saskwatzch-andor-jared
American
the real world pretty much exclusively refers to me as any one of many variations of sasquatch [saskwatzch, sassy, sastron, sasserino if you're not into the whole brevity thing] so feel free to use it if ever addressing me. or you could use my name. but I look a lot more like a saskwatzch and a lot less like a Jared. / / regardless I am here to express my thoughts with the help of the one true god who's name is love. my love manifests itself frequently in words. my prophets are hunter thompson and bill hicks. i love you.
we dashed our hopes, we smoked our dreams
we collaborated with our saboteurs
while the shots were still echoing
we tried to hide our tired eyes
with wired silent sighs
that were a final long goodbye
before our minds even recognized
too slow to get up on this rhythm
pulling pins down nicely
while shooting barrel fishes
and the polite, smiling, trusting
are the worst ones to grow up with
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
it's a long walk home with the sidewalk becoming headphones
footsteps keep the beat, the bass of your breath is baritone
the memories of the street call out in a chorus of overtones
you finally feel at home as you become a walking metronome
you're a movement or overture
crescendo in reverse composure
a serenade that plays over
common resolution, different closure
the repeating beats are deafening
the rising tempo is chasing me
the rhythm is catastrophe
and this is my symphony i made with the streets
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
the silent impact passes as movements become masses and the despised things become what we're after. we're our own last chapter, ununique to the minute but maybe rare the moment after. we're glued to television screens the preach our own defeat and don't even acknowledge our new masters or their dying dreams. your life is a worried line and devoid of devoted patchwork.
dire sirens blaze as i ire lights to do the same
fire consumes desire and wired nights are left to blame
while the mired tired chime in that they also want a taste
the inspired have conspired and perspired away the shame
the flights are nights we've compiled into piles
and sights and lights are set on the ceiling and tiles
the fights deny what's right and blood goes for miles
and the right to die is what's sequencing our style
your moment was a second and it was shot to death in front of you. but first it asked what you are going to do. sit around and wait for a second chance to lose any moment that'll never come again and always shows up too soon? or sleep all day and forget you had a better life to prove?
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
i felt a tear, mostly in motion
collapsing into spirals, we find ourselves here
part awake dreams that lull you to sleep
or the way you tell yourself
you're not seeing things
how clever you are to be confused with a star
and when you implode i hope you recite alibis
because the truths you lie about won't matter anymore
and the dying few planets are how we even the score
the mighty have fallen but this time it's for good
misunderstood are the few who can't laugh enough
at the fire that's been alive for far too long
and the homes that have burned have become verses of songs
plead with the captors to silence the rapture
or at least mislead us from the treasure we're after
it's not like the dead can make promises reverse
but at least we're not still chasing that ******* hearse
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
scared melody, the sacred surgery. the sacramental discrepancies
will remind us of the finer things
like circuitry and hurried dreams
despite what i've been reading it seems like the world has taken to leaning
on its side or on its head, we're sent careening
well past the point of believing
come at me with all the aggression in your possession
deny no weapons and don't wait for second guesses
because you always gave me that first impression
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
politely past sleep and still there's very little worth sobering for
i thought I'd heard another neighbor kicking down my door
turns out it was just my head hitting the floor
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 1:39 AM UTC
i've almost erased everything of this portrait that once made a face. the landscape remains but the memories aren't the same and even without a voice I still hear a name. colors become mute and grey, night becomes boring when it's permanently day. so what is there really left to say; drawn down words are curtains on this place and the house lights burn so bright, eager to become flames.
i'm a vandal of a curator or the wrong end of a metaphor. i think "this is what solvent's are for" 'as I take deep breaths upon the floor. it's a win-win if you're trying to ignore the opening and closing of windows and doors. tell me how I wasn't supposed to even the score when i'm barely old enough to go to war?
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
a day late, a memory short. a moment began long before either of us could breathe and each moment was what vaguely resembled telepathy. dying dreams to go to sleep or sweet escapes that scream defeat. your moment is your time and everything will rewind or soon repeat.
rocket ships can't hear us now when the stage two blasts have passed. and the only friend we'll have will be the person we see in the glass. auroras of mind won't be hard to find and the magnetism of the stars will reflect on you. i've vandalized our only way home so you know that I'm telling the truth.
i've utilized the moment and caressed it into motion. I've become the self denying symptom of devotion or a universal explosion, or whatever it is that reminds us of what we're holding; a map for a plan that we can't understand as it's still being written and no one's around to promise the land.
we'll dig until we find mars or at least a better path through the stars.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
caught the grizzly scene, down on its knees. a dark cop in the corner, writing everything down like prescriptions a ****** is forcing with a gun to his head. we were weaving in and out of traffic and minds when the barriers hit the brakes for a second, and that was sobering enough. we kicked it down to third gear and the radio waves became a name. for a second, we existed only as guesses.
the coroner report will come back eventually, and there we will place all blame on discrepancies. while burying our heads, we discovered our feet and only kept the left one around for sake of symmetry.
now go tell the press and demand them to redact all contents of their articles that had an impact
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
composing an ocean, devoid of emotion
complete within it's motion
we know how to start commotions
minds wander higher than the tides
and the feeling that everything is just right
begins to subside for just a little while
we've brushed against our wisdom
devoted life and limb for symptom
of a better type of income
remember chasing words through the sea
as a vagrant form of poetry
or the times of make believe
i thought you reserved for me
now i truly hear how
my heart beats
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC