A backwards villanelle, by which I mean that while the rules of the villanelle pertaining to repetition have been followed, the rhymes are to be found at the beginning of lines rather than at the end. Just to illustrate my point that forms aren't necessarily static, and that experimentation with structure shouldn't begin and end with free verse. The poem's a little messy and confused, as it stands, but I still kind of have a deep affection for it. It works; sort of.
I strongly suspect this was written at a time when I used to indulge in 'poetry marathons'. That is, I would stay up all night drinking fizzy drinks and feverishly writing until collapsing in a heap on the keyboard. Hence the intentionally wobbly syntax, I guess, and of course the flagrant lack of capitalisation.
it is not plasma but poetry
backwards heartbeat racing at that point now
thudding pulse meets joint and puckers skin i
crack out spirals on the wooden table.
hacking bone from hide to form my words and
scud them swiftly to my elbow’s crook: my
backwards heartbeat races at that point now.
whacking pretty phrases on my brow and
flooding flesh with sparkling grits of wit, i
crack out spirals on the wooden table.
stacking speech on speech i raise up poems
budding violent blue like all my veins but
backwards heartbeat races through those points now.
tacky fingers tap the pulse but they’re just
mud compared to if my touchless mind could
crack out spirals on the wooden table.
lacking tools to rip my skin i search through
blood and hidden in my heart i find a
backwards heartbeat racing at that point i
crack out spirals on the wooden table.