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"immortalised" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
The media machine and its lack of authenticity
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine. At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal. It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity. (A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds) A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past. Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre. Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators. I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success. However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative. A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message; Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages. To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past! Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors! Purcy Flaherty.
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14
I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon. She guards the night sky... While I patrol these grounds... Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon. I am a vessel... all emptied and barren. what once was full, now echoes faint the glories of yesteryears. Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen. I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own. Immortalised... Anchored... to a body of mist and haze... Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown... I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms. Hope etched tight into my knackered knuckles and calloused digits. Please... take them in yours... soothe them... grant me your touch, your coveted balm.
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Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Derelict
I was 17 when it happened I trusten them It was going well Until it wasn't And a fun day with a friend became a nightmare They invited me over To play on their xbox and watch tv But watching tv became perverse Their hand drifted towards me And became an uninvited guest that I never wanted It all went too fast, too unknwn too wrong I became a stranger in my own skin No longer aware of what was happening Like a passenger on a ride Watching my own body a few feet away It was suffocating the corruption of what he did to me Years later i still remember his body on top of mine And the smell of sweat is still **** in my nose And i try to distract myself from the uncontrollable shaking that i can't stop But all I can think about is his hands on my throat And the fear that still lingers today. Till this day i have never spoken of this But today I have immortalised the day that I wish to forget.
0
Oct 3, 2022
Oct 3, 2022 at 3:48 PM UTC
TW:SA FACING THE PAST
. **••••••• •here lies the  rema- ins• that once beat with  superb lustre• caring not for worldly gains•on- ly undying  hopes  of pairing  with another• but fate had tipped  the scales, not in his favour •when  it  sent an  oncoming  car to share  the  same lane• driver was behind the wheel but alcohol had  taken over• causing the car to swerve recklessly in the rain• the last  few moments was punctuated with a deaf- ening sound•his day began not know- ing  death was  writ- ten   from the  start• so here li- es he, whose heart had thus been crowned • his love is immortalised with this tombstone as his heart• ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••**
0
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
Tragic
Many a notion I'd lay in indelible ink. How the morning sun would harvest the contours of your face. Accentuating... Elevating... Revealing... Your majestic beauty. Reminiscent of a different time and place. Many a thought I'd pen in indelible ink. When your breath meets with mine, they'd hold their own conversation. Deeply entranced, In an everlasting dance that would last forever. Exchanging gaits of grandeur, great longing and pine. Many an inkling I'd etch in indelible ink. The way my moon never gets eaten. It'll balloon to its fullest... Beaming it's brightest. Seeping from its edges, gushes forming rivers... Bathing my earth in heavenly silver. Calming the thundering hooves... In my heart with rhyme and reason. There are but three words... Words so sacred I dare not utter in vain. Proclamation so heavy my chest could hardly hold in rein. I've immortalised them here... But in invisible ink... Because no one would understand... Of emotions so grand. No one would have a clue... That...
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Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
Invisible Ink
*I love the look of words written down line by line; their flirtatious teasing along feint ruled ivory. The gentle drop of letters below unrestricting lines; the emotion immortalised in each cross and dot. Most of all, I admire the finality: the beauteous dedication and commitment of that pen... to this paper.*
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Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Pen and Paper
For Idil Ibrahim In memory of Tim Hetherington - 1970 - 2011 I cannot stay and speak my truth while the front line has no voice. The carpet doesn't share substance with the blood-clumped dust of Liberia; Red wine doesn't stain nations and it hasn't changed the world. I cannot stay and walk these steps while the fragile youth stand. Our Sunday morning route doesn't cover landscapes of wounds and bodies; Central Park has never felt a thousand welted feet march for death. I cannot stay and see your face while molten plastic scars her world. Your delicate eyes have never seen the darkness of a child's grief; Our democracy cannot fathom the searing, slow drip after a family massacred. I cannot stay and feel worthy of your love while injustice goes unseen. My lens has immortalised what we held dear, but is yet to capture the human condition; I spoke to you like I spoke to them; Through decades of mortar fire I spoke to them.
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Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
Cause
Light up our backs, bonfire, burn, burn us down until we float to the ground as ashes, ashen dust, till death do we ignite the lives of those around us like city lights or stars that don't go out. Outline. Framed. Posture picture perfect Hanging in this moment, immortalised, ageless, free like the flames which lick the velvet skin of night, engulfing our shadows as we stand with our backs to the stories they told - children of the fire.
