"mesonoxian" poems
Stop reading, I tell you;
there is no resolution coming.
Only laments and curiosities,
incursions into the soulless depths of mesonoxian thunder,
maybe a note on the desirability of warm socks,
but no satisfaction.
Don't expect a mournful awakening,
nor deliberate (or otherwise) profundity.
-disregarding the note on warm socks, of course-
I have given you warning, and if you continue,
the burden of exploration falls on you,
for consideration is the ferry to insight,
of which this text is built strictly without.
The boatman may ask that you pay with your wisdom
and refuse those that have no treasures to offer.
Would that not be the most desirable life?
Where we live to learn and when we have,
the boatman ferries us into the undying waters?
And those refused must wander and wonder
why they were excluded, where wisdom is birthed,
realizing that they are exactly as intelligent as they work to become,
to which the boatman might say, "Welcome aboard. Tell me more."
Allegorically speaking, this notion is nonsense.
Metaphorically speaking, completely absurd.
Practically, it's practically insane,
though actively, it is inanely preferred.
Alternative to apathy and pageantry,
wherein the boatman has empathy for those without wealth.
There is no true truth, only real observation,
so stop trusting my judgment and go create it yourself
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
We blew the brains out
of midnight
under a root beer sky
and followed the tawny
streetlights like a spindle on a B-side.
Ever effervescent
we tango on piano-key pavements
dancing like febrile bacchants
under a tallow moon.
And we might amble into
crepuscular philosophy
whilst alley dwellers
Do their best to stem
the global water shortage
and graffiti artists
sharpen their spray cans.
Inevitably we perambulate in to lamentations
ruminations on ************
over those we loved from afar
like jackdaws gawking at carrion
we just don’t put it in so many words.
Later we get home and ****
because once you’ve murdered midnight
and the doves come up
and dawn is born
it’s the only thing left
to
do.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
We blew the brains out
of midnight
under a root beer sky
and followed the tawny
streetlights like a spindle on a B-side.
Ever effervescent
we tango on piano-key pavements
dancing like febrile bacchants
under a tallow moon.
And we might amble into
crepuscular philosophy
whilst alley dwellers
Do their best to stem
the global water shortage
and graffiti artists
sharpen their spray cans.
Inevitably we perambulate in to lamentations
ruminations on ************
over those we loved from afar
like jackdaws gawking at carrion
we just don’t put it so many words.
Later we get home and ****
because once you’ve murdered midnight
and the doves come up
and dawn is reborn
it’s the only thing left
to
do.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC