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StoryTallinn Jan 30
You know so much but do you even know yourself
Research questions and existential questions
Chasing this emptiness with data
Life never came with a methodology

Introspection is a strange discipline
This journey in ourselves, that is not taught in classroom
Or were you afraid of what you may discover
Many choose to stay where it is comfortable

Frustration is accumulating like the dust on your bookshelf
Emotions, this part of humanity without rationality
Seasons are changing, yet you are still alone
Cognition may not be the key to everything

Seeking for human connection
You whispered “I am just a man”
She thinks you are just a mind
Still this need to run from deception

Yet this time, you were right
You are not a mind but a man
Akemi Oct 2018
Three tabs of acid and a year of postmodern novels will ******* up in a shorter span of time than doing a degree in poststructuralism, and only an idiot with a death wish would do both. Manic romp to reach nowhere in a political field that never arrives, except in France.

Well Sartre once said nothing, and so did Derrida, and so did Baudrillard. Endless procession of words for the sake of filling a vacuum that didn’t exist until it was filled. Enter Freud; exit Bernays. All meaning atop a Golden Bough.

Sitting in your flatmate’s room the acid kicks in and suddenly no one is themselves, every line that leaves their mouths traceable to a media product, the perfect communion of pluralism arriving as the terror of integral capitalist banality. To speak is to add to the mockery; to say nothing is to let the mockery continue.

Forget it all by watching Youtube videos at 0.25x speed. Displace the terror of your own situation through the consumptive behaviour that had constituted it in the first place. Watch in gleeful delight as the eyes of whatever presenter happens to be on the screen at the moment dart between this or that object of desire, ever unsure of where to settle amongst an infinite number of existential refrains, none of which deliver from the anxiety of the prior.

Holding a caramel slice in the departmental tea room, your lecturer waits for you to respond, but all you manage is a cough.
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I saw the most intelligent minds of my generation in front of me
     roar and speak their dynamo star speeches,
Dragging themselves to the top of academics working like
     supernatural machines through the poverty of night,
     fixing the tattered paper,
studied the cosmos vibrating and vomiting disgorged facts
     their blue and white skirts blinking across the
     school streets, contemplating ancient tragedies,
     publishing endless magnificent papers,
     about Shakespearean tragedies,
     among the scholars of war.
They sank all night into a their bleak brain of brilliance,
     riding trains to dusk of Sydney and chained
     themselves to their work.
But they floated in and sat through without protesting,
     listening to the hydrogen documentaries until
     the synagogue past three.
Memories of and anecdotes of school trail behind conversations of
     impulse and whatever hazy.
The shuddering noise the wheels, in drunkenness of the seventy
     hours jumping up and down of wondering where
     to go next, the empty museums remain free.
They meet boys yacketyakking, screaming, jumping down off roofs
     drinking, but they go anyway, with no broken hearts
     and lit cigarettes together in our cars at night,
     disappearing into the small town in the rain,
     lounged hungry through the scattered city.
These intellects who vanished into their trembling rooms, and
     shrieked in who let themselves hiccup trying to laugh
     but ended up sobbing to the dark haired naked ******* the
     Korean drama.
Idle as they sat on their bed, when their intellectual thread is
     shrewd optimum, they lost heir boy of three weeks
     because some sweetheart forgot to hand him
     a packet of cigarettes.
The million girls who went to my school were red eyed in the
     morning, but prepared enough to waitress Sunday
     afternoons, the girls would have their night cars, and
     I would have poems and catch a quick ****** of the sun,
     go to empty lot diners at Subway and movie houses
     with vast sordid films, hung out in basements open to
     nostalgic free lemonade and woke themselves up
     the next morning.
Inspired by Ginsberg's The Howl
Akemi Sep 2018
lay low
make yourself a nervous fit
imperfect replication

here no one’s happy
staring down narrow paths
burning out the cells
lining their guts

words are worthless.
slow subsumption into academia, narrow tract, staring past the shoulder of every colleague, ten page manuscript of Foucault, perfect distillation of praxis into pure theory, words on a page, exploit the exploiters by using their vouchers at the mexican restaurant down the road, get what you can out of this ****** institution, on non-tenured, precarious part time labour, planning a 30 part lecture series in the weekend because these ******* ******* need their half a million in salaries while all the understaffed lecturers suffer, i ******* hate this place, these ******* managerial ******* ******* **** ******* **** **** ****
Tori Jan 2018
Ears pricking, only quietly haunting any other type and skirting the edges of things wolfishly, I’m howling all of the things that build up at a forever indifferent moon, pupils  narrow in the light from a cracked phone screen, insatiable, academics are another breed altogether, we go back to our hometowns and feel too big inside, consumed
scooby Nov 2017
Put a poem here *******!
Even if you don't know what that **** is
(it's a collection of words, organized
and broken into
lines

and stanzas
like this!)
Put a poem here *******!
Even if you don't know how to type!
(you take your finger,
assuming you have one
and if not
that's ok
use whatever you prefer,
and press down on one
of those little squares
you know,
the ones with the
letters on em)

Put a poem here *******!
Even if you don't know any white man poets,
dead or alive!
(You don't need em,
you could read em
on the account of background
and cultural appreciation,
but you,
you're enough)

Put a poem here *******!
Even if you don't think you're good enough!
(You are, ******,
and I am the president of poetry saying
it is true,
but ultimately you will,
grow to be your own champion,
maybe not now,
but I can tell you how)

Put a poem here *******!
Even if you don't know how to be your own champion!
(You'll become one by
putting a poem here *******!)

So, put a poem here *******!
Go! Go! Go!
sorry 4 the swears, if you are under twelve don't show this to your mom!
softcomponent Nov 2017
all those

who lock their gaze

on the study of this world

are the personifications

of confusion, servicing

walls of text to summarize

so you don't

have to.
Why can’t we swear in academia?
Why can’t we swear in acedmia?
Tell me, WHY THE **** can’t we swear in academia,
why the EVER LOVING **** , can’t we swear in academia?

Say **** how we’d actually say ****? Why the **** we gotta contort into this ****-*** RESPONSIBLE, PROPER, PROFESSIONAL, BUSINESS-CASUAL, ******* ***-WIPING ******* LANGUAGE that no one can ******* relate to or get their head around? Academia GET YOUR RESPECTABILITY POLITICS OFF MY ****, OUT OF MY FACE AND OFF MY **** and let me say “****’S ****** UP!” when **** sure as **** IS ****** UP! Actually no, academia, **** OUTTA HERE WITH YOUR TONE POLICING CLUSTERFUCK, I’m not waiting for permission. I’m gunna start right the **** now. And don’t you dare tell me to shut up, **** **** **** ******-****, YOU BIG-BOYZ CLUB OF WHITE ***** *******, **** yourself.
inspired partly by a guy who wrote an academic piece called "******* Geography" and got publication refusals because academia is dull as ****
Scarlet McCall Jun 2017
An abstract of an academic paper written by a doctoral student: "In this semimanifesto, I approach how understandings of quantum physics and cyborgian bodies can (or always already do) ally with feminist anti-oppression practices long in use. The idea of the body (whether biological, social, or of work) is not stagnant, and new materialist feminisms help to recognize how multiple phenomena work together to behave in what can become legible at any given moment as a body. By utilizing the materiality of conceptions about connectivity often thought to be merely theoretical, by taking a critical look at the noncentralized and multiple movements of quantum physics, and by dehierarchizing the necessity of linear bodies through time, it becomes possible to reconfigure structures of value, longevity, and subjectivity in ways explicitly aligned with anti-oppression practices and identity politics. Combining intersectionality and quantum physics can provide for differing perspectives on organizing practices long used by marginalized people, for enabling apparatuses that allow for new possibilities of safer spaces, and for practices of accountability."--an abstract of a paper by doctoral student Whitney Stark

Atomic particles, how can it be so
that your purpose is not just to flow
in and out of existence, building reality--
the stars, cosmic gas and galaxies--
but to “ally” with groups of humans fighting “hierarchies”
and demanding “safe spaces”
(even though their entire race is
at the top of their planet’s food chain).

In this mysterious universe there is no safety,
accountability or identity,
only elements, and energy.
Brief combinations make life
legible for a nanosecond in cosmic time, and doomed to strife.
Biology does not know oppression,
only generation, reproduction,
until our growth chokes us and we fall
like so many of our ancestors, who lived and died
on this blue-green ball.
And one day the sun will explode and blow
even our atoms, which have endured (despite oppression),
and the particles will go far until maybe they sow
new life, in bodies unfamiliar, on planets unknown.
In fairness to Whitney Stark, right-wing groups mislabeled her paper as an attack on Isaac Newton. She was ridiculed as anti-science and a dogmatic feminist.  In fact Stark is referencing quantum physics, which may contradict Newtonian physics to some extent. I really wanted to read what she wrote as a playful attempt to draw a parallel between quantum physics and non-hierarchical organizing, but her jarring repetition of politically correct catchphrases and slogans shows this is only an attempt to submit to the current academic authoritarianism that has taken over women's studies and many other fields--perhaps even universities as a whole--so that professors merely recite a dogma of oppression rather than questioning and exploring.
Joshua Dougan Jan 2017
Marcuse! Marcuse! Where the **** are you?
He moved to California and all he could do was argue.
Instead of gratitude through platitudes and assimilation,
He sought to change the west with his social trepidation.
A change is coming, from West to East
As society embraces that Germans beast.
"You're a ****** if I say so, an idiot racist with a scapegoat."
The only fun he ever had was raging in his raincoat.
The man was ungrateful and stole our academia.
Now all schools teach is his prepackaged mass anemia.
Purging true thought, cursing the whole lot while he's at it.
Burning loose crops, as each kids churning an addict.
Marcuse! Marcuse! where the **** are you?
Marcuse! Marcuse! How the **** could you?
If being inspired by others to speak on behalf of my own feelings and logic is bigotry or racist then so be it. It's time to move past political correctness and "social justice" and allow individual thought to flourish again. The radicalized left have kidnapped poetry and the arts and us as individual artists need to take it back.  Poetry was never non denominational, poetry was never non partisan. Be objective in everything. Art is to reflect passion sacrifice and most of all used to reflect the biases of the artist themselves.
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