I dreamed a dog half ghost
of my childhood
I couldn't bear it when he died again
and awoke in tears
the empty eye,
and the other so deep
and gone
oh my love!
i loved you,
don't go...
don't go!
and the neighborhood walks
your wayward sons
what strange men we have become
seven shots of vodka in a line
never thought i'd be a sad drunk
reckless and stupid
the junkie's refrain:
there's no solace for me now
Thick as a winner to attend to the world
Ice as a winter grows steady unfurled
Orion suspended in the southwestern sky
the hunter hanging
his cry belies our alibi
before our eyes
that this be some worthsome night
when in fact
we jus
I call for a renaissance!
Let it ring out
through the psychic vibes
of these south-town nights!
We shall plant a garden again!
We will let harmonicas resound,
working at freedom
and walking around
carefree.
It's the call of the
magnificent crash of
frozen waterfalls
melting in an early spring.
We'll start fires again
near the river,
and invite all our friends
We'll practice Zen Karate
In parks at dusk
And sleep to Noon
fuck this shit
I'll tell you right now, and, believe me, I tell true
All of this shit is so vague
that it's not true
Because truth
requires some actuality
some verification
so, if you were to say
"yes, this is true"
and mean it
and believe what you say
then so it would be,
... for you.
If you agree with your friends
then the better for you.
Individuals' personal truths
are dubious;
And you'd be mad
not to see that this chair is green,
lest ye be blind, bet even then -
it's true.
amiright?
though there are those who'd say that science
and politics and religion too, are bullshit,
though the source of much truth they may
wwII destroyed the brilliance in humanity
though it may have been (roundabout) good for the proletariat (on account of life-death ratios in economic prosperity),
the genious was shattered at the carnage:
the old world was dead, just when all the reneiscence would flourish.
Oh, what could this new unknown have in store? - at least
none of what a (term for a nineteenth-century person, particularly of the intellectual caste)'s fantasy called for.
But,
The world never ends
and though humanity's rapid confusing shift
seems dark to the sensitive
the light
always
filters through
A Title (?): Poetic Happenstance
We'll be the anomolies in the system
the immortals in the wind
ascetic stylites
we'll dissemble ignorance
insuociantly and
our wave-function never collapse
------------------------------
The problem here is in the air
and most of this is true
a little inspiration can go a ways
for a tired, troubled youth
who loves the thought,
but gets mired in hopeless
lonesomeness.
The clarity is a revival
or a resurrection,
it's like riding the bus again
after a year of driving,
it's like a night with old friends
in the country, when the city's home
one can destroy their hope to cope
and find a
I woke up this morning
feeling like a perfectly sorted
microwave dinner - portioned
just right
into a rectangle.
-----------------------------------------------
I spent a significant portion
of my latter, more professional,
college career seven or eight stories up
in the southwest corner of Heller hall -
where they'd sequestered the philosophy
department, that eclectic bunch who adhered
to a discipline that disavowed scientific tools
and never really knew what it was or wasn't about.
My gaze would frequently shift to the world beyond
that west bank. They called it seven corners.
In my time I watched the trains zoom past
the
This is a short compilation that wrote itself; maybe it'll fit into something larger some day.
Anyway, enjoy:
I stumble up from my cellar nest, still drunk
to speak of the revolutions and have a cup, irish whisky -
Italian Style,
Oh how the russians drove out each invader
and burnt their own villages to spite an enemy
how peasants and injured nationalists
sought to consolidate their struggle
I stagger from my peopled abode
to seek work on Labor Day
------------------------------------------------------------
My own sorrow seems so pitiful, in comparison
Oh, what have I done,
how have I allowed her to run
I dreamed a dog half ghost
of my childhood
I couldn't bear it when he died again
and awoke in tears
the empty eye,
and the other so deep
and gone
oh my love!
i loved you,
don't go...
don't go!
and the neighborhood walks
your wayward sons
what strange men we have become
seven shots of vodka in a line
never thought i'd be a sad drunk
reckless and stupid
the junkie's refrain:
there's no solace for me now
Thick as a winner to attend to the world
Ice as a winter grows steady unfurled
Orion suspended in the southwestern sky
the hunter hanging
his cry belies our alibi
before our eyes
that this be some worthsome night
when in fact
we jus
I call for a renaissance!
Let it ring out
through the psychic vibes
of these south-town nights!
We shall plant a garden again!
We will let harmonicas resound,
working at freedom
and walking around
carefree.
