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Mar 18 · 236
Darrell's Maxims #2
1.  Anyone who claims enlightenment is a complete fool. To claim is to have a self.

2. Our original sin is not the loss of meaning- it is the search for meaning.

3. The human consciousness does not evolve- it adapts.

4. Asceticism is, at base, the denial of life in order to preserve life. He who renounces his vices and surrenders to solitude shall, eventually, find beauty in heaven and hell.

5. Our creed is irrelevant in the face of our base nature.

6. Nature bestows power onto the powerful in order for them to see their follies more clearly.

7. Structure and control begin and end with myth.

8. The motto of future generations: want more, be less.
Mar 14 · 411
In Transit
This river, flowing and alive,
Carries all that has been seen,
So we may see it once more
Within common eyes
On the other side of infinity.

Should I see you tangled
Between the strands of reality
On our short journey
From one to the next,
Then it means, surely, that

Aristophanes was correct-
These familiar, windswept droplets,
Entwined our fragile limbs anew
And bound my fate to your love-

Is any part of us still unseen and
   adrift?
We shall have time to search…
Mar 3 · 348
Darrell's Maxims #1
1.  The destruction of the past will be used to measure the progress of the future. The future will be measured by degenerations.
2. The only function of time is to create strangers.
3. Tragedy begins where knowledge ends.
4. The insatiable urge to eliminate suffering is the greatest creator of suffering.
5. The endeavor of being an individual has led to the fear of the ascetic- the crumbling of higher purpose.
I kind of started this with Bits And Pieces #9 -so this could be looked at as the second of this series. I enjoy writing these as I incorrectly find them... Witty? Either way, I hope you enjoy reading them and find some pleasure in doing so.
Feb 26 · 342
Anthesteria
As your eyes seal away
The bright sphere, suspended, waiting-
And your back faces
The repossessing earth-
Your mouth, cavernous, prone to lie,
Says: This is not mine anymore.

And the firmament is
Transmuted into blackness before
you,
And you're whispered above
The many shrieking wires,
And you're engulfed below
The sunlit, compact waves,
Without ever knowing or caring to know-
You could never stake claim to it.

Dream, all you kind ones, for it is eternal.
Dream, all you dying ones,
For you will never know the difference.
Come down, all you who are forestalling,
For it is time to give…
Feb 3 · 412
A Song From Somewhere
The waters twisted, fell and suddenly conjoined
While the sun made the carrion into an arid shell.
Blistered feet are wrapped tightly, caked in pestled earth.
The light falls elsewhere- a rippling supper bell.

Kicking up clouds of dust goes tattered silk robes,
And away goes the ancient, crusted skin-
Wading and flaunting about, unsullied and naked-
Small forms devoid of our animate sin.

Exiles, threshed by being, with a steadfast obstinacy
Found in anguish, ennui, and museful song.
How they crooned of sacred hills, rolling into nothing,
And how the orange sun conversed long.

And they sang joyously of the endless cadavers,
Beneath those rolling hills and foaming, affixing waters-
And how the decaying scents in all prospects
Would grow and fester in our sons and daughters.

The song laid dormant in a starry sky-
Conjured in rousing bodies and secret gestures-

How their song rambled far and sowed itself in piercing quiet,
And scathed many ages with well-hidden despair.
And how their verses guide me toward an abyssal sleep
Delivered through the indifferent gateway of my chair.

-A suspended bell chimes on in unknowing.
Since the beginning of this year, my mental health has been on a bit of a downward *****. I'm not trying to worry any of you, but writing, as well as many other things,  has become increasingly difficult due to a severe lack of motivation. I'm trying my best though- it's all I can do.
Jan 18 · 731
Bits and Pieces #9
1.  Minds are heightened or subdued through the same phenomenon: the destruction of truths and falsities.
2. Disappointment is reality deviating from your illusions.
3. It is always hardest to convince or console oneself. One who does neither will be forever lost.
4. Those who surrender themselves to a lifestyle of failure loathe those who do the same.
5. Denial of the improbable is the denial of the future and the acceptance of an absurd existence where all is random. Existence is a confusion structured of probability and constants.
6. Life relies on our ability to form compromises with our illusions.
Not sure what to call these... Maxims? Aphorisms? Observations?
I've been in a bit of a creative slump recently so it's kind of hard to write... or do anything for that matter.
Jan 9 · 597
L’appel Du Vide
Wreathed in the cold air of knowing,
And the false promises of stars-
We all drink wine
As we cascade through the universe.
Our inebriated forms are sifted
Through the veil of faces called time.

On the tips of possibility,
God calls us to fulfill our obligation.
To this end, we disperse ourselves
Through various forms of exit.

Scattered, fluttering, alone-
Glimmerous flakes of
What was and what is,
Lead by strings into tomorrow.
One more drunk face in the mirror,
One more clouded face in the womb-

How they flutter in its call!
How they flutter in its call!
Dec 2018 · 624
A Song For A Dead Friend
When the faces start to look the same,
And if the faces know your name,
Don't pay it any mind-
It's just time tempting you
To always look behind.

And should you find yourself on the stool,
Becoming one with the air-
Your neck says you've been made a fool
But the voices will all say, where?

And you'll say:
Was I not everyone
Before the dark had birthed the sun?

Yes, you were, little one.
But whose eyes do you see through now?

And from the marble towers come
The sound from the ***** drum
And the old man who we become
Saying: bring your guitar and strum.

Who hung you from a liars tree?
Who made your ocean into a sea?
Who gave you chains and called you free?
And the child inside says:
Why do you make songs for me?

And the old man says:
Why don't you make a song for me?
Come and make a song for me-
Come and make a song for me-
Come and make a song for me…
THIS is my last post of the year... Maybe...
Either way, I have a bunch of stuff in the works that probably won't be finished until next year.
I hope everyone has a nice holiday and new year.

I love you all
-Darrell or Dillon.
Dec 2018 · 527
The Parisian Lamppost
I do not see this night- I, instead, feel it.
Where the black and white meet in despair,
And the streets are beautiful for those
Who have disappeared from them.
Where arms welcome the living
And a warm tongue greets the returning stranger-
The night gains life,
For the rope has given it my air-
A thousand dreams await.
"Do not wait up for me this evening, for the night will be black and white."
Suicide letter of Gérard de Nerval.
I'm in the process of writing six short stories, however, I probably won't be finished on any of them until early next year. Till then, this may be my final post until the new year.
Nov 2018 · 1.2k
Bits and Pieces #6
I write about the world in an attempt to remove myself from it. Not in a way that would bid my nonexistence- but to be an observer to that existence or nonexistence. I write to observe my own absurdity.
I promise to have an ACTUAL poem out soon but I wanted to ask: would any of you be interested in me writing more short stories? I haven't published one since "Would It Be Honest?" and, while more difficult, are very pleasing to create. I know that it's ultimately up to me on what I publish and write, but I didn't want to just dump loads of text on you all out of the blue.
Nov 2018 · 1.1k
Bits and Pieces #5
We are more afraid of utilizing our freedom than we are of losing it.
I was going through some old papers and found this.
Nov 2018 · 572
For the Hideous
I know you sauntered into that room,
Trailing just behind
In the sweat of your lover.
I saw the light shatter on your body,
And convalesce in the dark curves
Of your being.

I know that you were naked,
I know how long the nights are-
I know where hands fall
With no one to guide them.
I know your hands are white,
That your hold speaks with deceit.
Since we love ourselves through each other,
All embraces and gestures are empty-

I know you strum the lashes of the evening,
Hoping for some gentle lines,
So you can feel the youth beneath you,
And not be confused by your ugliness.
I'm sorry for the lack of posting.
I've been busy and I haven't written anything lately that I feel is good.
I've been lacking in the inspiration and creativity department.
Nov 2018 · 209
A Series Of Cups
****** me with your sentience;
Force your grief onto me-
Superimpose your emotions
Onto my porcelain skin.

