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Rohit Rohan May 2014
We are like two guitar picks
They are all so unique
Different shapes
Different sizes
Different textures
Different smells
Different feels
Different beings
But we
We are identical
Just like each other
And we play music that is so different
No one gets it
No one figures it why
But so it is
And only we can get what flows out of it
Strumming along in dischord
And harmony too
You’re just like me
And I am just like you
But we have our own guitars
And that is where our melody flows
The music all so complete
All so perfect
That it makes you just not believe
Coz things cannot be perfect
For nothing ever is complete
For beauty lies in incompleteness
And imperfection
And we with our guitars
Are just so ****** perfect
That it bleeds me to see us that way
If only guitar picks like us
Were left alone with each other
And never touched or disturbed
We wouldn’t get around to do anything
For the two of us
Are of the same kind
We can’t get music out of us
Or each other
Coz we are no guitars
And we won’t have them
Or anything else
But just each other
Two guitar picks
With the same lives
Touch
Smell
Shape and design
The only two unique
That no one else can match
That no one else can get
And there we lie together in the corner
No one to ruffle us
Just left to ourselves
And we lie there
By our sides
And we can’t play no music
And we can’t strum a song
Coz we are two guitar picks
Without nothing else
Without no guitars
But only ourselves
Which is just so ****** incomplete
And so imperfect
So mighty beautiful..
The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of the head's charge, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a straight, mornings woke and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed amongst individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to slice the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, digesting it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
plead your case. the silence that follows will deafen your prayers... it will eat your rain.
tread where smoke has layed eggs in a nest of flames.
use your thoughts nimbly, and thereby, climb the ladder madly

humbly gone by love, my love.
humbly gone
by love.


these are not the words in my mouth. they are god's frogs. a soft plague of cecil b. demille with ampibians and barbedwire. these are not the fickle neptunes in dischord. you are not the last unicorn. only the basilisk in my zodiac. my marvelous queen.

these are not the feathers of a proud crane. but a wrecking ball reassembling a dandelion with a leather whip and a chair. they tumble from my limbic intimacy with your private lies. i bring genuine venom to cure blindness; but i leave an antidote under my tongue should your kisses beg to be a fool.

i won't say what this is.

i have bruises where your name left a dent in my kevlar.
Jaye Donart Dec 2010
Screeching dystopia
Static dischord
Flashing images of the horde
war famine anger disease
I brush these off with relative ease
to paint a picture ever clear
of a life once lived
-with pressing fear
Miss Masque Apr 2010
Relatively senile
the memories in my mind
fade as new ones replace
the broken past

Watching the lovers
as they stroll along
the rainswept streets
of connected
bliss and dischord

Looking around
at the silence
tasting the futile attempts
like ashes on a cold day

Feeling
the chill down my spine,
my quickened pulse
as you enter the room

Eyes brighten
as they think of you
Ever so noticably
Slipping into a drugged
state in which coming back
isn't a desirable option

Poetry laced with
an intoxicating poison
slowly saturating my senses
blinding faults, impurities

Grasping at clarity
and finding none
only your arms
folding around me
pulling me deeper into
the abyss
Written: November 12, 2009
Helen Murray Jan 2014
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh. Creation is groaning.
Its beauty is losing its wonderful face.
Tears there are streaking and staining its liberty,
Yet there’s the Spirit of Truth in His place.

F = ma and G = gravity
falling at 32’/s/s.
Natural law doesn’t change from its infancy.
Earth was made perfect and that’s on the record.

Why then this fracture of precious inventiveness?
How does it happen that something went wrong?
Was it intended, this frightful disaster?
Why this dischord in a beautiful song?

Earth waits in agony for re-commissioning,
Blood on the ground.  It’s the spirit of death.
Yes he was placed here to sort out the heartening
Souls of creative men tangling with Truth.

Creation is groaning ‘cause Truth is the soul of it.
Those who embrace her inherit the earth.
As for the others, when death’s reward comes to them,
They’ll know the Truth, but destruction’s their path.

