My apologies for the week without entries, I suppose I should've mentioned I was taking a break from writing for this over finals week. Don't worry, though, I made sure to waste away the time I set aside studying by playing Dungeons & Dragons and just, in general, jacking off. Right now, I'm in no mood to write, either, but I feel obligated to put something up. So, here's a poem of mine I wrote that I feel pretty good about. Granted, I understand this isn't, typically, my forum for poetry, but, eh, it's better than nothing?
"I sleep not satisfied with the kiss of a lover or the kind words of a mother,
so pray that I find rest in the restless isolation that I find myself possessed by."
Where what that has been meets it all and all it met in the time that it takes to travel is too much like only a little,
my disquieted disgruntlement is only a deluge of distaste from the deranged dastardly deeds performed so oft and so frequently by denizens of lower life and drowning seas of blood and drained souls,
what may be where you last saw me laugh and smile is too little and too late to help avoid the fate of fading into vain glory and the haze of memory behind so much frowning and an avalanche of human sewage,
my time is spent biding hours on hours after recovery from the shock of the realisation of what I am and where I am going and where I come from and where I want to be in the next few weeks before the years preceeding my uneventful but inevitable end,
when what is where it all must be and all goes back to where it was at first and where it all belongs and ends up at anyway.
Who is where what it is that seeks to be to all that is found when it is where it ought to stand,
the laughter of the children rises crystal above the cement glass high rises scraping the smoggy cieling built as the greatest most proud and arrogant prizes of a race so full of bleak and dim surprises,
how we get to where what that is who and when is troubling therefore I find it hard to see the end to all that is where it has been meant,
maniacal and malicious are the zealots of our religious towers that tear open the black clouds floating ominious like an omen of misfortune warning us of our wrongful plagues on nature and brothers and the heavens,
from where we came and when we get to what that is where we are meant to be is only a tricky question so much so that when we see where it lies below our eyes and above our heads like eagles soaring swooping catching in her talons the meat of prey I think that we will no longer be where we are today.
What that is to say who or that something so escaping fleeting from our vision we are trying to seek out in the jungle of black death and disease is only that which what we are made from from the start,
I bet you do not know what it is that I may think or feel or see or hear in my head that tells me of my heart and soul that we have titled God in our own time and in other times another name is given,
who that is is a man or woman a baby or crucified brother does not matter in the event of actual acquaintance with the majesty of he who can not be named or identified in our lifetimes forever when we still are who we are today,
the preacher preaches as the buddhist teaches like the speeches of the hindu or the prayer of the monk dwellers of solitary monostaries they are all the same I say to thee to thou to you or he or she,
to where you are going is only a query I present with worry not anger or contempt but if you do not answer me I am not offended for many of us do not know who or what we seek wherever we may choose to go and how we get there sometimes we do not even know ourselves after we are arrived.
How it is that what we find where we go is always satisfactory and accepted is a conundrum I can not solve myself and others have tried before me they have failed just the same as I and Socrates and Descartes or Faulkner and many others I can not name or were never given one,
like sand on the beach or oxygen in the air there will always be something to be felt all around us and there is more I say I say there is something unseen and untasted like a bland odor without body or texture,
what it may be is too much too little too late and complicated for anyone to devulge the name for when we are where we have to be in order to know we are far from where we started and can not give back to those left behind in the journey,
a man is holding the hand of his lover in the arms of his mother he is cradled by another kind face that he can only call a friend and crowded around these entities like a snack food in the belly folds of an obese coach potato it is hard to wonder how it is he can breathe let alone be aware of anything more,
only when we can spread out where there is space and time and continuous relief from civiled pressures that is the time destined dictated by the past and present we can feel in our souls in our heads and our palms the sweaty palpation of the indescribable and undiscernable and overwhelmingly powerful presence.
