a collaborative project in the lyric mode
help
A.W.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All references to mental illness, self-harm, or related themes do not reflect the opinions or beliefs of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—or events is purely coincidental. Discretion is advised.
To M. N.
Table of Contents:
I. isolation
Poem
Feb. 14
Poem
Self-aware
Island
II. sweet disconnect
untitled document
Glance at Rolled-Up Sleeve
afternoon shower
Left Anterior Forearm
Staring Out Window
Mar. 15
help
III. the last laugh
The Other Choice
Notes
About the Author
About the Broadside
I. isolation
“Poem”
Your pearl eyes
almost seem to glow
from across the room—
expressive, aware,
yet unrelenting—devoid of any
interpretive clue.
Should I tell you
that your irises
remind me of
spring puddles
under calm skies?
Or should I complement
your choice of style—
autumn colors in
the winter?
No.
Perhaps I shouldn’t.
Perhaps I should
stand off
to the side—a distant
observer admiring
you from afar—
content
with the
thought of
dreaming.
“Feb. 14”
black leaves gather in the gutter
mist puddles by the wet street
drenched in a cold sweat
sending snakes of steam into
hot air where frozen ground
meets the wind
I look at you in the yellow
glow of the 10 PM lights
a set of pale eyes staring out
from behind the wall of black
a subtle expression
a smile
or something else
who were you
all those years ago
your eyes blink
and I turn toward the window
content in shadows alone
without intention
withdrawn from your vision by
half-absent memories leading me aimlessly
down abandoned allies
towards abstractions of
sedated loneliness
the streetlight flickers
casting the lot under constant dark
and when I turn back
a silhouette consumes you
and I see nothing
I want to know you
why can’t I know you
“Poem”
My eyes see nothing
but reflections—
Orange light on wet sidewalks;
lightning glowing blue in the mist;
my wet-paper face in a puddle.
I was there,
then I wasn’t—
she stepped in the puddle
and I vanished.
“Self-aware”
snow melting
leaving impressions of past
photographs and
sensations visible on the
brown-moss grass and
gray-water puddles floating
like some translucent dream
down familiar
concrete tubes
doesn’t there come a time when
I should reach an apex
of this cliff from which
I must jump
to the bottom
where there is nowhere left
to go
filled with or somewhat swelling with
these images of dream violence
that push me against the doors against
the windows against
the walls against
the breath of my speechless
lungs and withering verbiage to carry
on the conversation in no other way besides
screaming
“Island”
Light flurries
by lamppost amber
glow—black flakes
in its shadow—
falling by the wayside
of the sidewalk
as I persist, head cast
below the eyes of onlookers
who see me for what they make me:
disposable article—thrown away
person—cast to the cobbles
and abandoned.
I turn towards the knife wind and—
for a moment in the radiant halo—
I see you watching
from behind the snow:
hungry eyes, thirsting
eyes bleeding the hope
of normalcy from what’s left
of my fractured will.
I question methods, yet I know
desire: the abstract plight—
my suffering—the nectar
from which you feed.
I listen to Paul Simon from beyond the
scratched record. Behold my last solace—
isolation, sweet disconnect—
like a rock cast into the sea.
II. sweet disconnect
“untitled document”
the faces melt
into a singular gray mass
amalgam of
demented eyes searching
inside outside
a selfish projection
where am i
i recognize none of you
voice assimilation into
swelled disillusion
cacophonous shriek
laughter behind
expressions engulfed
likewise the sinister expanse
of the vast silent space
floor crumbling below
into abyssal
shade the healing undone
the warm blood
floweth
i am alone
i am talking to no one
“Glance at Rolled-Up Sleeve”
look down at forearm
disrupt canvas
spotted effigy
pale blank undone by
yellow swelling
and crimson rings
nervous impulse
like a stinging needle
piercing CNS
with blue glow
and the bursting
of memories
into flame
my thoughts exactly
as zippo tongues
gently melt
away my
skin
12
and counting
4 more
and counting
till they gloss over
like oblong nickels
vanish under
my black
sleeve and are
gone
“afternoon shower”
under the hot waterfall under the
boiling stream running
down my back running
down the soft part of my forearm running
over the thin cuts into
the shallow incisions turning
red the water against
my pale skin in a
christ-like transition in my
total indignity as I hide my
face behind my
wrist behind my
blood eyes obscured
only slightly as to
continue my vitriol as to
continue my brooding glare at
the mirror like the
fallen angel of
milton like the
biblical painting of
cabanel
“Left Anterior Forearm”
A reconstructed erasure from William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch
I climb up here and went to shit
take on an ominous grey-green body
like a great black blob of jelly
so nasty
I stink like a old rotten
mouth
I Have no pride
I feel revulsion
I m something rotten like compost
I scream
I disappear
caught in the act and destroyed with a flame
thrower—
I get blue
go nuts
scream 'What you think you are doing?'
my skin with black wounds
with a soft blue flame
I go for another
and disappear in a cloud of smoke
assault the human image
broad deformity and blighted flesh
I scream "I got the fear"
and A year later
I was dead.
“Staring Out Window”
Damp asphalt mirroring
ochre lamp light,
weathered fence—
ashen by sun-bleach summers—
wet painted by mossy
stains slipping green between
rotting grain. Nude trees—
thin-limbed, wet-trunked, skeletal—
cutting black lines into the gray sky,
the broad uniform desolation
cast above the neighborhood
like a hood of gloom
over the verdant green grass
thrice watered by Ohio winter—
the first snow, the second snow,
the rainfall that melts the slush.
