[Environmental/Elusive] a poem

The dungeon of this heart
has been molded
from the dungeon my heart
has retreated to
Imprinting is unavoidable,
a natural by-product,
as one who hates themselves stray
into aggressive mimicry for everything
they even, if only to elude their reflections

According to the sea,
the calm & the storm occur
within the same life form;
what I am is now what I am,
what I may have been all along,
trapped in a modeled ruse , forever condemned

If be the burrow,
if not the reclusive,
a sea swallowing the poison of a
disregarding species,
it can be said how splendid it is
to see one accept their sentence,
walk unaccompanied,
without shackles,
into a cell designed,
a cell chosen to house what will
become an eminent insanity


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Anthropogeny] a poem

[Anthropogeny]


A story of
origins is but a
story of survival,
searchers themselves
consecrate all memories of
the frantic tale of searching
sensible fluttering
register wonderfully in prose,
polished the terrible
into a luminous tact,
software of subliminal context
& pieced up in times of almost no
leisure,
Is a brief decay of an individual,
word exchange,
inaction almost flawlessly maintained,
uplifted nonetheless,
by none other,
than a man whose shaken
the adornment of traditional chains
only to negotiate a bargain deal
for the latest trend of self-imposed shackles



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[The Missing] a poem

All is dead;
All remains to be dead,
of no use other than replenishing
dust beneath our feet,
the aura with spirits jacketing
our lack of perception
The deepest philosophy
is a dangerous foe
which does not kill us
but mangles
& leaves us at the mercy of
the merciless scavengers



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Shared Tragedies] a poem

Yesterday,

I asked Orpheus the very
sensation of being torn apart by wild women;

and all he said was,

“It’s an empirical experience; all men take their turn.


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Isolation] a poem

An easily tamed child

is an obtrusive, uncreative

becoming of an adult

In a facility so dark,

so empty,

so removed from this world,

anyone & anything can be conditioned

to cooperate with whatever, whenever

Dontrell Lovet't

from, [The Failed Writer] 

[To Write a Novel] a poem

I can hear the wind at
nightfall in a twist of imagination;
The door wide open,
as I like it;
Black smut has wrapped
itself around thousands of seconds,
consequences,
painted inclinations,
skin at personal cost,
progressing into the incredible novel,
transformation out of pill form
threatening directions it must be
swallowed without aide,
if daze is desired to
someday subside



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[I Knew to Know You] a poem

I’ve chased you before
though your face is new to me.
I dream of you so often,
nightmares have no place to be,
& intensely alive,
the news of your is always breaking,
the talk of the town,
unanimously unsaid & known
amongst friends who’ve witnessed
my descent into doldrum
faces forward in crowds
cannot truly ever reveal what’s
against an unconscious oppression-
then,

the ones insisting,
persisting on knowing,
flail in wait for a slave to
free them,
inventing little worth
to the mathematics well remaining
a cipher, where a glance stays
lit awaiting an apocalypse
ever-threatening arrival
the fantasy is not for sale,
so this stillness in soul,
this measured, meticulous hope,
can only be genuine
to the world-end degree,
inhaling what’s exhaled



Dontrell Lovet't 
from, [The Failed Writer]

[See it Through] a poem

Giving up on love is volunteering
to die a slow death
everything in me
wants all that is you
leaning against this cold world,
I’ve grown numb to the bone
& as your warm press
becomes an earnest compress,
the cold is fading,
nothing holds together the fractures
& shatters;
I admit,
I’ve come apart
& have become a mess,
needing swept up



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Delta Deep-Sleep] a poem

Fire is the universal,
modern text;
It burns,
scolds,
saturates itself,
molten liquid into the worn hole,
the hole of the mind,
bottomless &riotous,
round-a-bout roaming,
jacking all trades,
mastering none
If we are with a
nobody who wants to be a somebody,
we dream steady;
a somebody with a desire to be
someone else,
we dream as vague
as the passing of a single instance






Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Rubbish-love] a poem

In the fore-flesh
of your foreground,
is this man,
Antaeus,
dirt on your knees,
slithering around my stick
like a snake
something awful,
this infatuation for the
unfortunate fallen
be it not for you,
in gratitude,
the fallen would be
without all pleasure



