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Dylan McFadden Apr 2018
Welcome to
The theater stage,

          Where we are
          Made of dreams

Just acting out
The scenes of life,

          With laughs, and cries,
          And screams

Until the final
Curtain call,

          When we will
          Take our bow

And wonder what
‘Twas all about,

          With no one
          In the crowd...

.
Inspired by Albert Camus' "actor" in his book The Myth of Sisyphus.
Akemi Feb 2018
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.

Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the

In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.

i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery

THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk

THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS

Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.

the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
In this catastrophically worthless point of my life I find myself intersected by my failure to sustain a relationship, my alienation from left-wing collective politics, and my consumption of Faulkner and Ligotti, unto the birth of self-destructive pessimism.
There was a time without hesitation
when I spoke for youth.
I feel old often.

There was a philosophy
which allowed the possibility
for some meaning
or value in life.

Were it as certain as existentialism
about the value of one's own
constructed meaning,

Or as certain as nihilism
about the total inability to create meaning.

I would take comfort where I can, but there're times
when I reject warmth
and feel the cold universe run through me.
My frail body, were it bound up with anything other
than the psychological tension arising from
this long search, and our failure
to find anything that arises beyond the interactions of
our subject. How should we live?
How shall we be genuine among alien determinations
and all that otherness, enveloping us: our reflection.
The mirror does not usually spare a thought
to its constituent, referring not to glass nor opaqueness.
The mirror, object
constituted by subject
that there were. One drive,
Willing to subjugate the others,
And a thought to spare the subject
as it were. Melody might reconcile with
the absurd, out-of-tune as it is
and out-of-sorts as I were.
Hadiy Syakir Mar 20
There are lives
that died and gone to waste,
but there are also lives
that are well-lived yet already gone to waste.
Ines Rose Jul 2018
There is a bird on my window sill

So indecisive, sitting still

She could have been up on that tree

Instead, she came and talked to me

“Oh pretty girl you know things well

So tell me which one would be swell

To sing for a crowd that isn’t there

Or to die for a crowd that doesn’t care?”

I didn’t know quite what to say

And so the bird, she flew away
An old one I dug up from the archives circa 2012-2013.
Not sure where I was going with this but here it is.
Thoughts?
Cyan  Aug 6
Falco Piperita
Cyan Aug 6
Ever since
I had a hint
Of sentience,
Raptors and peppermint
Have been in the background of my brain.

Pinwheel striped peregrines
Wheel round my cerebellum,
Some sharp and spicy sweet
Fixation
With no explanation
But palette preference
And a taste for talons.

— The End —