…writes Marcus.
A filmed version of a poem.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
A friend of mine and I were testing out his new camera rig, playing around with different shots at a park. He took the footage and made the below. What do you think?
© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved
A short poem.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
Find yourself a house
made of brick
or cement
cinder block, if you can find it
find yourself a house
made of stone
and sit
sit in the middle
when the sun comes
and there is no wind
and the asphalt ripples with fever
sit in the house
and watch yourself baking
getting soft
sweat slapping at your eyes
sweat clumping your hair
twisting and curling on your neck
stare at the unit
cut into the stone
don’t touch it
stare and know your body works
you have walls, a roof
and that is convenience
get yourself a house
made of stone
and sit
sit in the middle
when the clouds come
and the trees whistle
and the specter of breath lingers
sit in the house
watch yourself tighten
sealing in the juices
blood oozes and muds
blood sculpting clay
in the fingers and toes
think of fire
suck down booze
imagine a woman resting against you
but stare
stare at those tight walls
taught as your skin
and know that is comfort
get yourself a house
made of stone
and know what the rib cage
is to the heart
© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.
A short poem.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
This heart
belongs in a zoo
next to hyenas and baboons
next to lizards and bones
it
thumps boorish grunts
beats, cleaved,
in the curling tines of its cage
This heart
pumps
fossils and weeds
dying wheelbarrows
squeezing out rust
this heart
presses
black coffee
shatters windows
splinters doors
this heart
pulls from barbs
lights Molotov’s
rolls in whiskey and glass
this heart
hisses and smokes
© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.
A short poem.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
The heart slaps along
sticking
to hot asphalt
with each rotation
pulling from gravel and tar
with each bounce
spurting ruby and blue
leaving rust in its dust
green shards from broken Mickey’s
orphaned bougainvillea
plastic straws
French fries
bottle caps
abandoned black rubber
cigarette filters
chewed gum
yesterday’s papers
sand
and
dust
stick to it
The heart slaps in a puddle
swelling
with oil, rain and gasoline
stopped
Send it back
spinning and rolling
Pulling from the road
with each bounce
send it
slapping along
wrapped
in flowers and glass
© 2020 writesmarcus.com All Rights Reserved.
A short piece incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
You’re squinting eyes betray your smile
The mask masks little to a familiar shape
Cigarette smoke dances towards beauty
And I can’t look away
You, the conjuring of muses
Baring a bounty of abuses
Betraying only grace
And I can’t look away
Cages open when you smile
Wings espy strength to fly
Bulges form upon my nape
And I can’t look away
The match you burn
Whispers darkness away
The corners lit
And I can’t look away
When sound escapes your peaceful face
No mask can mask that sweet escape
Swirling cosmos, stars and sky
And I can’t look away
Though day is dying in the West
You raise a sun inside my chest
It forms a smile upon my face
And I can’t look away
White, your name best describes
The happy touch and gentle vibes
A hummingbird darting into our lives
And I can’t look away
A short story incorporating three random words, written in 20 minutes.
by Marcus Jonathan Chapman
Was it false? Her posture said yes when eventually she did leave. Her slow steps, that quick glance at the dogs, the fumbling with the lock she had opened hundreds, even thousands of times. Was she trying to convince herself of something? Something that she didn’t want in her mind but that her heart couldn’t support; not making the effort to pump blood to fingers, feet and eyes to make her way confidently out of the house.
I couldn’t know either but I suspected she wasn’t quite sure either. Decisions of the heart are never made in confidence. We may tell ourselves they are prudent choices but the heart plants a seed of doubt and only time will tell us if that doubt will grow into regret or die buried deep. I imagine that small unborn seed remains there, not growing but never truly dying, keeping its small hardness somewhere in the chest.
I wonder if it gets easier. Growth, nurturing, planting, giving, sharing time and energy. Or do those nutrients get lost with those seeds that never grow? Does the soil around those seeds grow into dust, leaving less and less space in the heart?
Then the weeds come. What did I do wrong? Was it this? Was it that? Was it all the things I was blind to? Was I selfish? Did I lose myself and become someone else? Will I be enough for anyone?
I’m only at the beginning but it already hurts to open up. It hurts to moisten and till the soil for new plantings. The first time, there was no pain in preparing for love but the more it happens, the more pain seeps into the process. The more those seeds of doubt poison what’s left of the soil around them.
What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me.
Whilst making a living... 