Why is the concept of being forgotten so paralyzingly terrifying to me?
Before the expanse of time,
none of us stand a chance of being remembered.
We will be swallowed up,
only be known as a statistic, a point of reference.
The thoughts we think are paramount
Quail before the laughing face of Time.
God will remember me,
so why do I care about what those on earth think?
Why do I care what people think?
What kind of sick bastards are we that we derive pleasure from others' pain?
Schadenfreude is alive and well
Unlike you and I
Why don't I throw up my hands
And succumb to the ravages of an indifferent Time
And an indifferent society
Why not let them win
Who values a game which is purposely weighted to one side
If not those who have waged something dear upon the outcome
The Ender inside me rejects the faulty system.
Why do I persevere for a "humanity"
which will never improve
the more we evolve and know and comprehend,
The more apt we are to be heartless
Because why do we need a heart when we have a brain, Tinman?
Why do we care what we look like
Our bodies are merely
borrowed from the earth
And in the blink of eternity's eye
what we call ours
will belong to another
Why do we live in a world overflowing with bodies
And entirely lacking with people
Why can we satisfy any part of ourselves
by draping on borrowed emotions
Why is the false more alluring than the truth?
Show me an honest person
And I will show you an attractive one.
I am not you
you are not me
And we will never be
Despite the pervading effort of our society
I will not be assimilated.
If we let people in,
They wouldn't hate
So why are we terrified of doing that
Is it because,
If everyone is in,
No one is
And in ceases to exist?
Why do we feel the urge to gloat about things we did not earn
Why does 1
Make more money than 2
Because his nose is straighter,
His hair is curly rather than straight,
Because 1 spends an eighth of his time in the gym
While the less attractive 2 spends 7/8 of his time
At a society which has cut off its own ears that it can't won't hear.
Why are random genes a judge of worth
While character is a word so overplayed
It folded its hand long ago
Why is the face of a beautiful liar
To that of a plain truthteller
And a world which whispers
Cradle me with your honeyed lies
Assurances of past lullabies
How do I trust what the mockingbird cries
When even it runs from the skies
Why do so many see ourselves as bound and controlled by manipulated strings
When those strings are nothing but ropes with which we can escape
Why do we live on top of one another
Without deigning to know our prisonmate
Without so much as a spared thought
For the dead flailing beneath us
Why do I hold dearest to my heart
Counting them as the tiny, insidious proofs
That I am a good person
Because good does not exist without the bad
Relativity is the grip keeping us from sliding
Why is it that words spoken can never be taken back?
Simple. We can never reclaim what was never ours.
You think you are original in your menial thoughts
What have you done but regurgitate the thoughts of your predecessors?
Rearranging the same letters
To form the same tiresome conclusions.
We are the worst type of plagiarists.
Why is the only thing propelling you a sense of duty
Why are you devoutly loyal to objects rather than the people who happen to hold them
Why do we invent reasons to hate one another
We take solace in the loopholes which justify our hatred
That we may not be like the "monsters" we condemn
Why are "we" and "they"
Not just markers of distance?
Why must they be very real, ubiquitous mentalities?
Why are somber topics the common stuff of jokes
Because we have grown numb enough to empathy
To shun it in favour of a laugh?
Why is suffering so prevalent
When we have an excess of affluence
Are such extremes what define us as a race?
Why is a white lamb the symbol of pristine innocence
When innocence is slaughtered day after day?
Why are sharks abhorred creatures even though
Our vicious attacks
Far outnumber theirs
Do we idealize them that we may have a reason
To assert our dominance over yet one more
To feel the joy of crushing them underfoot
Why do we focus on certain images
When the true image of our society
Is the person who occurs each day,
The answer is because we know
Are at fault.
Why when confronted about the tiniest aspect of ourselves
We rear our heads in defense
Backing up against the corner of idiocy
The walls built upon the truths we have fabricated
Why are the swirling armor of falsities so comforting
And when pierced
With every bit of the person we have built
Lashing out as does a dog chained its entire life
But even a dog
Which is after all "just an animal"
Is not fool enough to delude itself into loving its chain.
A Man In Search of His Style
It so happens to be June.
It so happens that the picture window
Frames a contented, bay lit, full moon.
Searched for an answer lifelong
A devolving, lilting song refrain:
Man what is your tune,
What's your style, finally?
Examined so many rooms,
Tried out different beds,
Jumbled now, assorted, some sordid,
Some long winded, florid,
Some cursive, cursory and accursed,
Some so bitter-filled I shared them not
Lest I infect you, a sin in F major...
Love poems galore, and yet to come,
Some seriously desperate suicidal,
Some ditty, even a mite witty,
Some eurythmic, most free versed,
Rhyming is where you start,
Free verse when you're all grownup,
But all this delay, begs the question,
What's your style, conclusively?
