Emotional Instrumentality

When I find myself careworn by poetics, I tend to gravitate towards lighter, less condensed approaches to writing. Prose is, by natural production, my least refined process, but that does not mean I cannot figuratively invent useful forms to shape it up. After all, that’s what Caliath is all about—exploration of the elsewhere. One common struggle I undergo when etching narratives is the old and ever so demising struggle of reaction vs. response, one I’ve been quite puzzled with. Art is the inevitable necessity to communicate by way of emotion, which arrives with reaction, but a well-structured fictional reality must be accompanied by an emboss of response, as to foster a process that bleeds into the reader, allowing them to write the story as much as we do, without giving them full creative control of a world we’ve created. That would be evidently chaotic and a bedding for confusion. As I spent my entire Sunday in hospital aiding my grandfather,

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Ships That Dare (prose)

One of the proses found in True-Ultra. Ships That Dare Yet, my skin does not bleed light once cut, my memory is not a sea filled with vessels hauling treasure, and I can’t see past sky-rim. Those ships—I see them set sail and pass, wreck and sink, cast onto fiery cascades, and I see myself in them, drowning and burning. I know how it ends; I’ve seen it before; Comes with day, engraved by ancient lore: They leave, and I stay. I stay in this mental illusion of a small port-village, where the sound of seagulls preludes the daylight, but distant and faintly echoed. Where the windows radiate with the blue-hue of gentle waves, and onlookers are statically sighting the sea, waiting endlessly for a ship that will never arrive, a day that will never come. These days held by the belly, broken and shattered in every street and any corner, are the simplest notes sang by those seagulls. The

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True-Ultra (english poetry)

Today, I e-published my first title and a wave of terror washed over me. I do not feel quite ready for it. I’m an admirer of so many, and I don’t feel worthy of having people purchase my book just yet. It’s just not something I feel okay with, due to my inexperience and general inadequacy. Still, I feel like I’ve created something special in this humble manuscript. Something worth reading, but not necessarily commercialising. As such, I will un-publish the book and open it to reading in this post, in PDF format, free-for-all. I will, however, also provide a donate button bellow, may you decide I’m worthy of such honour and trust (you decide the amount). What I receive will be used for the purposes previously mentioned – maintaining the website and eventually, a groovy poetry-chilling podcast. Thank you, and sorry. True Ultra – The Book

Styx (revised)

As a lot of content is getting shaved from the book of Selected Poetry, most of my author notes are getting removed and replaced with prose. Hours of wasted work, but no matter, that’s how these things go. I will post some of those I feel worse about deleting, so they won’t dissipate into the void. Sorry for the huge resolution, comes straight from book format. JOHNNY

Sudden drought of content.

Salut, I shall take to absent form over the next two weeks, but fear not, it is for a special reason. In order to lighten the strain of maintaining the website, as well as perhaps purchase a microphone in order to start reading my compositions (and other poets’ works, so maybe a podcast) to you, I’ve decided to use my two-week work vacation – no, not to rest – but instead, to produce a manuscript with my best poems, a selection of sorts. Some will be new, some will be edited, and all will be accompanied individually with prose that explains the process of their making, similar prose to the one you see me publish here from time to time. I plan to publish it as an eBook, and although I’m unsure of the amount of pages, they will likely surpass two-hundred, and I intend to make the eBook as cheap as virtually possible. Along with a cover made by

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Gratitude.

The most common element throughout my time posting here, a little more than four months now, is most likely my lack of confidence into the craft I’m presenting for you to read. Although having such tender readers as you is a soothing march towards a path of more determined writing, I cannot help but to distill what is perhaps the only good spawn of this plaguing inadequacy: my unending gratitude, the joyous smiles whenever someone comments such warm and embracing notes to my compositions, those to which I give such little worth, those that you see something in, sometimes I’m tearful just thinking of it. Writing since such young age, I’ve only been compelled to share very recently, mostly out of fear and self-preservation, but this journey of sharing has been no less than magical, almost out of a book. I have long ways to go in my abilities and considerations, as well as my Art, which I plan to

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