heart break her life through a vase divide
she must love wounds when she's no one's mine
to smash to split her cryptic circulation
pulmonary artery for timeless respiration
the objective case of she
with the possessive case of me
takes two former notes of we
for what makes her heartstrings tug
is the hurting notion of love
who is now what where could she when
why does her heart break forces gain?
you're my cigarette,
lit then left to burn to the filter.
i never saw the ignition
only dreamed of smoking.
now i dream in colors and sounds
without a hint of definition
and i'm drawn to touch
you, your perfectly presented petrified ash body
and though you can't speak of it
i know you want me to take a drag.
it's a ruse, though
not a child's costume but
a child in a costume.
you burned bright, once,
and we're past the point of caring that you're cancer
because i'm a leo.
because you told me so.
maybe not with words, though.
so i buy my own smokes and i burn one down
running through the flesh, from ounces to pounds
and i can't quite hear the voice, lost in the background
telling me each cigarette is a bridge and i'm being run out of town
In the saddest Third Age dreams, when the pulsing Scarlet Queen could embrace her crush in ecstasy, the primal Dragon Ebony, their thrashing dance spawned like a birth and the Middle Kingdom was unearthed: the subtle balance of her thriving lifeblood and the chilling absence that is his marked signature. But the very stewards of that new place, The mighty Wan Xian, heaven pledged celestial caretakers, mad with power and purpose lost, shed needless blood upon the ground and fill the air with poison ashes, in their struggles with one another, defiling their once sacred space, lording over stone and wood. Thus they fall, the stars walling them out, trapping them amidst the ruin of their hand. In the chaos some turn dark, debasing themselves in shadows, eating flesh and letting their blood flow sluggish black. Others run wild, the red blood burning through their veins, touching, kissing, penetrating and destroying in a frenzy to feed the hunger that will not end. But not Xue, who knew the world to be a gift and tempered his passions so that he might study it, finding a way for balance to exist. It is then he saw the centipede, with all hundred legs in harmony. In each segment a heart beats independently, sets of legs paired separately, yet the creature acts in unity. Thus the Thousand Whisper Path was born, for Xue understood how a succession of individual lives could be lived together, functioning as one that would endure forever.
Send me a sign,
While I wait in the rain;
Send a dream, send some love
While I wait here in vain
Roll down past the shops
Filled peddler priests,
All selling an answer,
A feeling; oblique?
But nothing is free
in this world full of lead
All the cash in the world,
Can it quiet your dead?
So send me to heaven
I'll wait in the door
Buy some love, buy some time
Let your god be your whore
He'll wait for you there,
And he'll be what you need
And your Peter Pan love
It'll mend where you bleed.
Oh but life, it's so long
When you're waiting to die,
Take a breath here my dear
'For you run to the sky.
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My at-a-glance 'isms': (in no particular order)
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
a. Singularitarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
and they say God is dead!
I could've sworn I was at his
funeral just last week the birds
were overhead the doves
wouldn't stop singing I am
cynical as a rainbow and now
there is a tint of purple in the
sky when the doves and
everyone's heart stopped singing
---
Short little poem, inspired by seeing aspirnietzche's name, thinking of Nietzsche, and wanting to use the phrase "God is dead" in the opening line for a poem.
An inchoate veneer: a
diary that seals your lips
but not your eyes, they
beckon childishly and with
abandon, forcing me to
stupor, pinning me against
my mattress in a state of
paralytic craving, and fervor.
All your thoughts are
locked within the binding
of that book; my curiosity has
overwhelmed me, and I peruse
the only thing that's left to me,
seek to understand the light I
see reflecting from your eyes,
the light that glances off a
boiling water.
The lycanthropes are wishing For a sphere to point their snouts at. But the shooting stars hide in the dark; Their hopes are lost in orbit. On a chilly beach the tides are crying, Off their leash and fastly rising, And lost, the moths Are courting with the Locusts.
The eclipse is now forgotten art. A shadow of a shadow. As the phases fade and phase away, The clouds are shapeless, Lying tamed, refusing rain, Though in the day they yet are lazy, Hanging low, amazing children, Now, at night, They do not blanket Luna, Now, they sleep.