Con-cluded, cannot be all things,
Took the con to ascertain the
Truest course of my abilities
At Port Serenity,
I write what I see,
A head lifted from pillow,
A seconds-long act of inspiration duration
Becomes in moments,
a fully formed poetic inclination curation
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot
T'is the mundane, the profane of every action,
Makes my lips move, personalized prayers framing
Perhaps this is a condemnation of sorts,
Ordinary things might bake ordinary poem cakes,
Residue of an ordinary man, an ordinary poet makes
So be it, tomorrow is a farther day, when
My vocabulary may be a word greater, lesser,
But knowing now that the spring source topical
Fills a well so deep, so close nearby,
I rejoice, mineral springs, waters of inspiration, plentiful
No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
For this, if be, my gift meager,
I, on blended knee, freely embrace eager,
Promising you that life ordinar,
Together we shall celebrate'
Fully, and most fair.
June 15th, 2013
Your warm breath
Sent shivers down my back
Getting me higher than crystal meth
I can't think of the time, I've lost track
I'm focused on your burning kisses
Trailing down my innocent body
My body hisses
I can feel my soul disembody
I claw at your perfect back
Bringing you as close as possible
My mind goes black
The way you make me feel, I thought it was impossible
Our bodies melt into each other
& suddenly all my senses explode
My body's begging you to smother
Me entirely, making my mind implode
I want to feel your hard body relax
I want to trace my fingers down your spine
With every kiss it impacts,
Every part of your mind
I can feel your aching body tremble
As your breathing gets deeper
Your soul and mind dissemble
As our love grows steeper
I can feel your heart beat against mine
My adrenaline races dramatically through my veins
I no longer need a sign
Our souls collide swiftly like two trains
I no longer want you
Instead I need you
You no longer want me too
Instead you need me too
(I posted this on Twitter but altered it a bit and added some)
drown the red ants as
the fire-breathing mother can't breathe anymore
with gilded flying saucers erupting from
God's industrious pores
flotation devices no longer keep me dry
no matter how much I cry
the pastor can't make me believe
in this life that I leave
and as our elegant God searches
for another drowning candidate
he sheds bathtubs of tears
simply out of habit
we're folding up sheets of the beds
where their bleeding bodies will lay
but the moon has fallen and daddy's calling
and all we could do was pray
but He did not answer
He killed another kid
she grew up to be a doctor
while the glowing sunshowers hid
bring me my ocarina
I'll save us all
as God continues
to make the moon fall
the saucer-headed saviors
are already dead
and I can't seem to find comfort
in my head
in my head
in my head
we are men made out of lead
and I'd rather be a friend
than an alloy of this deceitful machine
but why does it matter anyway?
you won't get what I mean.
Listen here: https://soundcloud.com/aliceglassbaskets/made-out-of-lead-acoustic
I lost cuntrol when I was nine years old.
Mother took my hand off my crotch yet left my brother to the confinement of his cock;
Girls good, boys bad, and oh no sweetheart your beauty is your only power.
And I’d blush; not in the way she’d hoped through the sweep of a brush but rather when my teacher left her hand lingering on my back as she bent over to tick the formula of the female form and cross out what the chimes of the church commanded.
I looked at the curve of the x she used to mark the spot and sighed.
Teach me. Teach me your ways so I can breathe in the sweet blossom of your hair as I rest in the bossom of your heart, its smells like lavender. Lavender.
Lavender sweet dreams honey and I will see you there tonight.
It was then I began my perpetual low earth orbit from dream to dream and departed from what mother said that day when I asked the question that makes mothers quake as they smooth out the creases in their dresses and tuck their unravelled hair behind bitten ears.
Making love. We made love only to make you, darling.
Mother smiled sweetly and turned her back on me as her mind traced back to that morning when she made mad passionate love with the milkman when daddy wasn’t looking. I am still waiting for my little sister.
If practice makes me perfect then meet man, mother.
I used his rocket to launch myself into space where I spelt her name out in the stars and jumped over the moon to Venus. I felt the warmth from her skin like the sun that keeps me alive. Alive. Alive.
Warm me, darling, just with the nestle in my vessel in my veins in my sugar coated spaceship.
We found sticks and made smores and we floated together, with my hand tracing your V in that three-dimensional galaxy between your legs we fell in love. No void existed between our celestial bodies as gravity pulled me into your arms.
He came as I came back from space thinking of nothing but the soft shape of her hips and the trail of her spine that led me back to earth.
There’s man with his grey socks still on his feet, dark matter on the sheets and a wrapper on the floor.
Rubbish I thought, but in the sky…
That night my mother asked me why I am smiling.
I said I have become an astronaut in orbit with a woman who I love in space.
She cried shes lost it.
I smiled, nodded yes, I've lost it to her.
I lost cuntrol when the earth, heavens and waters fell in love and sailed and soured as we danced on the tree tops of your garden, with waves crashing beneath us leaving salt shimmering particles like diamonds on your feet.
You were my alphabet soup that filled me with too many words, the thrill of the prize at the bottom of the cereal packet and the noble intentions of stopping the Titanic from sinking with the touch of button.
We had love at first sight like David and Jonathen, Ruth and Naomi who boarded the ark as my back arched in passionate throws below deck, as Noa held Emzaras hand smiling.
Adding a letter to her name on Transgender Tuesdays was just an afterthought.
Opening her drawers to pack up her boxers and bind her breasts Noa smiled as the clock cocked Tuesday.
