The Poetic Underground of London, Kentucky
“The artist’s duty is to put a mirror up to the face of humanity. But he can only use abstractions. Which reveals the object of the reflection as an abstraction itself.”
At the edge of the Daniel Boone National Forest, in the heart of southeastern Kentucky, one may stumble out of the wilderness into a little town called London. Home to a network of local writers, painters, and other so-called “eccentrics,” the community of London, KY, is made complete by its own artistic, poetic underground.
Featured below are three poets who are part of that community – writing their way beyond the limitations of small-town life by turning inward and exploring the vastness of the human experience within the realms of mind and spirit. In the process, their poetry becomes philosophy, as their words never fail to address the burning questions of the human heart, ranging all the way from the mundane to the cosmic.
We readers would be wise to heed the words of these three philosopher-poets, whose works represent the highest pursuit of the Artist. “I view my work as a natural extension of my conscious being,” says Dane Osborne, who sees art as a form of communication rather than something to be commercialized or used as a container for man’s sense of ambition or lust for attention. “I believe any real artist comes from that angle.”
As Scribes, we must agree with Dane and his fellow philosophers, Trent Sizemore and Brandon Thorpe. We wish to bypass the gatekeepers who maintain that art must hold a monetary value to be considered successful. The best art is as natural as breath, as heartbeat, as blood flow, as synapse. It is made in response to finding oneself fully and completely alive – amid the complexities and curiosities of any certain place & time.
In the following selections, Dane, Trent, and Brandon will take you on a journey through the poetic underground of their worlds and lives in and beyond London. Starting with the first open door, traversing the universe in tandem with the town, and ending in gratitude for the friends found along the way… to know their stories is to walk among them. Read on and enter the Poetic Underground of London, Kentucky.
Poetry by Dane Osborne
WHAT’S BEHIND THE BLUE DOOR…
Subtle diffusion of summer colors speak through numerical
patterns along with implosion of secret machinery inside my head
which taught me cruelty of direct english and Our Divine Lord’s
Prayer.
These are excess sacrifices disguised as sacred explosions
I engineer over and over on purpose so that I may open a small
portal into space/time where I can find just a moment or a person
or a place which mutates my eyesight into Forever Born Again.
Crazy, a talking animal born sane but called crazy.
A buffoon with a golden tongue who became mad so that others
call sane.
But to call him a prophet? A Healer? The God-Man Wizard with
destructive and daring grandeur?
Well first, I’d have to open up a portal into space/time with
hopes that a physical entity comes out who talks to me in perfect
english and shows me
the hidden blue door to unlock the astral dimension of Heaven
and give it away free to desperate heathen lost in their
own language.
A legacy of shadows built by two-hand using white bricks
so our weary youth may find shelter from hard rain.
Hard Rain that downpours on a day of yellow sun.
⚘
WE KNOW NOT WHAT WE SEE
It’s only a conscious animal’s nature
to pick up an aroma of scent
from whatever attracts or repels the animal mind.
This is called Nature and is also called Judgment.
It’s only a blind mechanism no matter what you call it.
We conscious animals create Miracles and Disaster
which both will outlive the sun and clouds.
Our language is a misinterpretation of larval confusion.
We stand forgiven until the end of days because
we know not what we do
which entails we know not what we see.
⚘
CYANIDE AND CHARITY
We talking thinking creatures made of Love and Hatred
cannot help our inborn attraction to cyanide and charity
and how both may be presented as instruments of justice.
Justice is a word we’ve all been taught the meaning of
and the meaning makes good enough sense to us whether
True or False is in the face of conscious mysterious nature.
Beings of energy who live in higher realms
think we are foolish so much as they pity us.
If we could only see them we would listen.
That is what I tell those beings of energy
Everyday inside my electric brain.
If We Could Only See Them We Would Listen.
⚘
TO A MUSE I ENCOUNTERED IN A DREAM
Your naked skin glows tonight in
divine luminescence as
we float in warm waves of
green water.
The light of dawn and the color of
virgin dreams I can only know
but never touch
but they belong to you
and they shine
through the holy glare
of your crazy eyes
that glimmer softly
in
tangerine vision.
Sinless murder through the right door
and
pornographic love through the left.
Let’s just stay put
and
play games with the last children
of the lost night.
⚘
WHEN I COME TO FEAR THE SEASON’S PASS
When I come to fear the season’s pass,
I think of childish games on strange planets
or of snake bites received on Sunday mass.
Simmering nights under the moon’s tortured face,
where we realized Earth was but a dream
floating in the eternal blue mind.
I no longer claim to hate the dog-men or their temples,
they have their bones and toys.
Their bites will soften as their hair grays.
When I come to fear the season’s pass,
I no longer laugh at the sun and stars,
I feel no right to mock them.
I know that bright eyes will turn to black
and that some of us will walk alone.
⚘
THE SOFT PARADE ENDS…
The Soft Parade ends with elegance not expected.
Nature takes the form of Easy Breeze
which envelops the Earth swallowed alive by Blue and Pink light.
Marching girls give answers to questions I have not asked
and I tell them, “Conspiracy?! Don’t you mean Celebration?”