I inhabit the shelf above your bed
With my identical kin.
Your aches rest above us
In some place I cannot comprehend.

The shades of this room bind us,
And the spaces weave a common thread.
But I am not like you-
I am cold by nature,
You are cold by choice.

You frequently fill me
With liquors of habit.
I cannot impede you;
Leave me out of this-
I'm back.
Oct 2018 · 1.6k
Bits and Pieces #4
After drawing my interpretation of oxygen, a man stopped beside me and said: "I am insulted by the curving nature of infinity; my mother lives in my bones- I have become her womb.
I am the sepulcher of my ancestors."
He then plucked his eyes and walked backward into the ocean.
I wanted this here before I took my little hiatus.
I wrote this very late one night and haven't found the appropriate place for it.
Oct 2018 · 253
Summer Tongues
The summer tongues swallowed ice
While sleeping below the overpass in
Murmured coverings of pleasure.

Blackness is disemboweled
By the cavernous bones of
The street lights, adorning
Prying thoughts with illuminated
Pavement.
Swirling nightfalls
Attract the sphere's curling
Paint onto awaiting surfaces
Amid ******* escapades.

Summer tongues scrape
The remnants of velvet adolescence
From the perpetual fragrance
Of antiquated streets-
A concupiscent haze swept
Through the doleful hair
Lining the scalp of rain
Saturated recollections.

Yellowed hotels received
A swaying eastern morning.
My skull tasted frost through
An impartial syringe in my arm.
I'll be gone for a little while.

I love you all
- Darrell or Dillon or Whatever you want to call me
Oct 2018 · 191
Bits And Pieces #3
And, there, in the great dunes of the sky; in the hollow and eternal clock of gold; in the anxiety melding itself into the impenetrable and aching cage of nights which defy the poets and encompasses all in solitude; in a somber face with plastic breath, the eyes of alcohol and choking replies...
Written on a sticky note that I'd put into a book.
I have a long "stream of consciousness" piece coming in the next few days as I just keep adding to it every time I sit down to write.
Oct 2018 · 213
Bits and Pieces #2
She moved like a desperate tide, trying to find a shore that would accept her.
I admired the way her fingers found the horizon through an open window and the light fell upon our cheeks- we drifted in the space between childhood and the tightness of our stomachs.
Lines from a short story I never finished.
Oct 2018 · 535
The Womb Is For The Hopeful
Broken strings lay bare
The incommunicable suffering
Of the stoic and derelict musician.

Unwritten words lay bare
The clean, white paper of misery
Inflicting the grieving poet.

Both yearn for jovial memories,
Both yearn for anchored prosperity,
Both are denied by the fallibility of life.

In murky, smoke entwined bars,
In the blind confession of night,
Both can be found, traveling-
As only the aloof aspirant can-

Asleep.
I enjoy being more experimental with my writing, however, I've been moving away from it in turn for more conventional styles and topics.
Maybe a mix of more conventional material and experimental material?
How out there is too out there?
Oct 2018 · 1.1k
Bits and Pieces #1
You like wine, don't you?
I don't know-
I haven't made up that part of you yet.
I have hundreds of fragments and random scribblings lying around so I think I'll start throwing those on here.
In Anaheim,
Your blood became mine,
White noise, city skin grinder,
Hands to face, deep in wounded time.

In Anaheim,
The high side of leaves,
Groaning mouths, playing fingers,
Woman in poverty, the road lingers,
Our bones break so fast,
Our clothes rip- our golden lives.

In Anaheim,
I stood in the tall wind of the day,
Proving my love of life,
To those who'll listen,
A fragile shoulder comes anyway.
We die because of tomorrow,
Life is steeped in today.

In Anaheim,
I'm suspended in the grasp-
Of the afternoon sun,
And my chair puts down roots.
My window is open-
Another song but this one is from a while ago.
Hope you like it.
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