The antlered of the forest, Free of arrows for the moment, Drink from waters, vastly flooded, Whilst the hunters curse And miss their marks, But even more, They miss her touch – The guidance of the Huntress. Lost without her in the darkness.
i am a great adventurer
to search the wilds and catch the fever
grab a net, find the beavers
[you know I'm searching]
binoculars point to the low half of the sun
the land's fences come slowly undone
we mow the grass together
to get the best crops
[it's fun!]
speaking of geography,
it's dependent on topography:
South America has the melons,
but Japan has the petite ones.
bananas from South America,
but I prefer the fruits that're fairer.
[It's really up to preference.]
but when you choose the fruit you love,
make sure it's what you want:
adventurers' itchy regrets
are too numerous to count.
[but they couldn't stop, could they?]
Beware the balloon animals,
as they sometimes pop and fail:
one day mischievous pranksters
ran through them all with nails.
[there were more babies then]
I don't know if you know
but I'll pretend you can't
calm down and be less anxious
we don't appreciate your tact
shut up and zip your trap
we've got some grown-up work to do
mom and dad are fighting,
and the workbench lost a screw
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
It’s been raining for the past seven months
I haven’t seen a single flash of sun
Peeking through the endless greys, inlaid with
Charcoaled snow and colors dun and faded.
Water rises, constantly, fervishly,
Sinking every floor, true Atlantis below.
My memories drowned with the family.
Wilderness is abound, no one to know.
I climb eternally for my own sake
Otherwise I die a poisonous fate
For this I pray to the heavens above
To wish for its guidance and good fortune
I climb eternal, forever more.
I climb eternal, forever more.
Is it not simple truth?
That we were meant for greater things?
Or do you need simple proof
Do I need to give you rings?
Isn’t our love a simple matter?
Of trying and crying and living?
Don’t we like to pitter-patter?
And enjoy this act of giving?
Are we not lovers?
Shouldn’t we be as crazy as any other couple?
Don’t we like to play under the covers?
And don’t we like everything sweet and supple?
Don’t you think I love you like no other?
Do you remember all the things I would do for you?
Should I never try to bother?
Or are you still in love with me too?
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MTGS: You guys do not speak for the wider Magic community despite what you guys think.
708th at Grand Prix: Toronto 2013
Modern: U/R Delver, RUG Scapeshift, Pod
Standard: Jeskai Tempo
Legacy: Dredge, Burn
Pauper: Mono-U Delver
EDH: Ghave, Token Master
All is silent as I stand in these white plains,
Calmness surrounds me yet my mind rages,
I know not why I am here,
I know not who I am,
I know not who you are.
Regret the bane of decisiveness,
Whether to stay or leave I can not decide,
Man always searching for the answer,
Not caring where it comes from,
Is this where religon is derived?
These are my thoughts,
They float about my mind,
Just as the snow falls to these white plains.
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Avatar by Xenoninja thanks a ton. Sig by me(Last Updated: 11/17/12) Realm of the Bug, the best shop for awesome sigs and avatars. Come here to come support our weekly banner contests, and voice your opinion on any of the work there
Somewhere in the dark it screamed,
And reared it massive jaw.
The jester in the corner looked
Towards it's open maw.
And sitting in the corner,
You were looking pretty dazed,
Clutching at the looking glass;
Myopicaly you gazed.
Now rising to your feet it seems,
You'll bring the giant down,
But then you look inside yourself,
And suddenly you drown,
And when the jester plays a tune,
You give a weary yell,
And plunge a knife into your heart,
To kill it wear it dwell.
And somewhere in the dark in you,
The monster slowly dies.
A sum of all the aching years,
And unfulfilling tries.
And when you bend up with the toil,
The jester stands and cheers,
You take a final ragged breath,
And shrug off all your fears.
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My at-a-glance 'isms': (in no particular order)
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
a. Singularitarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
The gyre turning leaks its' caring,
letters lost and chatter blaring.
The birds have gone for some time now:
They were back once, they were allowed
To leave or stay as they so chose:
Why decide when in repose?
It's coming, now, a wild sort
Of new: things fall apart, the warts,
Once hidden by the beauty, show
True through facades and rhetoric's flow.
Surely some revelation is at hand:
Surely the Coming is at hand.
