"perpetuating" poems
Sweet and savory tides
Fill the self-perpetuating void
Spinning spokes of inspiration
Distillate of jungle and earth
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
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.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
I couldn’t be around you without feeling
as if my world was crashing down.
Twice I walked away but you kept
holding onto me.
Your love dominating,
controlling, and reckless.
For us both ‘WE’ became an addiction.
Our physical connection creating a real
emotional entanglement.
The intimacy escalated not with your love
and respect rather with your insatiable ******
desires and deceit.
You came closer to me than anyone ever had.
To say that we were totally engaged,
consumed with each other would gravely understate
what you did not only to my body, but also to my soul.
It was a crazy love.
When your presence met mine.
I’d forgotten the meaning of peace of mind.
Self-respect had flown away,
integrity fallen by the wayside.
I didn’t know who I was with you.
I didn’t know who I was without you.
Yet, I couldn’t leave…
Even though deep in my unconscious
I knew 'WE' were wrong.
My addiction wouldn’t let me go,
your addiction wouldn't let me go.
And I stayed…
Your behavior came so close to crushing my spirit,
my will to live.
In your compulsion to protect your deception
you abandoned me,
my life hanging on by a thread, I could not sleep or eat,
I could not breathe.
It was like being in a coma that I was fighting to survive.
With intensive professional help
I was forced out of the coma.
I survived.
Now I see
I stayed, not because I loved you
I stayed because I didn’t love me.
Passion kept me bound.
Truth be told, to be totally honest
I stayed out of fear, fear of missing the passion.
But now I know I’d rather be alone… than
shackled by the anguish and drama you swore was love.
As the synapses of my brain reconnect,
the evidence of controlling emotional abuse,
of possessive manipulation, overwhelms my mind and body.
I see now I wasn’t built, wasn’t ready to understand
your type of love.
I can’t deal, can’t bear, don’t deserve,
your emotional betrayal and abuse.
I have kept your secret for you to tell.
A secret I will never betray.
Now no longer together
locked in by your silence,
perpetuating the manipulation,
forever destined in your secret,
your abuse continues.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
The world is small even heaven isn't big
but an uncreated Word is,
an expression of love and promise!
The tale of the beginning
the tale of the end without the ending.
Soon God said it 'Qun' be
bang it couldn't be bigger indeed.
Everything small and big the complete
creations panache came to be so big!
The body is small the soul came in the front
and every soul big banged in one go.
All heard the same Word it was only one
that sets the tone for the first to the last
so sweet it took everyone’s heart!
The death wouldn’t touch the soul
that already died but couldn’t die.
Revived there and then instantly,
hearing the 'Qun' the uncreated melody!
Crooned up even through the dead-end
surged up to the other side of the black hole.
Like a waxing Moon passed over, crossing
the asleep body in the shadow, yet in the making!
Unable to resist it, the first big bang
didn’t happen amidst the material entity
not in the star, milky way or in the galaxy.
Adam was yet to be in the body
the physical ear was yet to hear it!
Unlike the tuned in abyss soul there
that harks and the clouds rise and rain
only to revert back to the sea
showering the shallow terraqueous body.
He said ‘Qun’ again and the first physical big bang
on the matter takes place in Fathima’s joint
interlacing her live soul and pre-design body.
It cuts through the irrational pi in between
the soul and body so that gel in melody!
With pure love without a condition
that shall keep up perpetuating the body!
Nature that was yet to be, gets a mirror in its entirety
and bangs big hearing an echo of ‘Qun’ be, says the Almighty
it comes to be and shall perish only to be an eternal body!