One day the Son will arrive to inherit
This earth, and restore it to vigor and Life.
He’ll have no party with lies and their consequence.
King of the times He’ll just rule out that strife.

Then will the earth once again reach its majesty.
Then once again mighty mountains may dance.
Then will the joy of the great restoration
Complete the perfection, the longed for romance.
Romans 8: 21, 22.  The creation itself, also, will be delivered from the ******* of corruption into the glorious liberty of the Children of God.  For we know that the whole creation groans and labours with birth pangs together until now.
Butch Decatoria Feb 2017
Slow globular crawl:
Dischord's mis-shapened body.
Mindless / Self Divides.
Michelle M Nov 2017
Sometimes,
the sound of your snoring,
makes me want to run you through,
with a knife.

That atonal rasping and gagging,
penetrates every board,
every beam,
until this old house vibrates with it.

My rage is palpable,
a living,
pulsating thing,
It thrums alongside your ragged breath,

Dueling frequencies of dischord,
Your tortured sleep,
and my tortured nerves,
inexorably linked,

You choke yourself awake long enough,
to look through me,
Emit a vaporous moan,
and turn over.

I like it better when you're working,
and I'm more perfectly alone.
The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of Sigur Ros, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a strait, mornings awake and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed among individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to snip the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, processing it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.

This music is a hand reaching out and over the chasm of being to grab and pull you into another reality for a few moments. For a few moments you will experience the world from the viewpoint of Jon, Orri, Georg & Kjartan. It is an exhilirating sensation, coveted by all.

This music is the voice of Thor, the cries of Aphrodite, the sins of Baal, the dreams of Pontius Pilate, the sound of coyotes cuddled in a cave, wailing at the moon. This music is the war of the worlds. It's release. ******. A little death. Afterglow then off to sleep. Waking to Philip Glass, inspired to listen to him by Sigur Ros.

The needle is yanked from the record and silence and stillness return to claim their divinity.
Sans Eldest Daughter Eden Liat

No matter this papa
who may as well live in Zaire
he reckons "star student"
no longer relevant to me,
now grown independent upon
your twenty second

orbit since...yesteryear
(happy birthday orbit around the sun
fast approaching twenty second year
December twenty second,
this glum papa doth wonder, where
he wishes owning magical power

to reach back across space/
time continuum and volunteer
to make amends for situations,
he contributed to make unbear
rubble analogous to aftermath
of unleashing paternal thermonuclear

inflicting harm upon
your psychological state
as if pierced with a razor sharp spear
unnecessarily provoking rage,
dischord, grief, et cetera,
now fallout rear

ring up inside my
psyche with **** quare
lee invisibly pummeling,
thus I indirectly persevere,
albeit indirectly thawing chill
between us without,

I can no longer overbear
the torturous repercussions
as if choking by unseen near
medium small at large lightly
shocking me with about
a bajillion microampere

charge emanating
from tragicomic mask
courtesy Classic Greek
playwrights, whose ghosts lear
sporting harris tweed knitwear
haunting me in close proximity - jeer
ring at my parental facebook,

and sundry faux pas
unwittingly causing unpleasant interfere
rinse knowing (i.e. intuitively
sensing) telepathically here
ring cackling laughter,
and imagining a cruel glare.
Napolis Oct 2018
Two drunken
debts are
better
than one.

though in

truth neither one
will ever
be paid.

our hearts
to one
another

hermit
shells ,

that we
change
every now
and then

depending

on our

dysfunctional

moods.

and this
time
I have
you.

we are
a tribute
to the
ridiculous.

running
blind,

almost
naked
in shame to
our
ivory
bones.

just the
bare skin
on our
back.

to keep
us in tack

or sane.

with our
heads just

trending
above the
water line.

say "yes"
and maybe
we will
survive
the cut

of the judge's

knife across

our necks

and final

plea.

and everything
will change
before
our eyes.

"that's our story"

my first
marriage.

Dischord
in the

witness of  
laughing stars

tonight.

— The End —