bio+descriptors

BIO
SAMUEL SWAYNE, 23-YEARS-OLD, GRADUATED IN 2011 WITH A B.A. IN CREATIVE WRITING FROM ROCKHURST UNIVERSITY.  LIVES IN DOWNTOWN KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI.

STATEMENT
MY POEMS INTEND TO EXPLORE AN UNDEFINED, UNCONVENTIONAL STYLE OF POETRY THAT IS CONFESSIONAL IN A SENSE, BUT THE CONTENT OF THE POEMS INTEND TO POSSESS A DISTINCT DICHOTOMY OF BOTH FICTIONAL AND NONFICTIONAL ELEMENTS THAT REFLECT MY OWN LIFE EXPERIENCES.  MY VISION OF THESE EXPERIENCES ARE DISTORTED, STRANGE, DISCONNECTED, AND SINGULAR.  THEMatically, I INTEND TO EXPLORE a realm created by STRIPPING DOWN a raw, frightening EXISTENCE OF AN AMORAL SLIPSTREAM that consists OF APATHY, PASSIVITY, SUPERFICIAL SPRAWL, MADNESS, AND LOST CONNECTIONS IN BIG CITIES WITH BIG LIGHTS – WHEREIN A MICROCOSM OF CASUAL SEX AND DISPASSION THRIVE IN SMALL CAPTURED MOMENTS THAT MERELY GLINT IN CONTEXT, AS THEY DO NOT SHINE AS FULLY-DEVELOPED MEMORIES.  I LIKE TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE IDEA OF DEVELOPING YOUR OWN PERCEPTIONS BY WRITING DIRECTLY FROM YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS IN AN ORGANIC MATTER — AND NEVER TO DERIVE ANYTHING that solely relies on my direct PERCEPTION OF THE REALITY I SEEM TO EXIST, OR CO-EXIST, WITH.  manipulation of reality results in surreal storytelling that expands beyond my own vision and becomes lost in translation during my creative process.

SLIP·STREAM  

/ˈslipˌstrēm/

Slipstream strides to convey the sense of feeling strange.  Slipstream falls between speculative fiction and mainstream fiction. While some slipstream novels employ elements of science fiction or fantasy, not all do. The common unifying factor of these pieces of literature is some degree of the surreal, the not-entirely-real, or the markedly anti-real.

TASTE MY GAME: a poetry collection — Poems Four through Six.

i was left to rye out your words (FOUR)
Cross my path and cross my heart
Render it to perfection with such bright little surges
of flickering specks of glinting hope –
Maybe your company wasn’t all that I was wishin’ for
Because I could have been entirely here for myself –
The one static person who’s anyone but you.

My hands stiffen into a clutch around my drink
A neat whiskey that settles deeper in the glass
Seething in its piss yellow stink.
I’m reminded of a familiar moment when
I really believed in a person that was real – warm flesh & blood
That could walk into a room to arrive and satisfy my sullen smile.

Except, now, I’m left with July nights that will soon
accumulate to where there aren’t any more –
But a calendar month passed into an August’s burst and bloom.
I calculate more blanketed, quiet nights
Where my sighs of relief will be singular noises in a dark room.

Pathfinder (FIVE)

I’m the one condemned to be slutty, moribund and flirty
Therefore your vices call to abandon a boy like me –
I’m the kind you can desert.
What else can I do with my father’s good looks and my
Clean-shaven face? I can’t help it that I’m a good kisser,
I’ve just always been a natural.
You only sit before me in an assay of my judgments –
Not a fair game when all’s you can claim is the
Tired, bored, glib boy who thinks he’s a man,
Yet he’s not really one at all, he always just stays the same.
Virtues and vices really just squeeze you dry
with your vice’s vice-grip –

It’s easy for me to see it all pouring from you.

Yeah, you’ve heard the talk correctly. I’ve been around.
Ventured many places and
strange apartments, yet your terrain’s a place I won’t
afford to ever give a trip.
I’ve been to it before: it’s a place where I could never get lost –
there’s too many directions – a predetermined, mapped-out
exploration that’s easily explored
just as it’s also the easiest route taken.

Dispassion (SIX)
You’ve got nothing against me,
Yet nothing for me, either – and this leaves me
Unsure of which matter is worse.
Don’t promise me a damn thing ‘cuz I just don’t need
to get my hopes up – what you make predictable
is also equally cruel and unjust. So, I just beg you
to politely tell me lots of lies, lies, and lies
and then leave me alone with them, quietly with make-believe
until it will really make me believe.

TASTE MY GAME: a poetry collection — Poems One through Three.

“sucker-punch” (ONE)
(I)
I woke up today in this city – tired and uninspired.
My nerves, searing like little stringed branches of hot iron
glowing in a faint orange that burns and settles into a deep red, dried blood.
Today, I just can’t take it any longer.
Please, now I finally want my
Gratification – and it can’t be delayed
any longer.
It turns out that everything’s the same
because nothing changes if nothing changes.
I’m alive, hung-over, emptied out by that empty glass –
I’ve been drained dry
Down to the ice gathered in the bottom of a glass, clinking around until
it will inevitably melt.

(II)
Oh, yes, again, it was the same old thing – the
Stupid sentiment that sucks in a sucker like me for
a good, hard sucker-punch right in my gut –
where I feel everything there is to possibly feel.

Once there were things I cared about – remnants and
artifacts that I clutched onto – because they reaffirm that
something powerful was once truly possible for me
and in the stir of my solace, my reverie – I know it’s the right thing to do &
I carry on
with these
pieces, things, particles
into my very own next special
moment that glides seamlessly into my next –
and objects’ weight become lighter and lighter.

“like roadkill” (TWO)
My feeling for you, boy, is rotting right in front of me like roadkill
hot under the midday sunlight – to show you that
all that I could have ever wanted
was ran over and left instilled with the indention of one, long tire mark.
Its surface is now sunken in so’s all you can see is what’s dead and still.

I drove over it and left it for you with a strange new strength surging in me
Yeah, I just might cry & plea before I flee, but I’ll still just walk away
In the opposite direction from where you turned around to leave.
I left it all dead so there’s not anything left for you to ever really see.

“Boundless as the Dark” (THREE)
This boundless black absence between us is more space
than either of us needed.
I can’t kill the void by murdering my thoughts for my feed –
Please don’t bore me with any laments and tangents intangible
Your need for my change came sooner than it should’ve –

Look me in the eyes!
I’m your very own renegade and my plight can’t ever die!

Our time is always measured by your short leash.
Just pull me closer to you again, because I don’t have the guts to grab you
and say what ought to be said.
All’s I can say is goodnight, baby, goodnight.
And I beg for our broken fragments to start forming together,
beginning to mend the night.