The Marrow with Josh Riebock by At Will Radio:

Conversations with creatives about who they are and why they make what they make

Sometimes I feel more mannequin than man;
Posing myself proper,
In a window, dressed precise,
Perspective perfection
Forcing where I stand; but
Filet my mind,
I don’t mind,
Fathom, feel the marrow inside…
Mastodon monks,
Autonomous milk massacred in mire,
Infancy fried on catafalque fire.
People say I’ve lost my mind; I don’t remember having one to begin with.
Concealing my secrets took a moment; exhuming them, a lifetime.
Ten million memories buried alive in
Tantric tombs of expectations and twine.
I shop on Park Avenue for psychotic suits,
Branding pilgrims and grunts with eyes pale blue.
There’s a girl I once knew, who
Ate oatmeal with her hands and
Curled her hair to placate history—
She spent her life regretting the life she was living;
Each tear was a novel;
She wept libraries of sad stories;
Every word I read by candlelight,
Like an antiquarian, collected them,
I read her despair at dawn, dusk,
Read till all disintegrated, till
I turned to dust:
Biblioclast I’ve become—
Love is a hint of heaven, but
Sometimes feels more like a tease—
She didn’t love me,
She loved lies, as did I,
Fluorescent fables, the
Sweetness found in my fiction, I’m a
Pornographic affair…but
Fallacies camouflage my forbidden pit;
Siphon me with straws,
Suck shoals of profligate spit.
Was I conceived in a factory? From
Assembly line lineage? Of
Smoke stacks that chuckle?
There is a bosom from which all humanity suckles,
Beethoven, unclasp mother’s chastity buckle.
Dior, leave me undone, decaying on your machine,
Exorcise soul’s stuffing,
Castrated silk, spirit is nothing;
Conformed life, conformed eyes,
Kiss, consummate craven disguise.
As a child, I learned to pick things up; will I learn to let things go?
Now come,
You and you and you—
Prosperity, pugilist, anthropoid, Puck,
My carousel faces sneer and embrace,
I’ve space in my years for one final disgrace;
Gremlins hail good,
Worms wriggling through attacked hearts of wood.
Cultural contortion,
No one cares;
Model me before dumb deities,
Adorn my desiccated dreams,
Deceased hope,
Hang my opinions with rank, rites, and rope;
True wrath is true love,
Neither can be culled,
Coffins, commerce, confetti—the
Crucibles in which we cook.
Mannequin mayhem,
Beauty pageant perjury,
Peace, pieces,
I’m a worn down plastic storefront man, the
Shine of me is faded…gone; but
Let me be your knight in rusted armor;
You bring the hope,
I’ll bring the holler.