"postmodernity" poems
They've sold their souls in the midst of humility
and super-pervaded occult, they've sacrificed
people just to get that fancy car, and that
mansion like paradise, and all that glamors on the
face of multi-universe, they are living in the era of
self-aggrandizement, and more doubtfully
contemplate christianity, they moved a step
further to promote atheism, the concept of
humanistic thought have been overthrown, and
decisions made under the philosophy of
postmodernity, depictions of reality are mystical
and emanate from the dark prisms, their
conception of glorification is different from the
society's, therefore I'm hateful and watching as
the world slowly chokes itself to death.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
Tick tock went the clock,
echoing
through monastery halls,
synchronizing the actions of men,
building up modernity’s walls.
Creatively destructive,
eternal
yet fleeting,
modernity was paradoxical,
according to the Harvey reading.
Art had expanded,
abstraction arises,
and Sigmund loves his mom,
more than anyone realizes.
Our friends the id,
the ego and its super,
tell us who we are,
Freud has the world in a stupor.
A catch-22 for dear Pablo,
who will sleep with a ****
but is terrified of syphilis,
as is seen in his art.
There was power and truth,
and Foucault says we’re repressive,
but suddenly things change,
Postmodernity becomes quite impressive.
PoMo cares not for beauty,
or what pleases the public eye.
It’s style for style’s sake,
in the buildings stretching toward the sky.
Uma dances with John,
a young boy finds a severed ear,
Joaquin loves his OS,
PoMo film is, well,
Queer.
Yuppies love pastiche,
their lofts were once a workplace,
they’ve coated them with chrome,
they’ve gentrified the space.
Unlimited breadsticks
have soiled the very Italian name,
Baudrillard says it’s simulacrum,
there is no truth, it’s all the same.
We traipse through this
postmodern world,
not knowing postmodernity
is where we are.
We wear workboots to fashion shows,
we worship that reality star.
We think we’re special snowflakes,
and skinny jeans make us cool,
and media exposure’s made us cynics,
quite impossible to fool.
What we don’t realize is that
we are not our own,
we are pseudo individuals,
through PoMo we have grown.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
**** off, modernity!
Hail ye, postmodernity!
Let me celebrate the loss and chaos fully festively.
Beyond the fissures of heart, is a world so fissured that they speak of infinite mosaic and mini-worlds;
As if the universe were a map of man's heart.
I see in vision--- oh vision! Without vision life is nothingness.
I see in vision the innate mortality,
Mortality of man's existence and reason, of death and feeling.
And then the hope, yes hope!
Hope that makes your actions smaller and smaller.
you have big illusions but you do small deeds,
in hope that miracles would happen...
But celebrate your barrenness because you cannot blame gods.
It is forbidden to blame gods.
**** off postmodernity!
You have more gods than men.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC