Where a Spanish man comes as a cowboy.
The beat was like exploding balloons.
Jumpy little fuckers
Dead goat. Bury it Priest. Nobody must inform the next of kin.
If your day is done than have some cocaine because she doesn't lie.
Delete the disrespect, inspect the intellect.
The post movie high.
Horrible distaste to do nothing.
Use it against them. Ever vigilant. The answer is there. Lollypop.
I am dangerous. And I know it. Which is dangerous.
I am nothing. I am RVRFNX
The face lift. A re-awakening. Don't give it to them easily; trust in the knowledge.
I will assault your senses.
I will assault your mind.
Probably appal human kind.
But don't be kind.
I'm young but I'm fine with the fact that I'm deprived.
I trust only in history.
His story.
Fight me.
Tighten my springs.
I'll find wisdom in the eternal springs.
The ancients to me sing.
Don't trust me?
At least give your children the ears to hear.
Face your fears.
It's written in the years.
And you know it's true.
As evident as a fresh tattoo to a blind man.
Crude and bumpy is the road that leads us.
Crazy/brave that's me digging my grave
alone for now
an elegy to a noun
speaking about me.
And I'm not guilty.
It's we that I speak of freely.
You interested?
Respond to me.
La Phoenix. New life is within.
I love it when you go outside to listen to music and the crickets keep the beat.
Travelling with the night. In my car and my bed. The cool night air and the thoughts in my head.
The thought has changed. Old was once positive, now it is a negative.
Perfume dispenser.
Et Vespa. A logicians dream.
I can stand in every ocean.
No time for small cars. A serious appraisal. Amurrika.
At a time when the hills were flatter.
The boy racers in a one horse town.
The ability to ask questions.
Man.
The pissing.
The drinking.
The music.
The gay.
The rape fog.
The view.
Not in that order.
Alcohol and pizza.
Old Crow.
Paul behind the bar.
Bom funk mcs in the car.
Pat always has the plan.
He's an ideas man.
Not focusing on memory just working on the moment.
Lettuce from out of space.
Down an endless forest path.
The old soldier.
The belligerent safe.
The wallabies.
The fresh smell.
The beach sound.
Nat King Cole.
When I fall in love.
The sandy touch - when I wanted nothing else but to be touched.
In some weird deep sense.
The sea still seems like a place for exploration; it almost killed me.
I love it.
I cannot desecrate this land with butts and what ifs.
When a lunatic lets go.
On a beach that is cold.
Humanely bold.
Lit some fires.
Burst some ideas.
Packed up.
Glass of wine.
Golden elephant.
Beach.
Sunshine.
Take away shop.
Bon Jovi.
Burning our way out of this town.
We rolled into tea cup mountain.
Nice river.
Good chips.
No shirts.
Throwing chips and stones at the gulls.
The teradactyl pelican.
Thai food.
Cold breeze.
Cruising through the night listening to the Offspring.
The toilet stop look out.
Being unnmade. From a grown man to some sperm and to an egg. To chemicals.
You can't spell reporter without poet.
It feels like I have been punched all over. The dirty words: Black town, grating on my happiness. Garish burning. Silent slits seep desire. Flung back. A rubber burnt tire. Air rippling my senses. The radio changing the tempo. A taxi ride.
That long drawl. Suspicious.
Conversations and conversions.
I am a mirror. If you are clever, I will be clever.
Teenage wasteland.
The smells of alcohol and cologne.
Poisoning the perfume.
Sweat and pheromone.
Music and the moan.
Drugs and the unknown.
It's the dance floor.
It's Kings Cross.
It's home.
Part two.
Keeping the music alive lean on that speaker box I move this could die. I know I won't be leaving here tonight.
When you make a girl walk ten metres for a cig.
The trip home with Les. (taxi driver).
I will rock one thousand nations.
And raze hell from this earth.
Truth will be perfected in reasonable pitch.
Braveheart with babies in pouch. The stay at home dad.
X
Play down ceasar.
Like a boss acoustic.
The witness of your life will be manifest in your children.
The jewel in a man's crown is his grand children.
overturning our unconscious assumptions
We define divine providence by flashing lights and clashing ideologies against common methodologies
Etched memories into a sandpaper slate with swift breezes and crisp tides hammering at the thought.
The disenchantment. Fed to us through electronic tubes. Give them everything. I am walking in a straight line. Probably a desperate believer.
Head over heels in love with you and society only reels, only seals the temporal. The mundane job.
Silent prayer and the rolling stones. Did they sing this song? Or whisper my sentiments alone?
The only difference between the 1st century and the 21st is the materials. Vices are still vices and tyrants are still tyrants.
I am a GOOD writer. Little by little.
Your veins will pump battery acid but not because you've been running to freedom.
Deep space, Deep bass. Reality burning at my eyelids.
Deep Faith.
Never under-estimate the Old Irish.
If somebody watched me it would have been a prime time comedy.
I raise that eternal rose to my lips and kiss it sweetly.
Drink myself into oblivion with Nick Cave and the Ship Song.
Stephen Garcia the eternally young.
It's a degree that loads us with dynamite in a world of fuel. Jeremy on the 11th.
I see writers who write for money (when they need no more). Authors who whore themselves out for fame. And I find it kinda funny. I find it kinda lame.
Babble on Babylon
I try not to worry about if I am going to be here for a long time or a short time. What I focus on is who I am around whilst I am here. People like HST and Bob Dylan are constant friends of mine.
There are so many additives in this city water it makes me want to crush my empty glass and fly out the window each time I have a drink of this chemically 'enhanced' liquid.
I was sick of finding the-girl-I-could-never-have so I went looking for decent girls I could always have.
From my hospital window I looked out and saw the homeless man holding his simple psalms on dirty cardboard and then I realised what the words meant.
Cancer patients were his favourite. He liked the androgynous look.
Always needs to shit. Finds out he has colon cancer. The start of the book is a shot of a bald cancer patient in a hospital gown in a hospital bed typing on a computer. (it's the protagonist) and he is narrating saying how funny cancer patients look. From the viewer's perspective, it seems like the narrator is dissing the cancer patient on the bed - they won't know that he is the cancer patient until the end.
The climax is when he meets a girl and has a change of heart. He falls in love with her from the start. He goes to see her and she isn't at the hospital anymore. Her records get mixed up and the doctors tell him 'they passed away'. Before the doctor can say: "he was a..." (thus giving it away, the doctor is talking about a guy but our narrator is looking for a girl) the main character has run out. (In fact, she was transferred to another hospital). So he goes home and tells his friend he is done with the game. His friend urges him to stay but he won't. A few months later (after his life has returned to normality. He's focusing on his job, and what not) he has a routine health check up and via this he finds out he has bowel cancer. He is taken to a hospital on the other side of town because nobody would take him seriously at the normal one (his reputation exceeded him). Low and behold he sees the love of his life at the new hospital. They kick it off. She eventually dies in his arms on one evening and he passes away not too long after. His friend finishes the book and puts it on the balcony - (he used to kill pigeons on the roofs and watch them fall to the ground) a dead pigeon falls and knocks the manuscript off and it falls into the bin below. The homeless man who is digging through the trash finds it, gets it published and makes a lot of money.
(perhaps include funny edits when talking about the homeless man... 'He smells - but i'm sure he couldn't find a proper shower with no money'
The main character (perhaps the narrator will be the homeless man) lived near the hospital. And from his apartment window he could not read what the homeless man wrote on the cardboard. But from his window in the hospital he could.
I joked that I had to get it written before your show ended so I had the chance to make it onto your book club.
They have gotten to Bill Murray. "I just want to say Jay Z down in new york today singing was that song was very emotional" Forced to say that? Hmm
Today means nothing without tomorrow or yesterday. We need all three to live decently.
I find that good people are either too considerate to be illiterate or too illiterate to be inconsiderate.
And each minute is another 60 seconds that you should embrace, love and make the most of.
Aye you.
And as I returned home Muse played.
If someone came up to you and said "I'm a boss I pimp slap hoes and I'm the greatest rapper alive" Most people wouldn't listen to them. But when a person says those things against a backing track - the fucking majority of society jumps on their cock and they fucking swallow it all down.
Hands in the air with drinks whizzing around like bridal bouquets.
Tough menacing guys looming from the corners.
All the girls with drugs and sunnies driven to the elevated dance floor so they can be picked off like sitting ducks.
And myself,
the awkwardly casual loner in the corner
with shoes too long
and not enough money for courage.
The drunk kids wasting their dollars on the scam breathe test.
Naughty girls trying to touch my soul, my shoes.
Elephantine girls caressing the dance floor
with grace, so limber
as if dismembered.
Black guy in a kilt and scene glasses.
Some how making original look unoriginal.
Jesus my eyes are watering.
Perhaps weeping for something that
won't become known for a long time.
The world is round.
Should I venture into the pit of porno, the massive mash of loins?
The way you're making me feel... there is a good chance I could rub up against a girl who's skirt is prone to heading towards the ceiling and before you know it... Is taht a fun game? I'm in jail; statutory rape. This is a harsh world and at any moment a cruel cadaver could castrate your cajones... Don't fuck with destiny and you won't.
My sister said don't sit alone and use your mobile. I say fuck that.
That poor statutory rape. Intimidating all the girls.