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Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
Bonfire
Early days as a flaneur; I recall the couple On the Metro When I was still innocent Of its labyrinthine complexities; Slim pretty white girl, Clad head to toe In new blue denim, Wistfully smiling While her muscular black beau Stared straight through me With fathomless, fulgorous orbs; And one of them spoke (Almost in a whisper): "Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?" Then it dawned on me... The slender young Parisienne With the distant desirous eyes Was no less male than I. Being screamed at in Pigalle, And then howled at again By some kind of wild-eyed Drifter who told me to go To the Bois de Boulogne to seek What he clearly saw as my destiny; Getting ****** in Les Halles With Sara Who'd just seen Dillon as Rusty James, And was walking around in a daze; Sara again with Jade At the Caveau de la Huchette. Cash squandered On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre, Paperback books By Symbolist poets, Second hand volumes By Trakl and Deleve, And a leather jacket from The flea market At the Porte de Clignancourt. Metro taken to Montparnasse, Where I slowly sipped A demi blonde In one of those brasseries (Perhaps) Immortalised by Brassai; Bewhiskered old man In a naval officer's cap, His table bestrewn With empty wine bottles And cigarette butts, Repeatedly screeched the name "Phillippe!" until a bartender With patent leather hair, Filled his wineglass to the brim, With a mock-obsequious: "Voila, mon Captaine!" I cut into the Rue du Bac, Traversed the Pont Royal, Briefly beheld Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, With its gothic tower, Constructed only latterly, In order that The 6th Century church Might complement The style of the remainder Of the 1er Arrondissement, Before steering for the Place du Chatelet, And onwards...Les Halles!
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Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
Tales of a Paris Flaneur
Early days as a flaneur; I recall the couple On the Metro When I was still innocent Of its labyrinthine complexities; Slim pretty white girl, Clad head to toe In new blue denim, Wistfully smiling While her muscular black beau Stared straight through me With fathomless, fulgorous orbs; And one of them spoke (Almost in a whisper): "Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?" Then it dawned on me... The slender young Parisienne With the distant desirous eyes Was no less male than I. Being screamed at in Pigalle, And then howled at again By some kind of wild-eyed Drifter who told me to go To the Bois de Boulogne to seek What he clearly saw as my destiny; Getting ****** in Les Halles With Sara Who'd just seen Dillon as Rusty James, And was walking around in a daze; Sara again with Jade At the Caveau de la Huchette. Cash squandered On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre, Paperback books By Symbolist poets, Second hand volumes By Trakl and Deleve, And a leather jacket from The flea market At the Porte de Clignancourt. Metro taken to Montparnasse, Where I slowly sipped A demi blonde In one of those brasseries (Perhaps) Immortalised by Brassai; Bewhiskered old man In a naval officer's cap, His table bestrewn With empty wine bottles And cigarette butts, Repeatedly screeched the name "Phillippe!" until a bartender With patent leather hair, Filled his wineglass to the brim, With a mock-obsequious: "Voila, mon Captaine!" I cut into the Rue du Bac, Traversed the Pont Royal, Briefly beheld Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, With its gothic tower, Constructed only latterly, In order that The 6th Century church Might complement The style of the remainder Of the 1er Arrondissement, Before steering for the Place du Chatelet, And onwards...Les Halles!
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76
He stands A silhouette against a lifeless flat expanse His flaccid tallow-yellow hands clasped awkwardly across the rails The skin is white beneath his nails The fear beginning to ferment His shallow-knuckled grip indicative of lunatic intent Intent to finally insuate his end into the books To compensate for all the awkward silence and dead looks Insinuate himself amongst indifferent carbon molecules His skin and sinew separate from all the inconsistencies Immortalised in asphalt now A martyr on the asphalt now Away from death and listing eyes.
