palladia

palladia Aug 2013

i'm living on a solitary prayer
vandalized my ego to make it rare
with teeth stained with lies i've told
and promises lost in the cold

i tussle and taser to hide my lovers
and all that i am - a mess or tastemaker
sprinkling tersely on my mercy seat
will make my season go complete?

i pull the labrys & the throttle
artefact-sprites in uranium soil
declaring my truth atop of the flagpole
i'm the custodian of haute culture

a flotilla of judgment riding skyhigh
like dido's love-lachrymose down demise
they say "better rethink your useless vendetta"
but first we'd better get out of their siberia

where the masses doubt the angry fix
"ignore the (g/h)aze above the pyramid
if we only couldn't have any more
locked in dominican ****** wards

This was inspired by all those nights I've watched the News and gone depressed over the human condition. So it's something like the world's dirge. I know the meter is off and the rhymes are cheesy, but it's heartfelt: all of it.

palladia Aug 2013

ink-on-the-rocks

i am a pietà, my torso damp with tears
from my late lovers, until
my emotional self became the subvert
and paid their debts for them
i’d be at rope’s end
reduction to nothing

i wonder what it would be like —
to feel myself explode, off a risky cliff
and watch a ****** geyser
like ink-on-the-rocks
would i laugh if it painted a picture of you?

i wonder what it would be like —
seeing my corpse turn to
sludge
a pile of human flesh
with my mind’s fibers still at the top
blowing all{tumbleweed}way

i wonder what it would be like —
how it would feel to
fall
to have a skull thaw in the sun
to have a body collapse beneath
you
to have a ribcage implode while still breathing

i wonder what it would be like —
to know i did it all for you

even when there was nothing
in store for me

DEVOTION

palladia Aug 2013

a short dissertation against patronization

i will not be dragged down to size
i will not be blindly patronized
i will, for no reason, compromise

i am myself, in that, there's pride

Based off past, personal experiences.

palladia Jul 2013

reassignment

A crossbreed will evolve its truth:
Such facets crafted my design.
I re-exchange, manipulate
Until the age, true fashion finds.

Postmodern wars are pedigrees,
I transpose notes to aptly fit
A sequence feigned mathematically—
Given new meanings I have writ.

It’s not an art, which fates betide,
It has suppressed no cataclysm.
The scheme to cancel and destroy—
We’ll never be obliterated.

The architect contrives such things,
The artist coins it impromptu;
But hybrids can construct those things,
New definitions—institute.

I have always wanted to do something with postmodernism, because it is topic so surrounding us everywhere we look. Although I can't say postmodernism is "in" anymore (today is what is called the "metamodernist age", or post-postmodernism), it's impact on popculture was never so significant. One of the major premises in postmoderism was the eradication of absolute value: everything is relative and old things have new meaning. That's what this is: an ode to postmodernism, or what I like to call, "The Postmodernist's Prayer".

palladia Jul 2013

cellophane

my frame :
a distant composition
of cellophane

a streak in stained-glass
clear cut plating
throbbing romance
possibly waiting

your agapē is my canopy
an all-koinonia embrace

don’t leave me
stranded

I think this could pass as part two of "Your Plasma", an earlier poem I wrote.

palladia Jul 2013

your plasma

i’m that isolato-type. alright,
i get jagged sometimes
but, i don’t much.

instead, i’d rather be,
sinews sub sinews
bold and parlous:
oh what a multifaceted physique
you bought for me!

        i used to be
        fire and forget
        victual and fleshy
        as you crafted me

^tears^. i’m not that thewy,
draft, and unconscious,
blind in your mask! but,
in your plasma i am warm—
security fails me. ^yeah!^
cop-out post cop-out
i’m passive like that.

        but here’s the catch:
        like a sensitive plant—i’ll curl up
                        by just one touch.

        and here’s the fix:
        my self-consciousness is lost in lull
                        and that’s my fall.

                                     !i can’t take it anymore!
                                                        !!!

I adore writing sappy poetry about love. This is an exception?

palladia Jul 2013

my high

there is another world where i slip away;
it is a river on which i float.
and i adore the scenery,
the hazy sky and so many, spiraling moons!

i savor it all, as i can’t in my real world.
here, i am everything. i don’t have any regrets.
my life is in my own hands. but i’m still depressed.
i always wished i could be beautiful;
i always wished i was talented:
to have something to be proud of
is to have the world at your side, guiding you,
and telling you, you’re worth it.
i often wonder what that would sound like:
“you’re worth it”
i often wonder, until i fall fast asleep,
drifting down the highest river of my dreams.
and the next morning i cannot wait
to be back asleep, in my safe place.

while i did all this – you bottled up and didn’t even care:
i beg you: don’t sacrifice it with your own hands.

vers.2
there is another world
where i slip away;
it is a river on which i float.
and i adore the scenery,
the hazy sky and so many, spiraling moons!
here, i am everything.
with nothing to lose
life in my palms
but nothing is perfect
i often wonder; i imagine
i always wondered if i was beautiful
i imagine what it would be like to have talent
to have something to be proud of
is to have the world at your side, guiding you,
telling you, you’re worth it
i often wonder what that would sound like
“you’re worth it”
and i wonder, till i slip away
in a saturnine ruse
to imagine is to have the universe
in your palm
because you’re the end all
and the be all
of all