The coming! But why,
with all these words and figures,
would we watch the skies for our new sight,
when looking at the ground produces much the same effect:
a vast image from places unknown colors my sight and I cannot stop to watch:
a gaze, black and pitiless as the sun,
is staring at me through everything I see,
and a sphinx rising out of the grounds of Egypt
with stone-worn face and grim features
seems to be staring at me with intentions
of a most malevolent sort:
I cannot concentrate to rebuke:
The darkness drops again, but now I know
that, were it ever to be lifted,
I would prefer to stay in darkness so.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
We talked much but said little
she on her pedestal and I
somewhere far away watching her
drawing tiny hearts in the sand
with a woody stick two stars crossing
in front of each other each blinded by the other's
light; I once thought it was enough to be loved
damn the timing. It was enough to be loved.
For I have been loved a few times before,
and I took from each
a small satisfaction.
Damn the timing.
Look at the card. Now back to Jace. Now back to that card, now back to Jace! Sadly, it isn't Jace, but if it stopped being a junk rare and became relevant, it could act like it's Jace. Crack some Worldwake. What do you have? You have a Jace, the card you wish this card could be like. Look again. THE CARD IS NOW A $75 BILL. Anything possible when you play Magic with Jace and not junk rares. This is probably spam.
funny, I think of death and
love and dying only when I'm
in it.
ii.
there is one way to be
miserable I've found
sure you have to hate and
spite and bitter your
fingernails but most importantly, most
equivocally you need to be
passionate. Passion is the stuff of windows
and roses, occasionally daisies which
together are beautiful like a metaphor for
admiration. Who needs windows when
anyway there's enough torn paper for a view
of a heart with just enough left to hold a
love poem? I am not beautiful
like a poem is beautiful but
frailer with a passion for
sighing.
iii.
now I'm sitting beside an unfinished
poem, crying. I bring my hand from my
coat pocket and touch my face in an effort
to recreate something that I swear wasn't
love, not exactly.
‘Why?’ she asked, her face aghast, Her arms slung tightly ‘cross her chest. ‘I cannot say,’ I said, a lie, With lowered eyes (and lower pride). ‘But know I’d tell you If I could!’ She trembled, shook, and stepping back, Shrugged off my touch, and as she should, Gave me a slap. Her bitter laugh, then, ‘Is there nothing true in you?’ Her words accused, her face a mask Of anger dashing agony, Fed up with me, my falsities, And cursing loud the day we met, She wheeled around And promptly left.
He who sleeps never dies but dreams of death.
Those days when his eyes are awake, he cries
Shedding neither tears nor wails but nightmares,
Thoughts of unrest strung over iron grips,
Their pull, fastened like anchors upon ships
Of violent dreams, where no peace lies in rest
As the echoes of his mother's contempt,
Her words of demoralization, scar
Him of his incompetence, his failures,
To feed, to pay, to work, all for himself,
Letting him know that he's one with nothing
For she owns him, on leash, on collar, on rock,
Keeping him here for fear he would not care,
Never realizing that his fault was hers
A mistake where only he pays the price
To his future's end, his life's unmaking.
But to his dreams, he lives upon those tears,
Crying, weeping what waters his eyes shed,
To the comforts of solitude, he rests
His head under the arms of his angels
Who tell him that here he lies in safety,
No sympathy ever so genuine
Than what belies from his memories virtues,
Remnants of times when summer days were long
Moments when he knew nothing not his mind
Nor wisdom shed for his heart's own sense,
On empty cities where no person lives
To shores of clouds of gazing slumped smokestacks
Lazily, malfunct, but existing there
A testimony to what years have passed.
These are the worlds, the makeshift beds he sleeps,
Alone, but at peace, God of small children.
And while he locks his mind from trouble's reach,
Reality gnaws, bit by bit her teeth,
Devouring what little lies beneath
His soul, a ragged cloth made of torn sheets.
To what words that stab at the wounds of thought,
They fester the more he helplessly thinks,
Unable to forget the fallacies
Of the saints and common men who wrong him,
For these people know not what woes he face,
What lies over those borders he crosses,
Mediating justice with his right hand,
While struggling to bear what's on his left.
His mind makes the canvas not of his own,
But an autonomy of automatons,
Illusions of men, women, and children,
Societies that lie grounded upon rules,
So real yet so cryptic to comprehend,
A second life which sympathy commands
For him to make reasons to understand
Even if these beings fail to bend,
For no paragon of supererogation
Succeeds so great which could pass his station.
He exemplifies his duty, in dreams
To which no one will ever know his deeds,
Only seeing that he is just a sloth,
A poor man's beggar spending days for sleep,
And a spirit that ought be punished so
For crimes he had never did commit.