There will be no war or assassination on the White Moon
and I celebrate that.
I stand here as a Madman among all you Sad Ghosts
who are tricked by the language of frequency
and I say you’ve created what you fear
and now it’s become a Hologram which emits out Love and Flowers
and that gives you strength to withstand the rumors of war
which ever haunt your days alive in this invisible garden.
Stay humble in the face of GodLight
and your own face will possess GodLight too.
Sick Lambs heal up when they see your face.
The Soft Parade is over with elegance not expected.
Marching girls laugh and smoke cigarettes strolling down
wet streets under a white moon this Astral night not yet forgot.
I see them from a distance
and conjure a spell of peace with my mind.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Poetry by Trent Sizemore
SUBCONSCIOUS MIND
The terror of life,
Bless the subconscious mind,
For the thoughts you’ve expelled,
Have sought shelter to hide,
You’ve dubbed all that rest there uncommon,
For the forgotten could drown you,
Where nothing is constant,
Where qualitative action,
Only takes from each solution,
And we live without a cure,
Of psychological pollution,
Where Life consists,
Without air to fill your lungs,
This constant asphyxiation,
Will only leave you as it comes,
I guess the hell you’ve seen in life,
Forever walks with you,
And if you choose to disregard it,
I’ll bet you haven’t thought it through,
You see the freedom and security,
We feel when we forget,
Are merely false hope, that we’ll later on regret,
And all those awful things,
From which we thought we had escaped,
Have been dumped back into our minds,
Remaining unerased.
⚘
THE LAB EXPERIMENT
Both the lab rat,
And the scientist,
I’m an experiment of my own,
Trying to find a way, to traverse this maze,
Forever lost in the unknown,
Another mind-altering substance,
Placed neatly in a drawer,
Fascinated by my own behavior,
And the intentions at its core,
What primal instinct will surface,
And what given situation,
Among the collective so chaotic,
I’ve found endless information,
They say I can’t play games with my sanity,
And yet I feel I’m in control,
And that should be, a fallacy,
I hope I’m lost before they know.
⚘
PSYCHOSIS
Welcome to psychosis,
What a wonderful world,
Waterfalls of madness,
For the boys and girls,
It takes some a while to grow used to it here,
While there is a paradox of terror crawling out of the mirror,
This rational thought you placed first in your life,
Will only come to disappoint once you find it’s all lies,
Such clever ideology unproven through time,
I guess you need a solid structure,
For such a flawless disguise.
⚘
THINKING FOR OURSELVES
Can an original idea exist,
In this lifeless set of systems,
That only endlessly, modify,
Ancient algorithms,
Plots so predictable,
Where the variables in place, never see any change,
The twist or turns of every puzzle,
Seem but merely rearranged,
For what thought that does reside,
Somewhere outside the norm,
Will lack a necessary merit,
To grow enough to transform,
Into an idea worthy of challenging
The equations that we trust,
The same systematic processes,
They have always worked for us,
Some of the original idea does exist,
How can I grow?
Without our doubt neglecting its chance
To stand against what we think we know,
And where does that leave mankind’s mental evolution,
Somewhere locked away in these mental institutions,
It’s always bothered me seeing the plausible
I did shot down,
The people who can’t even say they know
What they’re talking about,
And I just honestly believe,
Above anything else,
That we as human beings should start thinking for ourselves.
⚘
GREAT BALL OF FIRE
I feel there’s an asteroid out there,
And it’s headed our way,
Hurling toward us crossing lifetimes of space,
And when we can observe it,
We’ll give it a name,
With a sad realization,
That we caught it too late,
And if we can’t escape,
Our demise, Was it fate,
We’ll ask in grim acceptance
Of those upcoming graves.
And when I look up, see that great ball of fire,
I’ll fight a compelling instinct to run,
For not having the time, kills my will to defy,
A rock that should orbit the Sun,
What’s the use in fighting a Battle already won?
But if we’re being optimistic,
It’s cool that none of us missed it,
We’ve performed many species,
But Life Will Go On,
And the day will come soon,
When our kind is but mythical,
Hail the species on the throne,
When it dawns,
And all that they’ll achieve,
When mankind is gone.
⚘
FOOTSTEPS ALL OUR OWN
Toward the beginning of mankind,
We held such a great connection,
Yes, trust once existed without a need for inspection,
And soon we’d trade connecting,
For something more infecting,
And ego-filled society, so selfish or misdirecting,
And of course we would proceed, arm-in-arm with deceit,
Thinking, I’d better fool him before he should fool me,
And we continued this wicked process,
Until we grew estranged,
Walled-up vacant shells with different names,
And the lies, they grew in numbers
As they sprouted from our tongues,
Through a sense of self-protection
We’d watch a cancer grow among us,
And with it our behavior grew negative and obscene,
Untainted souls remain that they preceded so unseen,
And from there things would spiral downward,
For improvement of the self,
Regardless of where that took the species
Or anyone else,
Mankind has been led astray by footsteps in the snow,
Forever blaming what had left them,
Forgetting they’re our own.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Poetry by Brandon Thorpe
FRIENDSHIP
I.
Doesn’t it feel good to compliment people?
