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,
Forcing where I stand; but
Filet my mind,
I don’t mind,
Fathom, feel the marrow inside…
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
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?
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.
No one cares;
Model me before dumb deities,
Adorn my desiccated dreams,
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.
Beauty pageant perjury,
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.