it.
And me—shooting out of orbit.
What am i worth to you, you who sings this song after me?
If no one, I find myself proud that no word was worth speaking.
If someone I know, all luck finding solace in such uncertainty.
If someone else, I hope it strikes you a new chord to share without censor.
A measuring stick – that’s what I need – as I roam this planet, base creature.
A hurdling iron – that’s what I see – as I sprint with unhindered impression
A glass of water – that’s what you offer – as I lay in the pain of a champion.
A sense of ease – that’s what I found – when I found it was all an illusion – stick, iron, and water.
Trey Carlock is a Dallasite born and raised, though he takes issue with much of Dallas living. He spends his time wondering how hacked we are, how our brains work, how to hack the brain, and how good art accomplishes all of these in one stroke. As an unprofessional artist, semiprofessional scientist, and professional uncle, Trey flutters around town in the mind of a four year old, gleaning people’s intentions and even formulating some of his own. Trey is quite fond of conspiracy theories and the color cerulean. If you’d like to learn more about his art form, email him at email@example.com
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