I see myself in the reflection—a pale,
flat-faced specter in the colorless glass,
pearl eyes cast onto myself, into myself—
as if staring at another person.
My brother stirs in the other room—
shut the door, lock myself within.
Alone—hidden in my isolated refuge—
with the only other I can trust:
the familiar shade—my known friend—
mirrored in the window.
“Mar. 15”
the blinding light
from my flickering desk lamp
carves the soft darkness
like a sharp silver knife
oak chair creaking
under my weight
as I shift my hands shaking like
burroughs off junk
I yank the lit match
away from my flesh the
faint orange glow the
stinging fucking hole in
my wet-paper skin singed
veins peeling
cellophane tissue
covering the wounds
with yellow fluid
and the smell of urine
mind in a madhouse spinning
record on the turntable
bill evans playing
california here I come
eyes in the mirror
my eyes in the mirror seeing
face muscles melting
wax skin severed tendon
eye sockets
bleeding empty nervous
impulse overtaking me
the one who is watched
the deanxietized man
charred black flesh
crawling black meat
static skipping record
blending screams into music the gun
in my drawer telling me earnestly
to paint the walls with my scalp
“help"
the amorphous shapes move
they speak
they scare me
i wish i knew them
but i am ignorant
to their parts of speech
input surroundings
output warped diction
they whisper my fears
similar the faces
of the disjoint mass
resembling in essence
blank visage
fuzzy liminal
liquid blur
i tried to make peace
but they are peaceless
and i am arrogant
there is no contact
osamu dazai
i am not one of you
i am alone
i am talking to no one
i am alone
i am talking to you
III. the last laugh
“The Other Choice”
I was with him.
He was with me.
We were sitting together
under the tree
with vexing eyes
and a loathly stare,
watching each branch
with a brooding glare.
He and I;
we shared a face—
we shared a voice—
we shared a race.
We knew contempt.
We scorned the leaves:
the vibrant red—
the life: its seed—
its lively smile—
its bashful eyes—
its joyous touch—
its prideful guise—
its glowing color—
its tender skin—
its playful hands—
its wrists: so thin.
I turned to him—
he, my lover—
we knew the thoughts
of each other.
He held the ax
within his grip—
sharp edge swinging
when his arm would dip.
He tossed the blade,
pointing to the trunk.
I chopped for hours—
tore it to chunks.
I slashed all branches—
sliced all shoots.
I doused it in gas—
scorched all the roots.
The wood—pale and white—
charred with the bark.
The night—cool and quiet—
set ablaze in the dark.
And at the side of the fire,
I breathed in the heat—
the smoke and the ash
had a scent that was sweet.
He and I;
we watched it burn:
orange leaves sizzling—
black twigs spurned—
and when it was done,
we crawled to the fields;
among the ashes,
together we kneeled.
Though it may be over—
he whispered to me
that you’ll no longer scream,
and you’ll no longer weep,
and you’ll no longer suffer—
perhaps you will learn,
that—for all you’ve done here—
in the end, you will burn.
Notes
I. isolation
Feb. 14
-
Title is in reference to Saint Valentine's Day, which is celebrated on February 14th.
Island
-
Title and final stanza are in reference to the song “I Am a Rock” by Paul Simon, first featured on his 1965 album The Paul Simon Songbook.
II. sweet disconnect
Glance at Rolled-Up Sleeve
-
The term “CNS” in line 3 of stanza 3 is a common abbreviation for the central nervous system.
afternoon shower
-
Lines 6-9 are in reference to the biblical account of Jesus turning water into wine (John 2:1-11 KJV)
-
Lines 17-19 are in reference to the poem Paradise Lost by John Milton.
-
Lines 19-21 are in reference to the painting The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel.
Left Anterior Forearm
-
Title is in reference to the anatomical position of the soft part of the forearm, located on the same side of the arm as the palm of the hand.
-
Text is sampled from a chapter of Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs titled “The Rube.”
Mar. 15
-
Title is in reference to The Ides of March, which correspond to March 15th.
-
Line 4 of stanza 2 is in reference to author William S. Burroughs, who suffered from heroin addiction.
-
Lines 1-2 of stanza 6 are in reference to the album California Here I Come by Bill Evans, released posthumously in 1982.
-
Line 3 of stanza 8 is in reference to a chapter of Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs titled “Meeting of International Conference of Technological Psychiatry.”
-
Line 1 of stanza 9 is in reference to a chapter of Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs titled “The Black Meat.”
help
-
Lines 19-21 are in reference to the novel No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai.
About the Author
Adam Willis is a Junior Biology & English, creative writing double major at Otterbein University in Westerville, Ohio. His poetry, personal essay, and illustrations have been published in several local journals, including Quiz & Quill, Flip the Page, and Atelier Realm. Adam uses his work as an outlet for exploring the themes of memory, identity, and interpersonal relationships. In this regard, his creative process is therapeutic.
About the Broadside
The broadside installation for this collection was designed to resemble the self-harm scars of the author. Although the use of this imagery brings to mind the traumatic experiences that caused their formation, the representation of these scars in this broadside allows the author to claim agency over his past. It’s likely that these scars may never fully heal; however, their existence shouldn’t be the cause of perpetual shame, disgust, and regret. Acceptance is the gateway to true healing—the healing of the soul. Turning his scars into art is this author’s path to acceptance.