And while he slays dragons and buffers beasts
Past his dreams he fights words of misplaced scorn,
To battles on end, his curse haunts his grave,
That to this case, there is no blame to death,
No frown to narcolept if he chose to
Sleep--forever, and ever on end. Yet,
Even if the morrow, her words so true,
Guarantees no safety, promising none
That for all the hope, salvation, and joy,
Emptiness, insured, is what would remain,
He who sleeps still yet slumbers on forward
For he never does bleed, but only rests,
And he never does weep, but only sleeps,
And he never does die, but dreams of death.
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Heed well the merry supplicant,
Mark of his knee so kindly bent,
His words as soft as feather fall,
Augment a frame and structure small.
Begs he the lord of happenstance,
Of rags and love and opulence.
A future found so fortunate,
A beacon lit as scintillant.
Yet dark the clouds of future sight,
Black mantle of the ever night.
To keep a view but dark despair,
The man of men one must declare.
My Custom Set: Solescurio
heart break her life through a vase divide
she must love wounds when she's no one's mine
to smash to split her cryptic circulation
pulmonary artery for timeless respiration
the objective case of she
with the possessive case of me
takes two former notes of we
for what makes her heartstrings tug
is the hurting notion of love
who is now what where could she when
why does her heart break forces gain?
you're my cigarette,
lit then left to burn to the filter.
i never saw the ignition
only dreamed of smoking.
now i dream in colors and sounds
without a hint of definition
and i'm drawn to touch
you, your perfectly presented petrified ash body
and though you can't speak of it
i know you want me to take a drag.
it's a ruse, though
not a child's costume but
a child in a costume.
you burned bright, once,
and we're past the point of caring that you're cancer
because i'm a leo.
because you told me so.
maybe not with words, though.
so i buy my own smokes and i burn one down
running through the flesh, from ounces to pounds
and i can't quite hear the voice, lost in the background
telling me each cigarette is a bridge and i'm being run out of town
GWU Bant Manifest - The Future Is Here. Or it will be at the end of turn. GWU
In the saddest Third Age dreams, when the pulsing Scarlet Queen
could embrace her crush in ecstasy,
the primal Dragon Ebony,
their thrashing dance spawned like a birth and the Middle Kingdom
was unearthed: the subtle balance
of her thriving lifeblood and the chilling absence that is his marked signature.
But the very stewards of that new place,
The mighty Wan Xian,
heaven pledged celestial caretakers, mad with power and purpose lost,
shed needless blood upon the ground and fill the air with poison ashes,
in their struggles with one another, defiling their once sacred space, lording over
stone and wood.
Thus they fall, the stars walling them out, trapping them amidst the ruin
of their hand. In the chaos some turn dark, debasing themselves in shadows, eating
flesh and letting their blood flow sluggish black.
Others run wild, the red blood burning through their veins, touching, kissing,
penetrating and destroying in a frenzy to feed the hunger that will not end.
But not Xue,
who knew the world to be a gift
and tempered his passions so that he might study it,
finding a way for balance to exist.
It is then he saw the centipede, with all hundred legs in harmony.
In each segment a heart beats independently, sets of legs paired separately,
yet the creature acts in unity.
Thus the Thousand Whisper Path was born, for Xue understood how a succession of
individual lives could be lived together,
functioning as one that would endure forever.
[Clan Flamingo]
While I wait in the rain;
Send a dream, send some love
While I wait here in vain
Roll down past the shops
Filled peddler priests,
All selling an answer,
A feeling; oblique?
But nothing is free
in this world full of lead
All the cash in the world,
Can it quiet your dead?
So send me to heaven
I'll wait in the door
Buy some love, buy some time
Let your god be your whore
He'll wait for you there,
And he'll be what you need
And your Peter Pan love
It'll mend where you bleed.
Oh but life, it's so long
When you're waiting to die,
Take a breath here my dear
'For you run to the sky.
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
4. Existentialism
5. Intellectualism
6. Atheism
7. Realism
b. philosophic
c. contructive
9. Egalitarianism
b. feminism
11. Liberal conservatism
12. Anti-consumerism
13. Reductionism
and they say God is dead!
