How desperately I despised poetry
With it’s word sticks bashing out that rhythmic beat
Jingling and jangling hapless words pegged to a line
Spitting modulated tones for each word spoken in time
All permissible with a “poetic licence”
Square pegs strangled into round holes
Line upon line of melodious meaningless gibberish
Of words simply sifted through a sieve
Language structures painfully contorted and twisted
Word streams reversed, inversed and crushed
Then nailed screaming to the page
Mandarin carved out of Cantonese
An entire charade of something else
All the while the meaning lay silent in it’s crypt
Impervious to my crowbar’s prying
Of experiences to which I had never been exposed
The cryptic key I never had

Then my world collapsed
Hit with a force well in excess of magnitude 10
Far surpassing my spinal and kidney agony
Each layer scrapped away in painful succession
Revealing ever deeper wounds
Greater and greater pain
Until I was left with nothing
The greatest pain of all
The void was unbearable
It could easily have gone either way
In a desperate attempt to survive I decided to vent my words
Not on the world but on myself
Of my experiences not of anyone else
A succinct journal of bare thought and pain
A mass of triggers composed of iconic lines
Packed in a vessel to carry them in
Labelled as the appropriate identity
In a form everybody writes but nobody reads
I forged my own cryptic key
And began writing my own brand of poetry

First I had to step over all my own malignant concepts
Those reoccurring misdirections of my initial pathetic attempts
Dispatch those charming and enchanting archaic phrases
Any preconceptions that could corrupt my intent
Including the need for rhythm and rhyme
And my own personal bent for scientific rigorousness
Thoughts needed to be scribed as raw outpourings
They must materialise as drippings from my mind
With their values still floating on the exchange
Each discrete thought and feeling had to be encapsulated
Caressed and massaged into an ever smaller lump
Tighter and tighter entwined feeling and thought
Sometimes a single line, frequently more
A ball of string that I would always be able to unravel
Having been compressed by my own algorithms
Nothing would be too secret or precious that couldn’t be hidden
By subtly refracting scrutiny right in front of any prying eyes
Compiled as a single dynamic record
Of every facet of every given state
My own adage, my own idiom, my own macro
Unlike a book which is woven into a cloth
These are laced together with a single silken thread
Which not even an arrow could shear
Where just like a tune on a record
The end of one song triggers the memory of the next
As flavoured essences arousing the primitive mind
A trip Independent of time and space
Dependent completely on my thoughts alone