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The Hollow Minds

Erin pens an epic poem about Twilight.

The Hollow Minds

Yesterday Poshdeluxe asked me to write an epic poem about Twilight. Of course, she was just joking, but ha ha!! I was serious! (It's why you should never jokingly challenge me to do something. I've had food poisoning at least three times as the result of a joke challenge.)

Unfortunately, in case you haven't noticed before, um, I can barely string five words together to form a sentence. But those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach, rip off talented people!

So, I present to you all, my Don't-Worry-It's-Not-As-Long-As-Canterbury-Tales-or-Anything Epic Poem, The Hollow Minds. (P.S. Sorry, T.S.)


The Hollow Minds

Feminism — it's dead

A penny for the Undead Guy


We are the hollow minds
We are the stuffed minds
Listing together
Mouthpiece filled with flaws. Alas!
Our muffled voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or skin-sparkles like broken glass
In our dry cellar

Jorts without form, lips without color,
Aboriginal force, stalking without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as flat
Banal souls, but only
As the hollow minds
The stuffed minds.


Vulva I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the bits are
Sunlight on a jutting column
There, is a treetop swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More persistant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Letter jackets, mirky skin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the fog behaves
Growing nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


This is the ancient land
This is native land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the sunlight, a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with violence
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


The will is not here
There is no will here
In this valley of weeping stars
In this hollow valley
This unhinged jaw of our worst kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
But avoid bliss
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The apple reappears
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty minds.


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Publisher

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Marketing Team

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Purity Ring

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way literature ends
This is the way your childhood ends
This is the way our patience ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.


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Categories: Slambook Tags: poetrytwilight
Erin Callahan's photo About the Author: Erin is loud, foul-mouthed, an unrepentant lover of trashy movies and believes that champagne should be an every day drink. When she isn't drowning in a sea of engineers for whom Dilbert is still uproariously funny, she's writing about books, tv, the cult of VC Andrews and more.