I could've sworn I was at his
funeral just last week the birds
were overhead the doves
wouldn't stop singing I am
cynical as a rainbow and now
there is a tint of purple in the
sky when the doves and
everyone's heart stopped singing
---
Short little poem, inspired by seeing aspirnietzche's name, thinking of Nietzsche, and wanting to use the phrase "God is dead" in the opening line for a poem.
An inchoate veneer: a
diary that seals your lips
but not your eyes, they
beckon childishly and with
abandon, forcing me to
stupor, pinning me against
my mattress in a state of
paralytic craving, and fervor.
All your thoughts are
locked within the binding
of that book; my curiosity has
overwhelmed me, and I peruse
the only thing that's left to me,
seek to understand the light I
see reflecting from your eyes,
the light that glances off a
boiling water.
A/N: Very personal...
Round 80 is open until February 21th or until 10 poems.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
The lycanthropes are wishing
For a sphere to point their snouts at.
But the shooting stars hide in the dark;
Their hopes are lost in orbit.
On a chilly beach the tides are crying,
Off their leash and fastly rising,
And lost, the moths
Are courting with the
Locusts.
The eclipse is now forgotten art.
A shadow of a shadow.
As the phases fade and phase away,
The clouds are shapeless,
Lying tamed, refusing rain,
Though in the day they yet are lazy,
Hanging low, amazing children,
Now, at night,
They do not blanket Luna,
Now, they sleep.
The antlered of the forest,
Free of arrows for the moment,
Drink from waters, vastly flooded,
Whilst the hunters curse
And miss their marks,
But even more,
They miss her touch –
The guidance of the Huntress.
Lost without her in the darkness.
They would
Give a hundred suns for her return.
I came from FatherSouth
With hands and a mouth
Cave painting and all the such
A huge banana fruit
It is the otherworld
A tale no one will tell
A fate shared by few
It is what I have sown
Green lands that Father sought
Are here with a doubt
You know, there are many more
Until we fail to explore.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
i am a great adventurer
to search the wilds and catch the fever
grab a net, find the beavers
[you know I'm searching]
binoculars point to the low half of the sun
the land's fences come slowly undone
we mow the grass together
to get the best crops
[it's fun!]
speaking of geography,
it's dependent on topography:
South America has the melons,
but Japan has the petite ones.
bananas from South America,
but I prefer the fruits that're fairer.
[It's really up to preference.]
but when you choose the fruit you love,
make sure it's what you want:
adventurers' itchy regrets
are too numerous to count.
[but they couldn't stop, could they?]
Beware the balloon animals,
as they sometimes pop and fail:
one day mischievous pranksters
ran through them all with nails.
[there were more babies then]
I don't know if you know
but I'll pretend you can't
calm down and be less anxious
we don't appreciate your tact
shut up and zip your trap
we've got some grown-up work to do
mom and dad are fighting,
and the workbench lost a screw
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
The Climber’s Prayer
It’s been raining for the past seven months
I haven’t seen a single flash of sun
Peeking through the endless greys, inlaid with
Charcoaled snow and colors dun and faded.
Water rises, constantly, fervishly,
Sinking every floor, true Atlantis below.
My memories drowned with the family.
Wilderness is abound, no one to know.
I climb eternally for my own sake
Otherwise I die a poisonous fate
For this I pray to the heavens above
To wish for its guidance and good fortune
I climb eternal, forever more.
I climb eternal, forever more.
Is it not simple truth?
That we were meant for greater things?
Or do you need simple proof
Do I need to give you rings?
Isn’t our love a simple matter?
Of trying and crying and living?
Don’t we like to pitter-patter?
And enjoy this act of giving?
Are we not lovers?
Shouldn’t we be as crazy as any other couple?
Don’t we like to play under the covers?
And don’t we like everything sweet and supple?
Don’t you think I love you like no other?
Do you remember all the things I would do for you?
Should I never try to bother?
Or are you still in love with me too?
708th at Grand Prix: Toronto 2013
Modern: U/R Delver, RUG Scapeshift, Pod
Standard: Jeskai Tempo
Legacy: Dredge, Burn
Pauper: Mono-U Delver
EDH: Ghave, Token Master
pleasing on the eyes
and clever with the keys
how your vision goes down
south
as you induce these words
and really live my life
so you might find it depressing
when it's time for confessing
she's bound for rejecting
the boldest man on earth
take it all in stride
there's bound for more to read
but no way could i?
would i?
should i?
make this a love poem
when there's nothing more to say
time moved on
and surely you can't stay
(so here's my touch of grace)
i had said too much
but meant so little
and here my hopes are not
dashed in vain
for i've kept you entertained
(alas i must bid thee farewell.)
