Gossip [&] the Devil

The reversal technique is one of the more under utilized in trying to break away from writers block, likely because often you’re faced with a jibberish of words when you’re done. The art is simple, is there a poem or narrative you can’t quite bring to that break out level, is the language staying stale and dated? Take it and turn it upside down. Make the last line the first, and continue down the line. The last line of your new poem should be the title of your old poem. Make sense?

A poem called "Brown-Eyed Voodoo" Set in reverse.

Now you can edit as you reverse, since some sentences aren’t going to make a bit of sense, but only lightly edit, try to leave the integrity of the exercise intact. We’ll look at a poem called “Brown-Eyed Voodoo” for as an example.

Now here’s the original poem that’s long, rambling and you don’t even have to read if you don’t want to, it’s strictly used for educational purposes:

Brown Eyed Voodoo

My last night with you
wasn’t all I’d hoped it to be,
wasn’t everything
you’d written poetry about.
We’re bored out of our coked up skulls,
fire natures flaring out against
the lethargic still-life of our usual hangouts,
we need something else to burn down but right now
after-hours parties are all we have,
then later, in an alleyway,
you tongue kiss my cracked lips,
just like I’ve always dreamed about.
A bum asks us for a light,
I tell him I don’t smoke even as I stomp
out my cigarette, the interruption
kills the mood and your hands leave
the bare skin beneath my t-shirt.
I’ll regret that in the morning
when you’ll claim you’re gone for good.
But that’s bullshit, I knew when I met you
I’d chase you into the afterlife,
your brown-eyed voodoo keeping us alive.
We’ve been well taught to lose things
we’re in danger of indulging in
as hedonists, sucking our respective wells dry,
a few choice boys and a hundred girls
but always right back to where we started,
shoved inside alcoves, hard dicks in willing hips,
and I’m reminded to remember how to love you
as drops of you litter my stiletto shoes.
They’re fucking uncomfortable
but I’d left them on because you enjoy
them digging into your lower back.
It’s the kind of mutilation you call art,
dripping blood and pristine bruises,
I’m human. I’ve got it,
this small time alone tonight.
I know this. I’m honest,
for these few heated minutes.
It won’t matter, we’re both liars and lovers
in love with ourselves,
tomorrow we’ll work out the details
sure as a concrete tomb,
sure as you’ll say goodbye
sure as I’ll find another boy in the meantime,
but not a single one of them
can match you as I hear the toilet flush,
you spit in the sink, shirtless you arrive bedside
and silently you leave,
the music of your footsteps
the landscape in which
all my best nightmares are sown,
a garden grown all for you,
this perpetual loop
of abandonment.

Now, to reverse the poem, all you’d have to do is re-write it from the bottom up, making grammatical corrections where need be. But, as I said, try not to correct it TOO much, to preserve the integrity of the exercise. The point isn’t to end up with poem or narrative you can use RIGHT AWAY, but to inspire ideas for language you can use to further the piece. You can always switch it back later.

Of Abandonment

This perpetual loop
a garden grown all for you,
all my best nightmares are sown,
the landscape in which
the music of your footsteps
silently you leave.
You spit in the sink, shirtless you arrive bedside
I hear the toilet flush,
sure as I’ll find another boy in the meantime,
sure as you’ll say goodbye
sure as a concrete tomb,
tomorrow we’ll work out the details
in love with ourselves.
It won’t matter, we’re both liars and lovers
for these few heated minutes.
I know this. I’m honest,
this small time alone tonight
I’m human. I’ve got it,
dripping blood and pristine bruises.
It’s the kind of mutilation you call art,
Fucking uncomfortable
drops of you litter my stiletto shoes.
and I’m reminded to remember how to love you.
Shoved inside alcoves, hard dicks in willing hips,
but always right back to where we started,
a few choice boys and a hundred girls
as hedonists, sucking our respective wells dry.
We’ve been well taught to lose things
your brown-eyed voodoo keeping us alive.
I knew when I met you
you’ll claim you’re gone for good.
I’ll regret that in the morning.
The bare skin beneath my t-shirt.
kills the mood, your hands leave
just like I’ve always dreamed about.
you tongue kiss my cracked lips,.
then later, in an alleyway
after-hours parties are all we have,
we need something else to burn down but right now
the lethargic still-life of our usual hangouts,
fire natures flaring out.
We’re bored out of our coked up skulls,.
It wasn’t everything
you’d written poetry about
wasn’t all I’d hoped it to be,
My last night with you
Brown Eyed Voodoo.

Now, from this the language and narrative has been changed considerably. This allowed me to take this large chunk of relatively useless text and turn it into something worthy of submission to a magazine called Opium:

Brown Eyed Voodoo

The Chicago skyline is drawn in white lines
across a glass counter top.
We’re reckless and turned off by after-parties,
the monochromatic still-life
of paid hosts and band members.
You tongue kiss my cracked lips
in an alley outside the club.
Hard dicks in willing hips.
Bare skin beneath my t-shirt.
Drops of you litter my stiletto heels.
Your long hands retreat
to a half-finished cigarette behind my ear.
I’ll fucking regret that in the morning
when I’m out of smokes
and you’ll claim you’re gone for good.
Bedtime stories for bipolar couples.
We’re liars and in love with ourselves,
smitten without help,
well taught to lose things that hurt us.
We arrive home to a Lake Point condo.
Brown-eyed voodoo shakes me sober.
Sure as a concrete tomb
I hear the toilet flush and you spit in the sink.
Shirtless you arrive bedside, silently you leave.
The music of your footsteps a landscape
in which all my best nightmares are sown,
a garden grown all for you
this perpetual loop of abandonment.

From there I found the right combination of phrases for its final form in my first chapbook, The Rough Chronicles of Bipolar Romance:

Brown-Eyed Voodoo

When we’re through
sure as a concrete tomb
I hear the toilet flush
and you spit in the sink.
Shirtless you arrive bedside
silently you leave.
A bedtime story for a bipolar couple.
Brown-eyed voodoo:
A perpetual loop of abandonment.

Now that you’ve read all of that I hope you have a bit of an idea about what “reversing” a poem means. It can really open your mind to turns of phrase and language you might not otherwise see.

In short news if you haven’t checked it out yet the Winter Issue of Common Line magazine is up now! I have an article reviewing Quick Fiction, possibly my favorite micro-fiction publication out there today. I also have a poem titled “The Last Dance” featured as well, check that out here! Common Line will be on hiatus until January, so look for new content then!

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