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Seek Elsewhere] a poem

Misery floats a mendacious dramatist,
stepping in,
hearing the steps to climb,
step, then the echoes around empty streets
turning back seems just as
hard as going on,
an affinity of awaiting kisses
as spectators anticipating to report
a crime to be committed at any moment
dry lightning,
pie-in-the-sky science,
a-top- a warning never to love
someone who makes the pen & paper
their bread & butter
maybe you can manage,
the utmost, undreamable,
unremarkable damage,
long showered like the mudd-puddled
smiles men smile when undergoing a
terror of transformation,
a terraform of hopes & dreams,
a gain if nothing against an
all-knowing chaos under literary construction,
very well to provide the
blueprint as to how you’ll
become infatuated with your
coming cause of death



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Shys] a poem

We all reserve a residual shy,
a purposeful shy,
visually, hideously, unequivocally,
a palindrome,
given & taken,
wrapped & bare
There are two of us,
you know,
all too into ourselves,
apprehensive
only one of us is aware



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Heart/Apart] a poem

It’s scary to scatter
your heart into different directions,
unknown, unsure,
under-sided cohorts,
blasting patterns;
so I gorge myself with the
fading dim,
unrecorded light as it’s presenting,
tribute the decomposition to
the response of what then becomes the
“cry-wolf.”

-tasting the badly learned,
the sweetness of seasoned split peas,
wind-combed harvests,
arm-full symbols of eternity;

Now the fissures summoned,
perpetrated are adequately understood,
power and magic in majestic contortion



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Veins Vacant for Rent] a poem

Maybe something unsociable,
unpleasant,
unreliable,
is alive in these pages;
uncertain, hesitant pen strokes
are the sure exception

I recreate adrenaline,
a rush to the hypothalamus,
an artificial petulance,
as wild & potent as the smile
of the smitten,
silver & remembered as those
lost to us still breathing next to us

The body pleasurably becomes
a pleasure addict once deflowered
& the broken hymen of the mind minds not
a bit of pain with the titillating touch



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[The Nominal Side] a poem

Only the hand
which has imprisoned me
can set me free,

I’ve grown into an
existence predicate on a
promise of contingency;
If the true love of her
life happens to not be the
love of her life she believes him
to be,
she’ll call me,
& not a single instance prior
will a single inquiry from me will be a desire
these hands are too shaky
to reciprocate promise,
to await a moment come too late,
not soon enough,
or not at all;

Every passing moment
is a moment I’ll write
& every book I’ll write,
will gradually kill me a bit more
The day you call,
is the day I’ll already be as
good as a dead man



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[The Comings & Goings] a poem

A delight,
how the most temporary,
the shortest-lived
bear longevity,
running a road father than
say consistency
hunger compels the
consistent preference to have a taste,
then a marvel of timing
hatches the incubating past,
stirs panic in the midst of sleep,
a chastising chill on awakening,
alone



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[Love & Grapple] a poem

The night is deepening
& mechanical life begins to lack attraction

A come-to-soon
to an unattractive place,
voices through all artificial larynx,
more tortured than a catapulting
fear of words,
irritation teeming with every shot
of dialogue;
& we just begun to argue,
love combating love



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Ephemeridian] a poem

How does it work?
The one who wants only the
physical you reigns over the one
who desires the whole of you?
Apparently,
an apparent juxtaposition exist,
between the simple
& the intricate;

A simple man is brutally primitive,
knowing only his primitivism,
unfamiliar with any dreams beyond
The intricate,
intense, almost hindered by his analysis
paralysis, demands, possesses hands willing
to be bloodied if murder indeed
reveals itself the method to equate
what dreams haunt him
& what dream-likeness is absent
when he’s awake


The wish to live day to day appeals,
prevails,
more than a dreamer willing to pull you
into the hereafter,
a limitless man,
devout, dangerous, dosed to
delirium for a love he knows all too
well doesn’t belong to him


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Unparticular Interruptions] a poem

Even if this room was
without interruptions,
surfacing myself to
affirm flight is a
reality the Josephine every
woman tends to host in their
hearts have scuttled;


Due to remorse,
a new mind I’d never mind,
complete, minor a universe
stirring every absurd intervention
to any single hollowed matter,
the future lies below,
bitter blackberries danced over
by every upright rattle
loosening their hooks to
winter winds,
tinged discs
dying when night falls
& no longer visible to lie
every hope struggling to
stray upon



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[If I Give Myself Over] a poem

I’ll give myself to you;
and if that’s all I ever do, I’ll give myself to you


If my giving myself to you is not a gift you
are unsure of wanting,
then take it regardless,
discard it at will,
as long as you promise me,
from a man who adores you
to a woman who adores only temporary stimulation,
that someday,
you’ll find something more than what I’ve given
in vain


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]