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Some are born balanced
On a precipice and remain
Tethered for the rest of their days
Overlooking barely there
Mental images
Fragments of a lucid dream
Of a conjured up past life
Once etched on skin
But no longer there
They speak of
Violent reinvention
And escape
While the hollow speaks
And catapults into spaces
Better left unknown
Psyches wrapped in denial
Running the gamut of habitual sins
Perpetuating legacies of pain
With hands that carry
The burdens of forefathers
Tiptoeing
In the twilight of dreams
Willing for the heavens
To send a spring that blooms
Hearts whose pounding
Reverberates endlessly
inside of ears
Eyes that get darker as they close
Meet with ours
A look
A sigh
Ascertaining a mutual recognition
Of the familiar
Shadows that plague.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
How can we attain the perspective of the introspective
When detectives aren't respected
By crowds drawn by clowns
Made vicious by the wishes
Of Hades with rabies
In order for humanity to progress
We must all consider our place in society
Emotional disclosure accelerates our human race
Until externalizations halt our momentum
We begin to drift
Discourse drifts toward absurdity
Absurdity drifts toward reality
Reality drifts toward Hell
And accepting reality
Means accepting the bullet's laughter
while it drifts through the innocent
Then we must accept where our souls have drifted
So our minds drift into fantasy
We wrap our abandon ties around our neck
And go to work
We live in a society
Where not giving a **** about what others think
Is actually encouraged
Yes, exchanging ideas can hurt
That's whiplash as we stop drifting and jolt in each other's direction
But communication
Takes detours to dead ends
As honesty and compassion
Elude us
In a self-perpetuating cycle
When education's only purpose
Is learning how to ****** each other
Before we know too much
Our species drifts toward extinction
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
The Equalist!
RE: The guerrilla girl’s poster 5% women artists yet 85% of the models are female.
This poster was heralded as a feminist rebuff of misogyny and the male gaze.
It is my opinion: one of the reasons females are more sexualised than males in Western society; is because the majority of women working in a sexualised industry such as modelling, dancing, fashion or *********** choose to perpetuate that role and the connection between *** and femininity; often in industries where females outnumber the men six to one; I'm also aware that the majority of the hierarchy in theses industries are male, it seems their gender solidarity is more concerned with the money; than notions of ****** inequality; thus perpetuating the issue.
Vernacular test:
Step one - Question one:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misandry? followed by what is your gender?
Step two - Question two:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misogyny? followed by what is your gender?
I did offer any information or allow any of the subjects to see the survey paper, or overhear the question.
Results: 30 subjects took part in the survey; One female knew both words and their meaning, and one female didn't know what Misogyny was. (Two females approached refused to take part in the survey, all men approached engaged.)
Step three - Question three:
I then gave all the subjects the dictionary definition and asked why they thought the vernacular misandry is not as well known as the word misogyny?
(I should add that I too couldn't recall the vernacular meaning of: Misandry; though I could recall the meaning or definition of Misogyny.)
Answers:
Female... "I don't care"
Female... "It's due to a gender economic imbalance"
Female..."Blokes just don't like it when women speak out about it"
Female..."I don't get involved in protests"
Female..."I don't know"
Female..."Men just think with their ******
Female... "There's more misogynists"
Female... "Because men are pigs"
Female... "Why does it mater"
Female... "It's just a word"
Female... "I'm not interested"
Female..."Try being a women"
Female... " It's ******** it's just a vernacular"
Female..."You wouldn't understand your a man"
The other 5 Females... chose to offer no explanation.
Answers:
Male..."I don't know"
Male... "who cares"
Male... "Yeh that's interesting"
Male... Why does it matter"
Male... "Let me think about it"
Male... "Who gives a ****
Male... "What's this about"
Male... "Can I see the results later"
The other 2 males... Chose to offer no explanation.
I personally identify as human; and don't wish to be defined, labeled or marginalised; I also don’t believe that secularism in any measure is healthy or meaningful in an inclusive society.
I question why 29 out of 30 subjects had heard of Misogyny; and just one person had heard of Misandry.
Sexism is not as the dictionary suggested prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women.
Everyone is effected buy prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination.
The subtleties of which is played out every day.
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the first generation with shorter life expectancies than our parents
to the next generation to create the most lethal weapon
Here’s to us
to another generation that is perpetuating stigmas around *** and ****** preferences
to the next generation to create cancer causing chemicals
Here’s to us
to another generation keeping racism and sexism alive
And here’s to us
to the next generation to **** up the next generation!
Yeah, here’s to us and all the distress
we cause
Yeah, and here’s to us and all the mess
we cause
No!
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the generation craving to live deeply and fully
to the next generation that will fight for our rights as blacks and whites
Here’s to us
to the generation that understands that sexuality is fluid
to the next generation to walk for; work for cures
Here’s to us
to another generation of protests agains lies and fights won with mighty pens
And here’s to us
to the next generation to create the next generation.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Studies have shown that corporal punishment
at a young age
only results in learning disabilities,
God smacking the grey matter out your brain...