What I write of right now is that which is where in my head I am unfamiliar with so that is the reason behind this poem in the first place in case you may be wondering,
a pencil scratches paper leaving tracks of graphite black and grey and shaping words that we must put our mouths around and ungulate like gorrillas trying to mimic and imitate the silly human acts we are so sedated to realise are ridiculous to ape,
how it is that where we are going is only similar to where we have been before is very confusing like the puzzle of the Sphinx however it may have been solved and Thebes freed still we are locked in the clutches of some other enigma so much more that what we can figure how now and where it is the key is hidden is definitely not mentioned,
say to me to him or her that also waits for the dydactic drivel of the pompous presumptuous foolish all that you wish until you turn blue like salmon or trout or cod swimming under the waves of the sea and I will laugh laugh at you and all your assumptions and mistakes you are too bold too cold and stubborn to change your mind about or simply too stupid to see is wrong,
maybe that which is where you are speaking of is so great and so magnificant that it blinds you to the truth that surrounds you everyday like the cloak wrapped around the dead Jesus or the robes of a squatting Buddha under the Body tree so much so that you think you have gotten to where you can finally say you have what they have called nirvana in the past where only the unenlightened live and copulate under trees and inside bushes.
I can not think of how to end this babble because where it is going is an unending tunnel devoid of luminance so much so that I can only guess that it is no deeper than the deepest bowels of Hell or earth but it may be more than I can conceive of as a human being,
my apologies for those who read this and think about it so long to the point where their heads swim and mouths gape open like a confounded Greek statue but it is not my job to make things clear nor is it in my capacity to dilute my brain with ammonia and baking soda so that I may be able to think as clear as those who created the idea of clear thought wish me to think,
to where I intended to extend this was five stanzas but this one makes the sixth still it seems more like author notes than part of the text itself so maybe that is understandable to some who find it hard to finish what they start,
my grade for this is nonexistent because I do this voluntarily despite being a student of the written word in a prestigious university so full of academic types and professors graduated from much more prestigious institutions of learning but this this is different this is flowing like water from my hand onto the screen so I must indulge that nagging sensation that tells me to nurture my creation,
And where this ends is like how it begins abrupt and unexpected like a misfired shot that takes innocent life on the streets of Miami and as a parting word to give direction to where I hope to find my peace and profound solitude when I may be lucky enough to stop thinking:
"Good night, from me to you to all who read this and make it this far, I hope you sleep well tonight in your beds or on the streets or the lap of a lover basking in the heated glow of sex or wherever you cull your nest and rest your weary brain, good night, good night."
Adios.
A Title for Titling's Sake: Alas, Insomnia Makes It Home Within Me Tonight
"I sleep not satisfied with the kiss of a lover or the kind words of a mother,
so pray that I find rest in the restless isolation that I find myself possessed by."
Where what that has been meets it all and all it met in the time that it takes to travel is too much like only a little,
my disquieted disgruntlement is only a deluge of distaste from the deranged dastardly deeds performed so oft and so frequently by denizens of lower life and drowning seas of blood and drained souls,
what may be where you last saw me laugh and smile is too little and too late to help avoid the fate of fading into vain glory and the haze of memory behind so much frowning and an avalanche of human sewage,
my time is spent biding hours on hours after recovery from the shock of the realisation of what I am and where I am going and where I come from and where I want to be in the next few weeks before the years preceeding my uneventful but inevitable end,
when what is where it all must be and all goes back to where it was at first and where it all belongs and ends up at anyway.
Who is where what it is that seeks to be to all that is found when it is where it ought to stand,
the laughter of the children rises crystal above the cement glass high rises scraping the smoggy cieling built as the greatest most proud and arrogant prizes of a race so full of bleak and dim surprises,
how we get to where what that is who and when is troubling therefore I find it hard to see the end to all that is where it has been meant,
maniacal and malicious are the zealots of our religious towers that tear open the black clouds floating ominious like an omen of misfortune warning us of our wrongful plagues on nature and brothers and the heavens,
from where we came and when we get to what that is where we are meant to be is only a tricky question so much so that when we see where it lies below our eyes and above our heads like eagles soaring swooping catching in her talons the meat of prey I think that we will no longer be where we are today.