0
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
In Asphalt
We rode to Ta’if on a flying carpet — a Toyota with a missing hubcap sweeping through  fattened clouds which clung to the hilltops like grazing bison arriving on the otherworldly plateau that wore the death shroud of an old hermit’s mystery which our Prophet reached in sandals as ****** as the deck of a Nantucket whaling ship Arabian Himalayas. He climbed like a yak and the Lord strengthened his steps Our taxi driver — as lost as the cheque in the mail — poked at his satnav and called his mates The Almighty’s beloved followed the angel and never lost his way. He strained with pain Our driver’s mirrored eyes intruded while we held hands on the back seat and yawned The Lord smiled down upon his aching friend and eased the pain in cramping calves A sagging mosque now hunches where the ignorant had cast away the chance of a lifetime Oh think if they had taken him in — Medina would sit as a happy king on a mountain throne I immortalised my love in a photo in that mosque praying as a saint where our hero had struggled I adore my captured shaikha and the memory of when we followed in the footsteps of our Prophet
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Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
In the Prophet’s footsteps
In bareness life sheds Melting our essences To fear our termination In caskets it all ends In excess life mends A regeneration read Generations transpired For eons we existed In neutral life tends Unscripted to rest Reassessed to subsist Repressed to matter Thou shan't fear death Embraceth thine destiny Immortalised in shrines Till the universe climaxes
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Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
Sardonic Esse
We were washed in the dim glow of moonlight, Our heartbeats calm and tranquil, Serenity beat around us, And soft melodical jazz that thrilled. It was a beautiful night, One that transcended the bounds of reality, We felt as two stars transported, Into a sweet magical galaxy. I felt your soft satin skin touch upon my hand, And a innocent desire took hold of me. I put your hand upon my shoulders and grabbed your waist. We twisted and spun to the sound of jazz, Our bodies synced in rhythm and grace, As if two stars that burned for long, Had collided in a charming embrace. Your moonlit body glided across the floor like a graceful swan, Practised and perfected in its movement and poise, As I looked upon my fate with head upheld and flashed a grateful smile to it twice. And we whirled and twirled, Every second abuzz with magic and delight, Our bodies weary and sweat drenched, Yet, our soul's thirst unquenched. As we slowed down, I had an ardent desire to never halt, And In that moment fate immortalised us, And we became the two dancing stars who never stopped.
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Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
Dancing Stars
I want to be written about. Immortalised in the scrawling of a pining boy’s pen. Encased, no, enshrined in verses of a stars-for-eyes poet. Enwreathed in flowers of words that a hopeless romantic waters everyday. Is it much too much to ask?
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Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
Muse
My playlist on Youtube writes itself into a poem It elicits Love, Lust, Loss anger along with a few other emotions Ratatat takes me on a tour of Rome PHOX shows me how to dance in Slow Motion John Denver joins me on the tour of Country Roads Highlight Tribe encourages me to Free Tibet Bioshock Infinite do I dream of with Schyman Elizabeth Kavinsky with his beats, urging me to Outrun Lose Sight now and again with Andrew Bayer and Ane Burn Abandoned Pools take me down the memory lane in Clone High Foo Fighters whisper in my ear that I too can Learn To Fly COCAINEJESUS, Akira, beats and samples; I have PINEAPPLEKISSES Cloud Nothing reminds me that I should Stay Useless Discover A Little Opus as I take a ride on Little Comets Sky Rabbit opine and observe the present In Our Times Joey Badass shares with me his funky ideals of *World ********** Coheed and Cambria describe brotherhood in Key Entity Extraction Geroge Ezra sings an ode to fathers in Listen to the Man Perfect shows me the other side of the coin with Simple Plan The Peppers tell a story of starting over covered in Snow Shakey Graves says takes a chance and Roll the Bones John Wayne Gacy Jr. the serial killer is immortalised by Sufjan Stevens Imagine Dragons, the subconscious and fears come alive in Demons Owl City tells a fantastic fable about insomnia in Fireflies Ellie Goulding finds sweet slumber even in dark times in Lights
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Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Youtube
You're searching for even the slightest validation for your inexcusable actions, transient in both values and the physical realm, collecting conquests and usurpees like how one might collect trophies from animals they hunt, faces frozen in a false expression with unseeing glassy eyes as they are forever immortalised in your sick collection to be made a mockery of long after the passage of time takes it's toll on both the images and the subjects. A calculated maliciousness disguised as an indecisive personality, you are a bottom-feeder grafting onto the bellies of whomever are blissfully unaware or trusting enough to swim by you; but your own is yellow as a summer's day is long; not from just cowardliness, no, but from **** (sans the vinegar), and I wish I could compose this prose into something a little less hateful and a little more tasteful, but I won't spare you another second of my time, I'll erase you from my mind.