When you have someone’s attention,
you’re armed with something relevant to say,
you’re finally saying it
Their expressions change, they lean in
make faces indicating their mutual interest,
and both your brains buzz a little bit.
Doesn’t it feel nice to be trusted?
To know something known only to the owner,
and you’re the only other person in the world
that knows about it,
because you’ve proven over years of friendship
that you don’t break trust.
And whatever effect telling secrets has upon them,
catharsis, or absolution, you shall
provide it by simply listening.
And doesn’t it feel nice to listen?
To show interest.
I know you’re busy, but open that link from your
best friend.
I know it’s 10 minutes, but that used to be nothing
before the internet, when you were kids.
It means something to them.
It’s another way we listen now
Doesn’t it feel nice when you gather some words
and engage with the topic
It makes them happy, and you become interested yourself
It is funny! or interesting, or moving
or whatever emotion they felt and
wanted you to feel as well,
and doesn’t it feel good?
II.
Here we are,
desperately trying to understand,
and communicating what we’ve pieced together
to the few people we managed to grab onto
during our slow slide off the edge of everything.
It may not feel good, but doesn’t it feel right to comfort a friend?
Someone who’s experiencing one of the common tragedies
or banal disasters present in most human lives.
To show up for them
hold them
cry with them, get drunk together
curse god.
And when you look at old pictures, sing old songs
watch old videos, nothing else feels like that.
It feels both recent and distant, seasoned by
homesickness, and a lean sense of accomplishment.
Oh but there’s loss and failure, you’re sad on one page
laughing on the next. Isn’t it like that?
Sometimes there’s a bad person in a picture.
My grandma would snatch up pictures with bad people,
cut them out, but when you come upon a headless man
In a photo, you have to ask,
and in their omission she felt compelled
to tell their story too. So even the monsters
are remembered along with our saints.
Some of the people in those pictures,
aren’t around anymore,
and we always come to the same conclusion
that the proper response
is simply to make time for those you have left.
Don’t take them for granted, nor the time you have yourself,
hold onto the memories, feel however the hell
you want about them
and keep a pair of scissors at your ready.
III.
People will build fortresses around themselves
and perform acts commonly interpreted as calls for help,
but if you try to approach them, you quickly realize
there’s no way through.
You wonder if those cries for help,
were just expressions of sorrow
with no intended consequence,
beyond solving the injustice of their suffering going
unnoticed.
You could stage an intervention,
sweep them away from their abuser
beat up their drug dealer and
drag them into rehab,
make them see a therapist
force feed them their psych meds
but you know them well enough
to know
they would shut you out,
but you can still notice them,
feel bad for them,
and let them know as much.
You don’t have to give your blessing
or enable self-destructive behavior,
just bring up a memory
from the old days
Start with a happy one.
Even the smallest
light in the pitch black
Is impossible to ignore.
If the mood is too somber,
tell them one of your own,
doesn’t matter how bad theirs is.
They could be talking about shooting up with muddy water they
drew from the hoof prints
on a dirt road
and just as naturally as they,
you can tell them
about your cat dying, or the mind-numbing
mundanity of your job.
Not once have I heard someone say
“That’s not as bad as mine”
most of the time there’s only mutual sympathy.
It probably won’t solve a thing for them… for either of you,
but it doesn’t have to
if it lifts them one inch higher
it’s worth it.
Maybe in passing,
do let them know you love them,
and just want them to get better.
IV.
It seems unfair to the family
that in cases of Alzheimer’s, friends are some of the last to be forgotten,
while grandchildren, and even their own adult children
appear to them as complete strangers,
yet they’re able to recall with perfect clarity
people and events from decades ago.
Their first car ride, their first kiss, their best friend.
Maybe it’s not unfair,
after all
they were there first.
I hope I remember sneaking through the woods with
my friends to a brightly lit 1990s K-mart,
and rushing back home through the overwhelming
growth of the forest.
Hearing our parents yell for us in a panic
and successfully convincing them that we truly hadn’t heard them
and were just innocently playing in the woods, with pockets
full of stolen Pokemon cards.
I hope I remember that year of grade school where our class
had lunch last, and when you were lining up afterwards, it was
almost 2:00,
the day was practically done,
and everyone was
chatty and elevated,
especially on a Friday, one when one of your friends
was having a birthday party at Finley’s
and the whole class was invited.
I hope I remember feeling deranged
after a full day of activities
waiting on mom to pick me up, lit by the flickering
arcade lights.
Feeling like nothing was real, with permission for sleepover
pizza and blockbuster video in the near future.
I hope I remember that lull in activity,
where I couldn’t believe it all happened in the same day,
and I sat in silence, vibrating from the pure unadulterated
Innocent bliss of childhood, waiting.
I’m sure I will remember some of it.
Or maybe they’ll let me keep all my memories the whole way out the door
and I can bring it all with me,
all of my friends, and everything we did together.
“Creation is essentially best described as taking what is only imagined internally and transforming this into a perceivable external reality. A good definition for the phenomena of perpetual motion could best be described as the forever continuous act of how nothing spawns birth to something.”
With endless love & gratitude,