So the cycle of self, ego, perpetuating abuse, goes.
It is a series of footsteps, streams that become rivers;
and we are composed of these chaotic streams: energy
Dreams.
And my brother is a perfect window into "America"
He has a five year old boy, a Girlfriend with a boy and a girl;
They both believe in tough love and hitting;
On Sunday, as they were entering my mothers house,
his son hit him with a snow ball near the crotch, so he hit him
in the stomach, and I saw the boy lose his breath.
"You're a terrible father."
I picked him up as he started crying.
My brother said he was bad all day before that.
What am I to believe?
That you are raising, caring for, and loving unconditionally,
or you are ******* up as a parent by hitting your child?
What am I to believe? That glimmer of light is a deamon
or that the deamon is you, my brother.
When you slap your child, or any animal, you reduce it
its brain, its body, and its mind. That's why alphas ****
they just want to reduce the other males around them.
Its an evolutionary trait that carries through to today.
And so do fools, my nephews mother wants to medicate him...
when science meets spirituality, mind spirit
we replace the box with a tree, a galaxy.
We replace the pill with therapy, and community;
petrol with the sun, burning a hole
in the unity of our dreams and the whole of our destiny.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
NO OFFENCE MEANT TO ANYONE.
JUST WORD PLAY.
Many thoughts of saviours.
Different deities.
Varied idols.
Doctrines unique,
Sometimes similar.
Holy books.
Different sects, yes I said sects.
Buddhists, Mormons, Muslims too,
Hindus, Jews and Rastafarians.
Pass the spliff, that one miffs me.
Too name but only one or two.
Garlands or flowers.
Holy cows.
Churches and temples.
Mosques and mystic synagogues.
Or even halls perpetuating to the Kingdom.
Gis' us a pint of blood or not.
Definitely not vampires,oops I forgot.
"Cup of tea, love?"
Welcome to the Mormons.
Latter day saints?
Jesus Christ, what a choice.
My explanation, I'm agnostic.
But, never on a Sunday.
I don't want converting.
(C) LIVVI
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
Born of a binary,
black/white,
white/ black.
Cultured by silence,
a blank slate,
but no more tears.
Time isn't real.
They speak, they say,
tell me there's nothing wrong with me;
standing in the kitchen with my
grandmother telling me there is
nothing DIFFERENT about you.
Strive to conform.
Sameness is a casualty.
**I DON'T GIVE A ****
about conservatives
.
"Humanists" avoiding their toxic
misogynistic tendencies,
old friends enlisted
voluntarily perpetuating a
system of violence and suffering,
others are bluffing, don't say ****
walk eggshells,
I must be a tiger loose from the cage,
and they're waiting to see who becomes the
canary in my coal mine.
Rhyming by incident,
but I hate this **** & I'm not all right.
Women can participate in their own oppression,
minorities can be racist,
we're all raised in a ditch;
Patriarchy, capitalism, class values,
botched messages, "color blindness",
etc. etc. etc.
**** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better
or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect"
if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch.
Cultured by racism and depression.
I think of suicide like a novelty
until I don't
.
.
.
Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering.
Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma.
Waiting for the past to make sense.
Waiting.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
You ask me why I’m so angry all the time
I laugh because if I don’t I’ll cry,
I laugh because if I don’t I’ll cry.
And then you’ll call me emotional and hysterical
As if we’re still in the era of old where simple female reactions
Were pathologised and the bold locked up for being “mentally ill”.
You ask me why I’m angry and I simply scoff
And deny because if I start speaking about why
The rage in me will boil over like lava in a volcano
And then where will we be?
[pause]
I want to tell you,
I want to tell you why.
Why this rage, this utter, all consuming anger, this deep-rooted grief.
Let me tell you how I feel like crying whenever I hear about
Another **** case, another girl murdered for daring to refuse,
Another woman of colour who endured terrifying pain,
All because she was who she was.
Another minority violated, another black trans woman killed, her ****** unsolved,
Another child abducted and sold, like a commodity
Another another another
It never stops and it never ends
From micro-aggressions to gross violence
I feel it all in my heart
Like a stab between the fourth and the fifth rib
And it adds to my rage.
