Monday, January 31, 2011

The Scar On My Hands, The Buoyancy of Turds

Tonight I drink out of a skull shaped bottle, and I drink alone. I heard a quote once that culture is to make a drinking bowl from one’s enemy’s skull, and that civilization is to go to prison for that. So where do my virtues lay? Perhaps death is the final journey. Anyone who says that they do not have any fear of dying has never met a Gurkha. They’ve never felt the cold fortified steel of a forged hand kukri nor have they been to Nepal or have any knowledge of such an admirable race. They’ve never inhaled the mark of death nor have they coherently summarised the beauty of life. They’ve never felt the warmth of dead blood or the frostiness of flesh when your hands can separate the muscular divisions of tendons and palpable tissue. This is not the language of a grande monde society. These are spoken gestures of a bloody faced peasant. I should have been born in the days of the cradle of civilisation. I should have been a hunter and gatherer. I would have been at peace knowing that if I died sleeping in a seated position in wait, for some devious assassin to attempt to take what life I have made for myself or what future I’ve been willing to sacrifice for, I would have still been, a conqueror of my own existence.

And there you pry at a screen emitting systematic pulses of coherence and sink into it’s depth of vulnerabilities. This has become your present necessity, your only influence into this information that in retrospect is clinically dead. All life is a subway of interplaying realities that hath no choices and no command.

Friday, January 21, 2011

the abortional swain

I dedicate this to all the lords of life.

I’m glad your love for me is no more. I can be a whirlwind at times. A fucking tornado of gorilla libido that swings from a painful branch tearing flesh from one soul and swiftly daggling onto the next grabbing firmly without a god given care to say the least. I’ve pushed you into reverse right back to the simulacra from which you came and I find it cheerless that this is where you choose to reside. I did this. I did this to you. And I can only observe this progression in the third person view in some type of omni-awareness, so let me deconstruct. Let me face my own reality, my own stream that leads somewhere, or leads nowhere. Come, let us stand at these steps and watch how they ascend; let us count these steps that lead upward and out of sight. So foreign are these signs that I do not grasp, still, and perhaps will never comprehend. I look at my old hands and gaze at the skin lines that have always traveled imperfectly and I occasionally wonder if in fact they have meaning. Are these the graphs of secret language from which I should decipher? Or do they have any significance at all? Do I lack the affirmative principle that they’ve been assigned to? Perhaps you knew it all along but you were too frightened to except it until it turned dreadful and when that day came, the day when all of it died, we were left with all these questions unanswered. A twisted riddle that neither I nor you had any response for. The ungenerous, fragmented parable. And so I glide through nature ghostlike past lunar lit meadows of fern appearing somniferous to those who would find me tolerable until their tissue splits apart and I, the foolish jester, once again am satisfied with the magnitude of their open wound. Maybe tomorrow will bring a sleep that will linger awhile, a year, forever. Or perhaps I have figured it out. Perhaps the ultimate engineering of all this can be grouped into two stories: the continuity of life or the inevitability of death. One thing I know for certain is that my heart hurts. I wish I never met you. I wish I never entered. I wish my raft continued to sail on to an arid atoll where I can live and die alone. At least I can be the god of this island or better yet an angel with a halo that didn’t come cheap. I don’t even need shoes.

“We see young men who owe us a new world, so readily and lavish they promise, but they never acquit the debt; they die young and dodge the account or if they live, they lose themselves in the crowd.” - Emerson

Saturday, January 15, 2011

White Lies - "Bigger Than Us"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW0yynlDmqQ

You took the tunnel route home
You've never taken that way with me before
Did you feel the need for change?
Apologies on your fingernails
Love flickered in the city of lights,
Like intermittent radio waves

I don't need your tears
I don't want your love
I just gotta get home

And I feel like I'm breaking up, and I wanted to stay
Headlights on the hillside, don't take me this way

I don't want you to hold me,
I don't want you to pray
This is bigger than us

You went where the horses cry
You've never taken that way with me before
Did you feel the need for change?
Guilt smeared across your lips
I was tired and cold from the window
You're tired, nothing has changed

I don't need your tears
I don't want your love
I just gotta get home

And I feel like I'm breaking up, and I wanted to stay
Headlights on the hillside, don't take me this way

I don't want you to hold me,
I don't want you to pray
This is bigger than us

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

trenched in warfare, ex vi termini

for Vera….

I hope someday you find the air to breathe again
I call upon the empty space you walk again
This fear inside will wither painlessly away my friend
Get up, be free and spread your wings, then count to ten.

Cause fear is cold and never far
It’s tragedy that appears organic
As wavy flags darken
And so the moon darkens
We lose all trust and panic

I try to water broken flowers but it’s too late
They anger me and so I hurl them through the gate
As pedals rip in pieces which infuriate
To which I count to ten, lean forward, anticipate.

I sense the cold, she’s never far
Death, tragic, yet appearing organic
All shredded flags burn
Eclipse, this moon darkens
Infectious and so non-dramatic.

I found the bird. It would not fly and choose to live ashore
The empty grass you’ve walked upon is land you love no more
This riverbed has dried to sand and arid to the core
You’ve flown across this widespread cove but never as before.

We meet, she cries into a jar
Her words seem so prophetic
This love is suicidal pain
A love I shall never repeat again
As this martyr becomes a relic.