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Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:26 AM UTC
I'd Fight A Gemini
our love i feel is an ancient love from a smaller world of greater ideal a love so touched by the stars above never to fall so as to become so real our love i feel is an ancient love an unspoken word of a long lost tongue flies on the wing of an immortalised dove to transcribe in dreams and nightly song yet this night is upon, this night is cold and sleep she refuses my welcome plea this ancient love a story no longer told white winged doves carry my angel free now what is left, what is there of me bereft of meaning, vanquished by decree yet i will treasure each harbored memory consigned to sail our love through history
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Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
ancient love
if you were to halt me in a street and ask what defines a mystery? i'd have no trouble in dropping equivalents, metonyms: a puzzle, conundrum, crux, enigma, a commodity beyond human understanding. but truthfully, impartially, justly when i muse over the question alone the webs of instinctual response can be brushed aside replaced with an inherent yearning. i seek to know why perfection spawned so intangible in an age where, like the illegible scrawl of a faceless war leader, each detail is immortalised in a pixel, a photon, a sound wave. you and i, we're not acquainted in the flesh but the mystery continues, of how a translation of your features on a screen can captivate me, can steal into my heart and run away with my breath. i would swear of your existence on the stars, take a cosmic oath. but how am i to know, with you there and me here? prove yourself to me, please to be more than an empyrean deception
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Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
mystery
Well Perhaps Mary will come to me. Perhaps her skin will melt so close to mine that I will feel her sorrow, And I will feel the ongoing agony that grips her heart and torments her mind. Perhaps I will feel the coldness of the shadows that she casts under the burning light that he attempts to enlighten her with, Perhaps she will whisper the screams of her life and fill me with her surrender. And I will see through her aged eyes and feel her hollow damp cheeks. Perhaps I will lay down with her and see her dreams unfold in burning skies and hear her longing voice call out to him, Perhaps the air will become too thin and through choking sobs she will wait for the moment that never comes. And I will feel her immortalised blue tears run down run down my face and feel her worn hair on my shoulders. Then she will be gone. And just leave the lingering smell of broken beauty as my heart dawns and the silence whispers across my skin.
0
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
Illusional Enlightenment
No grecian urn nor sculpted monument can live beyond the realms of space and time But in these lines of skilled form and content you will live on, the centre of my rhyme. Ozymandias, mighty king of kings, colossal statue turned to desert sand Yet, Shelley’s verse awoke these lifeless things immortalised this man from antique land. Both clock and scythe circle with the seasons We cannot escape Fortune’s deadly wheel None are free from Nature’s laws and reasons Yet. in this verse you are divine and real Your beauty and worth forgotten never You will live in this poem forever.
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Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
Sonnet LV ~ No Grecian Urn
i've been awake since 6am i'm running on two and a half hours of sleep i've been on the road since 7am and i'm writing this at 1pm i'm thinking about greggs sausage rolls thinking about where i'm going in life thinking about when this road will end thinking about slowthai's yugioh cards thinking about how much i love frank ocean thinking about how i interpolate milo lyrics to fit my life though i probably couldn't tell you what his words mean thinking about how i drift from one person to the next desperately searching for a new friend to cling to thinking about why i didn't shave my face for two weeks i was scared that with a blade in reach i'd be tempted to slice my throat if i drowned, would my body float? thinking about how i should cut my hair thinking about how i can act cuter thinking about that coil girlfriend but maybe i'll go for a boy instead i burned my mouth on a greggs sausage roll again so it looks like it's all going to plan sometimes i view greggs as a temple and the sausage roll is my zen master i find solace in cheap british bakeries just like how i find peace in a black man's philosophies today i'll get my groceries from the nostrum grocers and write poems at the apex of my sleepiness this road is only going one way and i can't go back to pick up the pieces so i collect what i can to stitch together a new tapestry made out of the few remaining pieces of the old me maybe one day driver will say i have perfect hair thinking about how excited i am to read tallen's messages on discord it's nice hearing about his l5r discourse thinking about how i promised to deliver instrumentals for quetzal but i never did get started on them thinking about my friend gabe's new album and how i wish i had richard dawson's falsetto and how i wish someone would hug me but if i admitted that, that'd feel pretty needy of me i don't know when this road will end maybe i'm stuck on here forever immortalised in the asphalt like a dead bird approach me like you would your dad hanging in trafalgar square i used to smile in every selfie now it's a chore to smirk at all but it ain't all bad i might make curry on saturday or maybe i'll make chicken soup and it'll be better than hers because i'll make sure to remove the bones