The words burst forth from my lips,
But I rein them in
Because even though I want to protest
Against your complete ignorance and your casual misogyny
And my being revolts in response to your words,
I stop myself
because you are my family, my friend, my peer
And if I say something
You’ll just ask me why I’m so angry all the time.
Sometimes there’s no winning
Resistance is futile
In a world so steeped in patriarchy
That it’s unaware of the consequences
Of perpetuating sexist narratives.
But I still want to fight
The oppressive systems that chain the girl child,
The casual way we respond to certain slights
Against the all encompassing freedom of women.
And I’ll take on a thousand such questions
If only I can change one life,
If only I can spread the word and fight the good fight.
And, I would have told you all this
If only you had asked.
If only you had the patience
To listen as I blathered on
About statistics and documented proof
Of how 50% of the world’s population
Is still under constant threat to their lives.
I repeat, fifty percent of the world’s population
Lives with a constant threat to their lives.
I would have told you about how there are thousands of accounts
Of harassment and abuse and violation of basic human rights,
The right to say no, the right to thrive.
I would have told you,
I would have told you all
If only you had asked.
So don’t ask me why I’m angry
Ask yourself why you’re not.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
No such beauty
longer dwells
under the guise
of flesh and bones,
in the garden
of a sullied heart
fallow heart
barren and longing .
time built walls
an unfillable void
burdens tall,
beggared of light
befallen within
a devolving moment
so many flowers wither
left in a broken
heart of gold
a gardener knows
sweetest soils
of love and light,
without sunshine
sour
as unripened fruit
memories fading
as if florae
never blossomed
perpetuating
wholly starving,
unweedable roots
too deep,
rupture when pulled
a **** let be
beauty
unfertile seeds sown
where nothing
longer grows
in an uninhabited
silence
raging unseen within
the fires of the ages
still smoldering inside,
mingled with hope
left for dead
hidden in the shadows
an engulfing stone cold,
handwriting on the wall
of silence growing taller
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
A square, white, four bedroom, one bath country home
With fourteen kids, parents and much family love
We didn’t have abundance: fiscally poor
But we had each other: banked on our family
We shared our victories and or trying pain
We were a modest Scottish Catholic Clan
Isolated, we were not to our immediate clan
Our uncle’s lived within a trot, fifteen in his home
We kids worked and played on the farm without pain
It was an adventurous labor of extended family love
We worked, laughed, cried, and played as a family
In the early years, we young ones were anything but poor
However, in grammar school, we learned the meaning of poor
And materialism and envy, outside our cloistered clan
But together we lived and loved as a close nit family
Sure we had disagreements, not material goods, but a solid home
White paint peeled on the outside, yet inside was painted love
Still, there were poverty jokes, ridicule and masked pain
Every family has strife, baggage, and superfluous pain
Our parents didn’t drink; we had faith, yet fiscally poor
Ole Dad plumbed toilets; Mom slaved in the house, both with love
So we wouldn’t trade riches for our impoverished meager clan
Summer berries to pick, winter sledding, spring kites, and forever home
Kickball games, splashing in ponds, nature hikes and family
We were not taught to show emotions, hug, not an “I love you family,”
Albeit, an honest, polite, and proud Scottish Clan
The old house was eternally warm; it was our forever home
Until 1999. Dad passed from cancer still money poor
Yet rich in the knowledge of family and that his true pain
Was never saying that word; on his deathbed he whispered “Love”
Though our patriarch was laid to rest, we rose with the word “Love”
Eventually, the house was sold, but always one huge family
Mom spends her days in a retirement home remembering her clan
As time passes and memories fades, it lessens the pain
Of the loss of a noble father, economically poor
Yet with a strong work ethic, church, and love, built a home
Fourteen children now forged fourteen homes on love
Many, still, financially poor, but rich in forever family
Correcting mistakes that caused pain, while perpetuating our clan
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
*** for tat only means that another generation seeks vengeance and war
Evening the score only means yet another must even the score
Just ask the palestinians and the israelis, just ask the tutsis and the hutus
Ask the protestants and the catholics, and the crips and the bloods
The hatfields and mccoys, too, were all about grudge
And what has it gotten us, where does it end?
Who is the enemy and who the friend?
I ask this because it seems clear to me
“Either you’re with us or against us” denies diversity
One man’s terrorist is another man’s hero
But you **** mine, I **** yours leaves a net gain of zero
And what about the children in whose faces war is fought?
