Poems from Vincent St. Clare

Vincent St. Clare's picture
【𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: ⮕ I usually don't pull punches when it comes to my creative expression. Some content I produce may only be age-appropriate for adults. That's potentially the case when it comes to any of my work—past, present, or future. Thus, some material viewable on this particular Power Poetry account page (that is, in this very bio), possibly including some of the poems (or portions of poems) featured here, may ALSO only be age-appropriate for adults, best suited to individuals 18+ or 21+. ◆ Additionally, explicit content may appear on the various social media accounts and other online profiles I have managed or today manage, as well as the webpages and websites I've managed or contributed to, or am currently administrating, updating, or active (even if only somewhat active) on. Hence, I recommend following any links to any of my online presences, posts, and publications with caution. ◆ When it comes to my verse—and remember: this may also apply, in certain instances, to my other creative works—explicit content can consist of the poetic use of (or allusions to/references to/mention[s] of): • strong language; • alienation (whether communal—e.g., alienation from (or within the context of) one's country, culture, family, religion, nation, or society—or personal/private—e.g., alienation in an egoic, existential, psychological, or spiritual sense); • conflict (e.g., class, cultural, economic, family, generally interpersonal, religious, resource); • death; • grief and loss; • pain (whether emotional/psychological or physical); • sexuality; • addiction, including substance use and abuse; • violence; • explicit topics like abuse and neglect, self-harm, and potentially harmful ideologies. <...> ... It's a fair warning, I think.】 🔹️⌞══════════════⌝ 🔹️ V.—or Vincent—St. Clare. "Empty Sky." (Among other names and such.) A nom de plume. "V. St. C", even, though really you can call me [by] any name you prefer. (Examples include dipsh*t, burnout, creep, crackpot, misfit, screwball, a fluke [of nature], a flake [all the same], and so forth and so on.) A fledgling writer, amateur quasi-philosopher, some half-as*ed attempt at a "mystic" or "magic[k]ian", and a dislocated suburban cowboy. I'm couch-locked and hell-bound, an armchair idiot facing an everlasting omnilemma, pissing alchemy into the wind and pis*ing life away with an overburdened spiritual bladder. I've got a head on wheels and a heart on fire. I've been wandering in place for the past few countless eternities, simultaneously waiting on death and running after the summum bonum, that mirage we like to call "the good life". I'm ideally looking to ride out the latest eschaton, though frankly I'm not too hopeful about my (or anyone's) prospects, so these days I'm mostly just looking for reasons to tell off the universe despite my desire for true peace of mind. (And don't we all want that, in the end?) {All times and places and spaces are colliding and combining, whether "out there" in some "actual" world or just in my head or in yours or ours together or neither or both or whatever, etc., etc., and so on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, yada yada, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, blah blah blah…}🔹️【linktr.ee/vincent_st.clare || thegrandtangent.com】
She lays in crabgrass Leaves strung by raindrops Strung lightly over red earth On black hill Beneath clouds Muddled blue They wander south...
A land flowing with milk and honey Has its place in dreams and for those gone… And for us? It has been. It is now. It will be that war...
Two mirrors stand Adjacent, opposed, Staring into the infinity They strive to approach,   Becoming But never being
(I would step outside before looking in) In the end you will find Only the witness as he stands: Open, bare to the world, Among it, of it,...
Who said I is inside? Oh! I wish IT wasn’t!   Put IT up in a tree Or on a clothing line There in sultry Hampton.   Hang IT up to dry with...

Pages