Blades of light call screaming thunder,
Flesh of night rent far asunder,
Weeping wardens cannot forfend,
Heaven's wrath, the vicious end.
This phantom in my mind does play,
Despite the warmth of sunlight's day.
How bright his chariot does ride,
To mock the wretched world inside!
The blissful day compounds my pain,
This plague of soul I try contain.
So grim the fate I fear should night,
Surmount my mind and shift my light.
My Custom Set: Solescurio
All is silent as I stand in these white plains,
Calmness surrounds me yet my mind rages,
I know not why I am here,
I know not who I am,
I know not who you are.
Regret the bane of decisiveness,
Whether to stay or leave I can not decide,
Man always searching for the answer,
Not caring where it comes from,
Is this where religon is derived?
These are my thoughts,
They float about my mind,
Just as the snow falls to these white plains.
Avatar by Xenoninja thanks a ton. Sig by me(Last Updated: 11/17/12)
Realm of the Bug, the best shop for awesome sigs and avatars.
Come here to come support our weekly banner contests, and voice your opinion on any of the work there
And reared it massive jaw.
The jester in the corner looked
Towards it's open maw.
And sitting in the corner,
You were looking pretty dazed,
Clutching at the looking glass;
Myopicaly you gazed.
Now rising to your feet it seems,
You'll bring the giant down,
But then you look inside yourself,
And suddenly you drown,
And when the jester plays a tune,
You give a weary yell,
And plunge a knife into your heart,
To kill it wear it dwell.
And somewhere in the dark in you,
The monster slowly dies.
A sum of all the aching years,
And unfulfilling tries.
And when you bend up with the toil,
The jester stands and cheers,
You take a final ragged breath,
And shrug off all your fears.
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
4. Existentialism
5. Intellectualism
6. Atheism
7. Realism
b. philosophic
c. contructive
9. Egalitarianism
b. feminism
11. Liberal conservatism
12. Anti-consumerism
13. Reductionism
Round 81 starts from today until February 26th or until 10 poems, counting Aspirinetzche's last entry.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Coming
The gyre turning leaks its' caring,
letters lost and chatter blaring.
The birds have gone for some time now:
They were back once, they were allowed
To leave or stay as they so chose:
Why decide when in repose?
It's coming, now, a wild sort
Of new: things fall apart, the warts,
Once hidden by the beauty, show
True through facades and rhetoric's flow.
Surely some revelation is at hand:
Surely the Coming is at hand.
The coming! But why,
with all these words and figures,
would we watch the skies for our new sight,
when looking at the ground produces much the same effect:
a vast image from places unknown colors my sight and I cannot stop to watch:
a gaze, black and pitiless as the sun,
is staring at me through everything I see,
and a sphinx rising out of the grounds of Egypt
with stone-worn face and grim features
seems to be staring at me with intentions
of a most malevolent sort:
I cannot concentrate to rebuke:
The darkness drops again, but now I know
that, were it ever to be lifted,
I would prefer to stay in darkness so.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
In this old brechó
I try a variety of clothes
From heavy coats to light echarpes
The strange parkas and the naughty jeans
I'm tired, so deadly tired
Of having to wear the same cerecloth
Every day of the year.
I'm going to take a break this month
Maybe tonight I'll wear the costume
That resembles a blue djinn
A blink of the eye in the edge of a dagger
Not bad at all for an Alladin.
And the formal suit
It suits me at least
Should I go search for Belle
Incarnating this beast?
I prefer the tender green
Costumes of Peter Pan
I'm not able to fly
Where is Tinkerbell?
(If you think you're small enough
come try the leaves' smell)
The old brechó is really out-of-fashion
And it's where my story begins
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
We talked much but said little
she on her pedestal and I
somewhere far away watching her
drawing tiny hearts in the sand
with a woody stick two stars crossing
in front of each other each blinded by the other's
light; I once thought it was enough to be loved
damn the timing. It was enough to be loved.
For I have been loved a few times before,
and I took from each
a small satisfaction.
Damn the timing.
A/N: Still pretty personal...