What parentless future — or present — have they got?
And who stands to gain from perpetuating violence?
Who profits from the pain ... ... and the deafening silence?
Typically a handful of white men do, that’s who
It’s that top one percent, not you
A few families control the likes of halliburton, bechtel and g.e.
It’s their balance sheets that gain from the misery we see
Divide and conquer is their modus operandi, their mode of operation today,
Keep us fighting amongst ourselves and all blame ... is diverted away.
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
Fickle feelings fuel your mind
Leaving you in a state of confusion
Inside you find your heart is blind
Perpetuating another conclusion
Feelings change once again
Leaning toward a different selection
Ongoing turnabout without end
Perpetuating a loss of direction
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC
The stench of burning flesh and *****
Imbuing the air
Carcasses of infant demons
Putrefying in the crater
Dissected impure angels hemorrhaging
Repugnancy dominates
Shrieking
Quivering
Floundering as they flutter their rotten wings
A profusion of worms
Falling from mouths like a cataract
Smoke coming out of their halos
No longer reigning
In this, their hades
Swollen with beasts in utero
Perpetuating abominations
Soon it will be their turn
To liquefy in the lava
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
(link to my video that creates self perpetuating irony)
https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=1789798171237203&id;=100006211128508
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
Didn’t you ever
Hear the Saints of Night
The way they lingered and whispered
And took away all our fright.
That one brusque evening
You looked into eyes
Stars spelled wisdom
And burned away sins
All the skies.
Akin to my demons
My fears spelled the plight
Of virtue and forgiveness
How did you make it all right?
Drunk in a café
Under the beach house
At night.
You smiled like it could
Last and that is why I sighed
With hope that this moment
Could freeze but you turn
To tell me: it’s over,
The hard part has begun.
We danced on shattered glass
As our feet bled to bone
But happy, oh, I was
I didn’t have to be alone.
The moonlight shone brightly
And razed all my homes
Of free falls and train wrecks
The silence choked me more.
It stung, the common sight
Of being apart and far off
The shore.
I swore I could plunge in
Deep and let go.
It purged me of essentials
To let my memories
Out the door.
But conviction that held me
Urged me to get off
The floor.
The friend that I needed
Was killed in a war
Of preposterous vulnerability
That I couldn’t evade
Even now.
I searched and I failed
Till one night I saw
I didn’t need my friend
Or an image for someone
To draw.
I slipped into a rabbit hole
That I knew held the key
To a place if I entered
I would not flee.
There you stood with shoulders
So broad and so sure
If I was in a crisis
You’d do more than just cure.
Now we’re back to the Café
The beach house
At night.
It’s stormy and ravenous
Of destruction tonight.
You’re talking and slowly
Your breath means more
Than the humour that escapes
Your perpetuating aura-
Let’s elope.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
There is dark magic
Here in my attic
A magician’s tactics
Cause pain emphatic
This magician gives me all I can handle
Until one day I’m dismantled
Like a once lit candle
Extinguished by the ice near Ymir
Birthing the Titans I fear
Bringing death here
Morphing me into a rigid wreck
Here in the frigid depths
I wish I left
The violence of violins
Lamenting the vile sin
Conjured by riled kin
Like they’re wild djinn
Can’t be muted
Only diluted
By becoming rooted
In thinking stupid
Avoiding Cupid
To join the putrid
The magician concocts potions
That excuse my emotions
As I forget devotion
For a temporary motion
The magician gives us difficult obstacles
And easily medicated excuses
So people won’t make things optimal
While purpose eludes them
Like Jekyll and Hyde
My hackles I hide
With shackles of pride
Covered in mystic thorns
So my wrists are torn
From the pain adorned
It’s my brain I mourn
The magician erects walls so thick
They separate healers from the sick
With magic bricks
Imbued by the magician’s enchantment
He builds a wall and then expands it
Until those inside become tantric
From the prison wall’s antics
Every time I turn the page
I am given rage
On the magician’s stage
Of the wars we wage
Under a curse of anger
Dehumanizing strangers
To deploy the Army Rangers
Perpetuating harming danger
The magician lies
The magician steals
The magician hides
What is real
Until I feel
The cold steel
The magician wields
Piercing through my electrified body
I guess the magician finally caught me
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 6:42 PM UTC