She entered her escapism; what the Bible calls a natural disaster, I just call natural.
I lost cuntrol when I re-arranged the stars like pick and mix, so I could always find my way back to you. When you said I love you I wondered whether I’d had too many dolly mixtures and where jelly babies came from.
Sugar rimmed your lips like salt on a martini and left me drunk with desire as I licked around your edges. You slipped a haribo ring on my finger and I gave you my loveheart.
I lost cuntrol one day when my lover Alice said eat me. She showed me Dinah who hide beneath her skirt and I followed curiously.
I didn’t ask her to say please but that’s another story.
After her lesson I was told the Sputnik satellite was man-made and I laughed.
Oh no, women have been launching rockets with complete cuntrol between their legs for years, leaving the earths atmosphere and dreaming of everything else but dirty Dick’s dick.
During countdown they think of shopping lists, whether they’ve burnt off enough calories for wine with their girlfriends, and sometimes, sometimes, of her.
Do good girls go gay?
In space, my mother said, in space.
Bus full of people breathing inside a small space
Face to face, eyes cast down and explore
A small girl that hides behind bangs
Long thin legs
Tightly fit close
That are shear and expose
And people whisper
But I remember what Teresa told me
A small man gets fired up
But can’t fight, he wobbles drunk
He wants to prove he is big and bad
That the girl who left him
Didn’t have his heart in hand
That he doesn’t bleed
He doesn’t hurt
He punches the next guy he sees
He makes him blue
Makes him bleed
And I remember what Teresa said
Two lovers hold each other tight
Teary eyes on a star lit night
Warm bodies fight the chill
Each wondering if they will
Be able to hold hands like this
Forever or if
Fingers fold into fists
As bitterness steals a kiss
Because the two girls don’t know why
People say they should die
They have always only loved each other
And I remember what Teresa told me
Stick a lolipop
into the mouth of moments
your life is a child
and somewhere in there
you give a flying fuck
about the moon
and no it's not cheese.
That mouth knows what dirt tastes like
but that wont stop me from pouring caramel
and cigarettes over it.
I need a fix
of candied dirt
I'm not afraid of the eclipse
because I'm already addicted to the dark.
So lock the door
draw the curtains
The tide wont be knocking
no matter how much you
want it to fill the room
or how big is your sweet tooth
anything will do.
So thank the moon we were wearing seat belts.
Otherwise we might be vegetables
eating only exhaust
force fed the sun
you only make war on an empty stomach
or with an insatiable hunger.
for the civilians and thier children
who only know the taste of war.
Idiot flavored idiots with a hint of
that will bore a cavity so big
it'll put holes in the head
of kindergardens everywhere.
Who write their valentines on bombs.
Who's love murders buildings,
plowing through bodies on city streets all to reach
for the people
you because when parents fucking in a box
you call a country means
you don't care
you put genocide on the menu
and there are some things that just wont do.
As I grow weary of rivaling chefs pointing fingers
in circles forever
becoming a porthole to the murder business
becoming the unsuspecting manhole for
the human animal's existence
The dead mothers would find safe shelter in the sewer
but it stinks of shit and dead bodies
like our prepackaged liberty
Because to start a revolution means living it
and what better way,
to cripple a reckless pace
that finishes first in hunger,
starting fist fights with other people's lives
and forgets even sooner,
Suppose the North Star is flickering
at the end
How many men have set out,
machetes in hand
into frontier lands
to push back the darkness
by the wonder
of their hearts,
only to become lost?
Then that luminous stain
on night’s curtain
A five letter word
that beckons all sense of direction
with a fireball
light years away
So strange to think of how nothing
can save something
when we give it a name.
Strings of ones
flying out of zero.
A mathematical ideal
Owed to the lines we draw
between two points.
for the unsuspecting dancer
if it could be said that you exist
well here it is
until you fill the room
and their bodies finally know what it is to move.
They cast silhouettes of things
that don't exist within
but do exist within.
campfires and infernos
cast shadows of a self-made porno.
portrayed in stature.
The raindrops falling from cloudy skies.
A small town on a cliff.
The light of a cathedral.
The endless churning of the wind and sea
intertwined within one being.
We are made of flesh and bone.
Within us there is so much more.
Why is it that once we age we find ourselves defined by our bodies? Something that we have simply become a bystander in has become all of our identity.
Why is it that what grows around my soul is all anyone sees?
Why is it that I am judged for every mark or hair that I didn’t put on my body
But I refuse to remove
Why is it that I am taken by the arm and told how to act
How to be someone that does not sleep alone
Why am I so out of control for thinking of my body as a temple and not a place of warfare, not a conquest to be had
Why am I the crazy one in a room full of addicts?
Addicted to the place they’re in when they skip a meal, or get rid of the one they just had to indulge in
Addicted to society telling them that for every bone they can see, that they did well
They wear their bones like gold stars
Making sure they are vulnerable enough to be wanted
Making sure they are wanted, period
Constantly wishing to be less
Hoping to have lost more, every morning while looking in the mirror
Taking time, lunch breaks, to get rid of more
To purge what is rightfully theirs
Until it’s finally gone