Follow Your Dreams to Utopia
I have reached the end
This place so arcane
And I will transcend
Beyond life's mundane
So sit here with me
My world without time
Where peace is decreed
Life seems so sublime
And in this rapture
Without tragedy
We seek to capture
Life's twisted travesty
Soon the colors run,
These Horizons break
Shattered by the sun
And then I'm awake
URURxUR
UWUWxUW
i.
funny, I think of death and
love and dying only when I'm
in it.
ii.
there is one way to be
miserable I've found
sure you have to hate and
spite and bitter your
fingernails but most importantly, most
equivocally you need to be
passionate. Passion is the stuff of windows
and roses, occasionally daisies which
together are beautiful like a metaphor for
admiration. Who needs windows when
anyway there's enough torn paper for a view
of a heart with just enough left to hold a
love poem? I am not beautiful
like a poem is beautiful but
frailer with a passion for
sighing.
iii.
now I'm sitting beside an unfinished
poem, crying. I bring my hand from my
coat pocket and touch my face in an effort
to recreate something that I swear wasn't
love, not exactly.
---
Yeah, go ahead and laugh.
/sigh.
‘Why?’ she asked, her face aghast,
Her arms slung tightly ‘cross her chest.
‘I cannot say,’ I said, a lie,
With lowered eyes (and lower pride).
‘But know I’d tell you If I could!’
She trembled, shook, and stepping back,
Shrugged off my touch, and as she should,
Gave me a slap.
Her bitter laugh, then,
‘Is there nothing true in you?’
Her words accused, her face a mask
Of anger dashing agony,
Fed up with me, my falsities,
And cursing loud the day we met,
She wheeled around
And promptly left.
Those days when his eyes are awake, he cries
Shedding neither tears nor wails but nightmares,
Thoughts of unrest strung over iron grips,
Their pull, fastened like anchors upon ships
Of violent dreams, where no peace lies in rest
As the echoes of his mother's contempt,
Her words of demoralization, scar
Him of his incompetence, his failures,
To feed, to pay, to work, all for himself,
Letting him know that he's one with nothing
For she owns him, on leash, on collar, on rock,
Keeping him here for fear he would not care,
Never realizing that his fault was hers
A mistake where only he pays the price
To his future's end, his life's unmaking.
But to his dreams, he lives upon those tears,
Crying, weeping what waters his eyes shed,
To the comforts of solitude, he rests
His head under the arms of his angels
Who tell him that here he lies in safety,
No sympathy ever so genuine
Than what belies from his memories virtues,
Remnants of times when summer days were long
Moments when he knew nothing not his mind
Nor wisdom shed for his heart's own sense,
On empty cities where no person lives
To shores of clouds of gazing slumped smokestacks
Lazily, malfunct, but existing there
A testimony to what years have passed.
These are the worlds, the makeshift beds he sleeps,
Alone, but at peace, God of small children.
And while he locks his mind from trouble's reach,
Reality gnaws, bit by bit her teeth,
Devouring what little lies beneath
His soul, a ragged cloth made of torn sheets.
To what words that stab at the wounds of thought,
They fester the more he helplessly thinks,
Unable to forget the fallacies
Of the saints and common men who wrong him,
For these people know not what woes he face,
What lies over those borders he crosses,
Mediating justice with his right hand,
While struggling to bear what's on his left.
His mind makes the canvas not of his own,
But an autonomy of automatons,
Illusions of men, women, and children,
Societies that lie grounded upon rules,
So real yet so cryptic to comprehend,
A second life which sympathy commands
For him to make reasons to understand
Even if these beings fail to bend,
For no paragon of supererogation
Succeeds so great which could pass his station.
He exemplifies his duty, in dreams
To which no one will ever know his deeds,
Only seeing that he is just a sloth,
A poor man's beggar spending days for sleep,
And a spirit that ought be punished so
For crimes he had never did commit.
And while he slays dragons and buffers beasts
Past his dreams he fights words of misplaced scorn,
To battles on end, his curse haunts his grave,
That to this case, there is no blame to death,
No frown to narcolept if he chose to
Sleep--forever, and ever on end. Yet,
Even if the morrow, her words so true,
Guarantees no safety, promising none
That for all the hope, salvation, and joy,
Emptiness, insured, is what would remain,
He who sleeps still yet slumbers on forward
For he never does bleed, but only rests,
And he never does weep, but only sleeps,
And he never does die, but dreams of death.