It's the call of the
magnificent crash of
frozen waterfalls
melting in an early spring.
We'll start fires again
near the river,
and invite all our friends
We'll practice Zen Karate
In parks at dusk
And sleep to Noon
fuck this shit
I'll tell you right now, and, believe me, I tell true
All of this shit is so vague
that it's not true
Because truth
requires some actuality
some verification
so, if you were to say
"yes, this is true"
and mean it
and believe what you say
then so it would be,
... for you.
If you agree with your friends
then the better for you.
Individuals' personal truths
are dubious;
And you'd be mad
not to see that this chair is green,
lest ye be blind, bet even then -
it's true.
amiright?
though there are those who'd say that science
and politics and religion too, are bullshit,
though the source of much truth they may
wwII destroyed the brilliance in humanity
though it may have been (roundabout) good for the proletariat (on account of life-death ratios in economic prosperity),
the genious was shattered at the carnage:
the old world was dead, just when all the reneiscence would flourish.
Oh, what could this new unknown have in store? - at least
none of what a (term for a nineteenth-century person, particularly of the intellectual caste)'s fantasy called for.
But,
The world never ends
and though humanity's rapid confusing shift
seems dark to the sensitive
the light
always
filters through
A Title (?): Poetic Happenstance
We'll be the anomolies in the system
the immortals in the wind
ascetic stylites
we'll dissemble ignorance
insuociantly and
our wave-function never collapse
------------------------------
The problem here is in the air
and most of this is true
a little inspiration can go a ways
for a tired, troubled youth
who loves the thought,
but gets mired in hopeless
lonesomeness.
The clarity is a revival
or a resurrection,
it's like riding the bus again
after a year of driving,
it's like a night with old friends
in the country, when the city's home
one can destroy their hope to cope
and find a
I woke up this morning
feeling like a perfectly sorted
microwave dinner - portioned
just right
into a rectangle.
-----------------------------------------------
I spent a significant portion
of my latter, more professional,
college career seven or eight stories up
in the southwest corner of Heller hall -
where they'd sequestered the philosophy
department, that eclectic bunch who adhered
to a discipline that disavowed scientific tools
and never really knew what it was or wasn't about.
My gaze would frequently shift to the world beyond
that west bank. They called it seven corners.
In my time I watched the trains zoom past
the
This is a short compilation that wrote itself; maybe it'll fit into something larger some day.
Anyway, enjoy:
I stumble up from my cellar nest, still drunk
to speak of the revolutions and have a cup, irish whisky -
Italian Style,
Oh how the russians drove out each invader
and burnt their own villages to spite an enemy
how peasants and injured nationalists
sought to consolidate their struggle
I stagger from my peopled abode
to seek work on Labor Day
------------------------------------------------------------
My own sorrow seems so pitiful, in comparison
Oh, what have I done,
how have I allowed her to run
It was a light pink-skied July
as i sipped in the afternoon square
a man had arrived with a hat of wool hide
and music of cool summer air
i sipped as i watched
him stand as he plied
each note from the shade of the sky
and for every clink that fell in his sink
he sunk and gave bow, unquivering
try as i might
with my napkin in white
paper and ink and pale cream
i tried to write a poem that might
capture the sound of his strings
as i closed my eyes
for a moment to find
the word that hid from my reach
the music gave pause
and the man deeply bowed
and vanished,
the wake of a dream.
Leaves falling in Autumn
Hearts weeping in the gale
A world so divine lays far away
The soul seeks it many times
Though Heaven turns it's head
No being alive can see the azure eyes
Tears cover the sweet sight
The struggle may go on
Little is gained from longing thought
All is a shadow in the moving sky
So men watch with many tears
One more song echoes in the cold air
Only spirits go to a divine world
Leaves dying in the sunset
Hearts singing in the Angel's rain
When Everything Met No One by EmaciatedandEpitaphs, literature
Literature
When Everything Met No One
I wasn't waiting for much. I kicked the dirt and chewed my lip, I may have even paused, but I wouldn't wait for nothing or no one.
And the clarity comes in sparse fragments. Cursed to glimpse the grin of an ever-grinning ghost. Those taffy lips tensing muscle beneath sweet, sweet moisture.
I dream when I don't notice I'm sleeping.
With all the little pieces, unattainable moments clogging my consciousness with vivid detail.
"oh here you go, you can have this"
First it was raven hair, insomnia, and poetry. He was eternal and affable, mutating my molecules with discrete immensity; influence rerouting neurons. And then there was the e
Mighty but brief epic of a poltergeist by Adonael, literature
Literature
Mighty but brief epic of a poltergeist
They call it the green mile...
