This past month my poetry has changed.  I believe I have improved past my latest book project, Nostrovia!, which is about to be published.  I am excited to begin working on my second collection and share my new found style and just general writing.  I’ve been reading a lot of Vonnegut and David Foster Wallace which has definitively shifted my writing from older qualities of stereotypical youth poetry.  I no longer am trying to match up to anyone, but my past writing, and become better.  This has helped me a lot.  Instead of pitting my writing with comparison to Ginsberg and Walt Whitman, I compare it to my older writing, I look to where I have improved and where still needs work.  This exercise is something everyone could benefit from.  We can only better ourselves, and the only way to match your literary idols, who ever they may be, would be to copy THEIR unique style (which many people do).  You want to develop your own style, your own unique qualities that separate you from the pack.  I used to howl to be like Ginsberg, but within the past month, I subconsciously shifted my style to my own.  Under certain events and other changes in my life, my ideals changed, what I wrote about change, everything about my writing shifted with the changes in my life.  And of course, practice, practice, and more practice occurred during these changes.  Everyone’s writing develops as they develop, and as we develop, our writing develops.

Here’s a new poem.
Open

No one quite knows what to make of this season anymore

The ice refuses to thaw along warm-brown thistles and a yellow bud raised to the pink-blue sun in a gesture of what giddy romantics, with thick, full lips, declare as “true love” as snow falls on the dazed yellow bud, unsure weather to bloom or remain sealed in this calsh of seasons, so it parts long the middle, openly undecided, level headed, though just and lovely all the same

With no other thoughts than fingerspit fucking the partially open mouth, the spring snow falls as a wet splash on heat-mirage hearts pumping blood for love that is not above love, as the watchful romantics have yet to prescribe it to venn diagrams and diagnose it as thesis worthy within the terms required to be deemed “true love” by lost Shakesperian plays and medieval texts on the chivalerous relations of that maniacally angelic “true love” that seems to have evolved against its roots, vomiting kerosene upon new age romantic’s ethics, as all modern relationships that are good do, and for all things that are good, the yellow bud crys

These lovers of true love preach how mankind is not good to one another by nature, the dangers of rationalizing the higher beings through intellectual interchange and industrial growth, the dangers of being human in this progression of free thought, their whip-like tongues lash, curved by scarred purple hands with stubby fingers, flicked by the bones and forced contractions of muscles belonging to some Christ-like wanna be claiming the second foot of God will fall soon to lay all opposition flat, leaving room for the romantics to ascend tand percieve their aesthetic, brotherly origins in full Enlightenment

Their voices coo from their heart-shaped novellas, praising the connection of two coupling souls in their most lucid form and the purity of the connection between angels and monsters in constant torment of each other, their hands can’t scrape any deeper into themselves without the other’s nails

The coupling souls have hit frozen bedrock, and neither have the tools, beyond the other’s nails, nor the knowledge, on how to excavate this obstruction of their connection, that is eroding their fingertips to bone kisses, so they sit together, they sit and cry, bashing each other as a shovel into the bedrock with all the violence they could bear to muster

The snow fall thickens

The spring wind whistles

The Sun is dead, and Earth is beckoning the cold

For eight and half minutes there is still light, and as the ninth minute dawns the world ends and time begins, spring makes peace with the universe understanding it is no longer neccesary, and winter settles its nails beneath the bedrock, curling behind the yellow bud’s lips, coaxing out its tongue and all that was good

Open.

by Jeremiah Walton of Nostrovia! Poetry