When I sit and contemplate some of the poetry from — my next showcase I want to cry. Perhaps, I should explain, it\’s not entirely what you might contemplate. When I read B Dani West\’s work I am overwhelmed with emotion — little pieces of pure perfection. I know many of you might think, I am over-exaggerating and you know what I would say to you — you are wrong — until you read the work you will never know. And, this body of work really speaks to me. I hope it speaks to you too.
Scrap metal bonfire
I\’m a slut to magic,
To new, new, new
New white dollied roses
Drying on the edge of my kitchen sink —
Butterflies stained with bile
And a mile of hypothetical blow–
Take it!
Right up the nose,
Rub it around the pink gummed corners,
Sink —
I
downloaded myself into this room,
All of the lamplights, departed —
Then made a fireplace out of a trashcan:
Cinderella,
Snow White,
Sleeping Beauty
And the Beast.
Ana Kerenina;
Burning
My own eulogy.
Ok, first off, let\’s look at the first sentence of Scrap metal bonfire “I\’m a slut to magic” that line sucked me in right away. I\’ve never heard of anyone being a slut to anything except other human beings. For the words to be utilized in this fashion — although foreign to me makes so much sense. The cubed imaginarium created here is certainly is one that affords the reader a snapshot to one\’s intimate self demise. I relish the visions presented within in this piece especially:
“I
downloaded myself into this room,
All of the lamplights, departed —
Then made a fireplace out of a trashcan:”
Can you imagine, downloading yourself into a room like the old Star Trek television shows used to constantly do within their productions — through my third eye I can see this scene so vividly — gives a lot of scope for the imagination.
Hello. My name is Bitmap.
I am here (a bitmap),
And I am many. I must be many,
To form the lines it takes
To paint a picture —
Your picture;
An effigy for you.
As though we are fooled
By stunning angles and roasted lace.
Her blushing furrows veiled
Under a lanolin caking
Layered by my own hand;
A hasty caress.
Her infant cries out for its doll
She signs and I
Am cast onto the vanity.
She hands her baby its baby…
There is no irony in this foreshadow;
The mold imprints itself
Before the afterthought occurs.
She returns to finger my face in lament.
I console her with folklore of my ancestors,
Written daily;
Their blood bucket of words
Is to be dumped on the devil prom queen.
…. I have shown her, her face,
Though she has not registered it yet.
The infant cries.
Her lover passes irritatedly.
He waves on the nanny for assistance.
Pouring his coffee.
There is a small bottle of whiskey.
Beneath the table.
It fans its aroma,
And the magnitude of shrieks
Is muffled by the closing door,
Then his breath is rancid,
As he talks my ear off…
I want your soul
Hello. my name is Bitmap. Captured my heart right away — I\’ve an affinity for the reapers and this piece makes me think — if the reaper had an assistant to asses certain situations — whether or not pitch and capturing someone\’s soul for all time is necessary. It\’s obvious, this poem has an organic flow to it through each lucid stanza the imagery becomes humanly darker than the next \’til the protagonist\’s eventual demise.
Banging my Head on a Brick Wall
Strong, that bridge
Along Grants Pass,
Where the dams seep
Of deathly waters;
Jagged rock and Armageddon.
Raccoon eyed,
I prod at diner eggs with an unclean fork.
The year is unbeknownst to me.
As I mutter, “I love you.”
Your gaze wanders off into the distance;
farmlands covered by nest
and littered with burrows.
I pick up my cup,
And swallow a funeral.
You push out your seat
and snatch the spoon cuffed key from its hook.
The screen slams behind you.
“Mam?”
Queries the old waitress,
as she jesters, full armed,
at my cup.
Tired, I smile,
Swing an arm forward,
And stab your plated cow cadaver with my fork —
It\’s stuck.
A pot shatters on the yellow tile.
The tide is high on fog
In the parking lot
Where I write curses on your window
And call myself a cab.
“Mam?”
Queries the old waitress,
as she jesters, full armed,
At my cup.
Tired, I smile.
I found Banging my Head on a Brick Wall to be EXTREMELY relatable — this piece touches on the honesty between individuals in relationships and how frustrating it can be. I remember being in that situation all long time ago — except I ended up getting out of the car at midnight — because I did not like the way that I was being spoken too. I called a cab home! Sometimes, it is all we can do to stop ourselves from consistently hitting the back of our heads against something so firm it can shatter the most delicate of brain stems & lobes.
Shadowplay
This body is no different alive
Than it is dead.
The wretched mortar between bricks,
Lonely as the moon.
Hung closely upon walls; unrequited static,
Causing the noble hairs to stand attention,
And the radios to fizz but not hum
As the dog barks at shadows blur.
Drifting, moreso uneventfully than before,
I\’d raise hell just to feel a blow —
Right against this lucid temple —
This one here —
Don\’t you see it?
This one! right here?!
*But a finger trances a line to a chair, a bar cabinet, a bassinet —
A string of curtains
Lap danced upon by a fire
That everyone watches,
Through no one cares to know its name.*
I am useless;
A neurotic dust clung to an old lamp,
Only visible in slight,
Until someone turns the ceiling fan on,
And layer by layer,
I go drifting away
Into nothingness.
I have to admit, I lingered on the last stanza of this piece for a while – traced the words over and over again on my monitor (luckily it was not a touch screen or it would have made a hell of a mess.) Read it one more time with me please.
\”I am useless;
A neurotic dust clung to an old lamp,
Only visible in slight,
Until someone turns the ceiling fan on,
And layer by layer,
I go drifting away
Into nothingness.\”
Can you imagine? The delicate beauty from these words above but also the ardent faith that there is indeed nothingness does exist as we all one day inquire in our own due course.
Thanks for reading, I would like to invite you all to follow Dani via instagram.
CCIQ Press 