Except for the sapphires hanging
By
The
Tips
Of
My
Tear
Ducts...
From feeling more...blue.
It was less verdant still when the switch flicked, hearing tinnitus,
Deathly white;
Dusk dive-bombing.
...The next thing I remember
Is a crystal-clear Casper hue;
no passing through concrete, removing my head.
Possession so pointless for people already (Transparent) instead.
And I inhale a breath of...
...void
...doom
...smelling traces of dysfunctional dizziness,
Spices, communion bread
Then I ascended to a kitchen,
To flatmates and families flipping pancakes by belligerent kettles,
Weeping
I had never sustained a feeling of anger for so long
that it threatened to make disintegrate
my natural order; so oversensitive to criticism
and apt to take it personally. I know, you're trying to help me
and I'm sure, it's in my best
and vested interests. I can't help but give a fuck;
I still believe there's a real and noble purpose
to our enterprise that doesn't go together
so long as you're standing over me.
I can't support my words, can't make heard my laughs,
can't say what I mean with charm, can't make you
fall in love with the paper version of me
as well as I can carry out your orders
with eagerness and flourishes. At leas
In this life, it seems, I am in between
Phases of happiness and depression.
What I'm to do next remains to be seen.
I used to be pent up wish aggression,
But now I lay in bed under covers.
Not willing to make any progression.
Oh how I envy all of the lovers,
Who frolic, together, so happily.
While I'm left alone to deal with mothers.
It seems that I'm dissolving rapidly,
From my own overwhelming doubtfulness,
But I refuse to go out affably.
This joy, this pain I'm planning to harness.
So, finally, my own soul I can clean.
*Sigh* maybe this is absentmindedness.
Sometimes, you know, I don't know what I mean.
Nothing really matte
A sprouting youth, not tall, but strong,
A-quandered in a meadow:
"If certainties are so unsure,
And unknown things so endless, surely
Naught can be but mystery,
And purpose but an obsolete
nd silly proposition, which,
If thought much on shall only itch
An itch which really can't exist,
Since all is but a shadow."
"Of what?" inquired a certain man,
Grey with age and wisdom.
"The ground whereon you sit right now
Bears your weight and mine--so how,
If all is naught, and aught is null,
Is this a fairy-tale pull
Which binds us to the world's crust?
Tell, me this, for know I must--
If life's not real, then what's the fuss?
Where
My friend. My ally. Eunoia, fluent like water.
Liquid language with no deictic tokens
Susceptible to so-called mortem decoram, graceful death
Of a branded page spoken with weightless syllables
Weighted down by decrepit globalisation of a singular annoyance
Weightless syllables carried by your soothing voice
6000 to be exact soon fading out to 500 silence
Speak to me
Speak to me with your first voice, your first sound
Floating unbound through the labyrinthum temporis
Half dead between books and the endeavours of academics
With cap n gowns that are never thrown into the air
Like waterfalls made of ye old words
My friend. My
it seems that each creation should be givin it's own page
(I want it to be about 50 pages long
and I want it to sell like hot-cakes on the Canadien market)
let the therapy ensue,,,,
baron, put on the rythm,,, please
with ease he said as he got in the way
of the ones whose problem was
simply that they could not stay
in the place of their births
the right was not theirs
not here
and not there
#
but I swear
we took damn long enough
getting to this crossroads
just so I could see you walking away
would I wave?
Hell no.
(but if you came back): Hello.
how did the old song sound
in the great halls of true purpose
without systemi
A lot of the poets round here have probably never read pound or catullus, but then i can't much read stein or castenado or angelou, (&c., &c.)
And perhaps I've not read you.
I've not been reading much these days, on account of selling a lot of my time
(for cheap)
and i fear it dulls my pen.
working all the time is stupid.
But this website is kind of fun,
so feel free to leave whatever random message or comment,
oh most anonymous internet reader,
which may or may not be responded to
in any sort of manner.
at 3 in the morning
there's still the taste of coffee
in my mouth
there's too much beautiful angst
and too many lovely sad songs
in this world for me to be much of an academic
I suppose I'll just go to class tired
and tell my professor the truth
that I didn't read it, hope my thoughts
are worthy still of that diploma.
I'd love to live in academia (to be
and academian nut (ha ha)) but
I'm not always sure I've got the chops
so I sing instead, but not loudly
yet