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Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
interpreting the temple of introspection
i've been awake since 6am i'm running on two and a half hours of sleep i've been on the road since 7am and i'm writing this at 1pm i'm thinking about greggs sausage rolls thinking about where i'm going in life thinking about when this road will end thinking about slowthai's yugioh cards thinking about how much i love frank ocean thinking about how i interpolate milo lyrics to fit my life though i probably couldn't tell you what his words mean thinking about how i drift from one person to the next desperately searching for a new friend to cling to thinking about why i didn't shave my face for two weeks i was scared that with a blade in reach i'd be tempted to slice my throat if i drowned, would my body float? thinking about how i should cut my hair thinking about how i can act cuter thinking about that coil girlfriend but maybe i'll go for a boy instead i burned my mouth on a greggs sausage roll again so it looks like it's all going to plan sometimes i view greggs as a temple and the sausage roll is my zen master i find solace in cheap british bakeries just like how i find peace in a black man's philosophies today i'll get my groceries from the nostrum grocers and write poems at the apex of my sleepiness this road is only going one way and i can't go back to pick up the pieces so i collect what i can to stitch together a new tapestry made out of the few remaining pieces of the old me maybe one day driver will say i have perfect hair thinking about how excited i am to read tallen's messages on discord it's nice hearing about his l5r discourse thinking about how i promised to deliver instrumentals for quetzal but i never did get started on them thinking about my friend gabe's new album and how i wish i had richard dawson's falsetto and how i wish someone would hug me but if i admitted that, that'd feel pretty needy of me i don't know when this road will end maybe i'm stuck on here forever immortalised in the asphalt like a dead bird approach me like you would your dad hanging in trafalgar square i used to smile in every selfie now it's a chore to smirk at all but it ain't all bad i might make curry on saturday or maybe i'll make chicken soup and it'll be better than hers because i'll make sure to remove the bones
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53
What is our most prized possession If not the chamber of memories That we so fearfully keep Within the confines of our minds. Every inch of our power Lives in a constant struggle To guard this chest of fading treasures From the writhing hands of time Yet we have become so caught up In this twisted dance With the ticking clock, that we have forgotten these memories are naught but disintegrating ghosts, whom desperately cling to us, as a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood, hanging from our thoughts on trembling strings -soon to snap. Despite all our efforts They will never be immortalised -and so we are condemned to drown in a sea of nostalgia.
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Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
Nostalgia
I massaged my temples And cursed my heart. I loved you, And yet the pages remained blank, The pen still held ink. Quick romances in coffeeshops Always found themselves Immortalised But you, My one, my only, Could drift away forever With no memory to tie you down. Only a broken poet Is unable to write about the one they love. You are a dangerous lexicon. Excitement and passion wrapped up in confusion; You baffle me to the depths of my being. You can't find your way into my poetry Because how can I fit a poem within itself? You may lay your head against my breast, Press your perfect lips against my neck, Stain my shirts with your tears, **** my sorrows with your smiles, But you are too pure for any of my words. I am a poet, but my love for you is beyond the reach of poetry.
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Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
For My Love
You could have seen her complexion, in the reflection of my eyes from a mile away. Just like the sunrise, I sensed her light, as if she smiled with rays. What a way to start the day, blinking years but it was timeless, It was priceless, I was infirm, she produced a cure like a scientist. Any part of her body can touch my skin and make me shiver. To resist her, its like taking off your jacket in a Siberian winter. Immortalised in pictures and scriptures we had written, We ruled our land but with powerful questions are great answers that are hidden.
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Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
elysium
Good cannot exist without Bad, No Light without Darkness, Says the learned, Bull **** I say, Human Justification all that is, Good is absence of Bad, Not the counteracting force, Not the Balancing Parameter True Good is a hard find, You know why ? Good cannot be Glorified without Bad, Good cannot be Immortalised without Bad, A Good that needs Glory, is Never Good.
0
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
Heroes/Villians Are Made Not Born