What that is to say who or that something so escaping fleeting from our vision we are trying to seek out in the jungle of black death and disease is only that which what we are made from from the start,
I bet you do not know what it is that I may think or feel or see or hear in my head that tells me of my heart and soul that we have titled God in our own time and in other times another name is given,
who that is is a man or woman a baby or crucified brother does not matter in the event of actual acquaintance with the majesty of he who can not be named or identified in our lifetimes forever when we still are who we are today,
the preacher preaches as the buddhist teaches like the speeches of the hindu or the prayer of the monk dwellers of solitary monostaries they are all the same I say to thee to thou to you or he or she,
to where you are going is only a query I present with worry not anger or contempt but if you do not answer me I am not offended for many of us do not know who or what we seek wherever we may choose to go and how we get there sometimes we do not even know ourselves after we are arrived.
How it is that what we find where we go is always satisfactory and accepted is a conundrum I can not solve myself and others have tried before me they have failed just the same as I and Socrates and Descartes or Faulkner and many others I can not name or were never given one,
like sand on the beach or oxygen in the air there will always be something to be felt all around us and there is more I say I say there is something unseen and untasted like a bland odor without body or texture,
what it may be is too much too little too late and complicated for anyone to devulge the name for when we are where we have to be in order to know we are far from where we started and can not give back to those left behind in the journey,
a man is holding the hand of his lover in the arms of his mother he is cradled by another kind face that he can only call a friend and crowded around these entities like a snack food in the belly folds of an obese coach potato it is hard to wonder how it is he can breathe let alone be aware of anything more,
only when we can spread out where there is space and time and continuous relief from civiled pressures that is the time destined dictated by the past and present we can feel in our souls in our heads and our palms the sweaty palpation of the indescribable and undiscernable and overwhelmingly powerful presence.
What I write of right now is that which is where in my head I am unfamiliar with so that is the reason behind this poem in the first place in case you may be wondering,
a pencil scratches paper leaving tracks of graphite black and grey and shaping words that we must put our mouths around and ungulate like gorrillas trying to mimic and imitate the silly human acts we are so sedated to realise are ridiculous to ape,
how it is that where we are going is only similar to where we have been before is very confusing like the puzzle of the Sphinx however it may have been solved and Thebes freed still we are locked in the clutches of some other enigma so much more that what we can figure how now and where it is the key is hidden is definitely not mentioned,
say to me to him or her that also waits for the dydactic drivel of the pompous presumptuous foolish all that you wish until you turn blue like salmon or trout or cod swimming under the waves of the sea and I will laugh laugh at you and all your assumptions and mistakes you are too bold too cold and stubborn to change your mind about or simply too stupid to see is wrong,
maybe that which is where you are speaking of is so great and so magnificant that it blinds you to the truth that surrounds you everyday like the cloak wrapped around the dead Jesus or the robes of a squatting Buddha under the Body tree so much so that you think you have gotten to where you can finally say you have what they have called nirvana in the past where only the unenlightened live and copulate under trees and inside bushes.
I can not think of how to end this babble because where it is going is an unending tunnel devoid of luminance so much so that I can only guess that it is no deeper than the deepest bowels of Hell or earth but it may be more than I can conceive of as a human being,
my apologies for those who read this and think about it so long to the point where their heads swim and mouths gape open like a confounded Greek statue but it is not my job to make things clear nor is it in my capacity to dilute my brain with ammonia and baking soda so that I may be able to think as clear as those who created the idea of clear thought wish me to think,
to where I intended to extend this was five stanzas but this one makes the sixth still it seems more like author notes than part of the text itself so maybe that is understandable to some who find it hard to finish what they start,
my grade for this is nonexistent because I do this voluntarily despite being a student of the written word in a prestigious university so full of academic types and professors graduated from much more prestigious institutions of learning but this this is different this is flowing like water from my hand onto the screen so I must indulge that nagging sensation that tells me to nurture my creation,
And where this ends is like how it begins abrupt and unexpected like a misfired shot that takes innocent life on the streets of Miami and as a parting word to give direction to where I hope to find my peace and profound solitude when I may be lucky enough to stop thinking:
"Good night, from me to you to all who read this and make it this far, I hope you sleep well tonight in your beds or on the streets or the lap of a lover basking in the heated glow of sex or wherever you cull your nest and rest your weary brain, good night, good night."
Adios.
EOF
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
5:36 AM
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