The dirty girl and the statutory rape. The young darlings burning her lungs agape.
Je suis le common denominator balancing the scales between genius and 'special'.
I wish I owned a club just so I could sit here acting like a tool being all telepathic and shit.
Non-decent girl showing bra straps equals fuck you times two.
Two reconnaissance men discussing war tactics. She so wants to get noticed.
Jesus fuck gorilla lady. Pump those fists!
25 year old kids with polos around their shoulders.
Divorced from dancing. So fucking tired. Give me novacaine...
Not surprisingly it was a thoroughly sobering experience.
Despite that bitter perception of happiness when ridiculous notions of loneliness and vanity cloud one's visions with steamy smokey situations. The world is waiting just for You...
I have little interest in torturing the women I sexoreize.
The rise and fall of society. A glass half full of distinction.
Liberal. To be free. Free from the bucketfuls of rubbish.
I feel fucking diseased already. I am glad I did not drink from that glass.
And when I am eating my burger... fuck it feels good to know I'll never meet you again.
A ghost among souls.
She looked deep into my eyes and denied me beer. Fuck. I am tired. I did not sleep last night. I am not drunk. Not yet.
Hobknobbing these golden fog logs.
Don't take me as wrong for as right as wrong may be right I won't write wrongs!! Nor leave me left to send these leaves right to where many are left!! I won't take this. It is wrong and I find this to be right!!
Bleeding duck.
RVRFNX - A tale untold.
In for the kill.
Here for the happy meal.
Coke scene.
Grunge. Grime.
Why do I write? I love to write. It's almost as fun as breathing. Oh, also, because of the many thousands behind me.
The two figures stand awkwardly in the way. Not knowing what to do. Obviously dominated from a young age. They lack the ability to make swift decisions. They are perfect partners for a relaxing afternoon tea gathering.
Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger. Thee are some things the heart cannot give up. One is dignity. Two is hope. Three is truth.
That awkward necessity.
That desire driven depravity.
Wallowing in whining winds of virility.
Vagrant vagabonds violating virginity.
Vile violets flap flagrantly in the foul breeze.
Whilst fearsome fiends find a feast free to feed.
Fear not for the far east, hail sends half hooded hounds to howl and high light the low down brow of our enemy.
Parker Posy.
Two extremely different personalities. One that could scale to lofty heights and another that couldn't even get out of bed.
Solitary.
Alone in the zone.
Pretending it's my own.
People watching.
Reality dodging.
We all bully each other.
Delay the dividends its a means without ends this chatter amongst friends.
Toke a bowel in the foggy centre floor.
How can you love a God who gives you hell? You can love him because he also gave you life. Just as your parents gave birth to you; they punish you when you do wrong.
Selling lies. The rock vodka bottle (advertisement).
When I'm typing it sometimes like a musical instrument - it rhymes and sounds beautiful and just feels so natural!
I am scared of these big fluffy people.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Monday, 7 December 2009
You
_I see eternal temporality._
_I'd like to intertwine a line every so often with a nice metaphor. Like the rose buds and the thorns, the beauty comes with pain._
_I'd like to find more within documents; both on paper and on pixels. Blogger for example, my phone and my notepad._
_I need more beauty; more faith; more similes and metaphors._
_I want to link the pen and paper,_
_I want to hear the voice and feel the touch._
_I notice the sense of truth and the sense of nothing._
_I see you grabbing onto loose seams. Falling into coarse dreams..._
_October is the fallen month,
where commotions arise due to tired souls and taught emotions,
like fountains of fear, the decisions within us flow up against our natural notions and the barriers fall down.
Tumultuous times, like seasons changing in the blink of an eye, satan is widespread and our blinking eyes draw attention to our head
where inside severe consequences lurch into the foreground.
Let us all reflect here for a moment,
a rationalised period of time dedicated to atonement,_
_Purple covers are wilting.
The same lilacs are yielding
to the powerful one,
the atomic sun._
_It is breaking me down,
couldn't find the ground,
when the temporal town
began to moan and make sound
like wolves alone and yet all around
this one man - myself, soul bound to this pitiful shelf._
_Placed here by fear I couldn't resist to subsist and make sure that I had no choice in my plans.
I did what they told me - took up the flag to fly and spread fear around this fractured society._
_Placate, vacate, these words are whispered in my ear late at night by people I don't know.
And when I wake up I can't hear myself - due to the gross noises of these eternal showers,
and I'm cold when I watch the sun grow old and sink below the horizon,
because I know that one day it is going to the last time - and I wonder how many will recognise the beauty.
And how this beauty reflects upon ourselves in our purest form - burning bright for truth and for reform
but so many are dull, and deceived and not rising or falling just being.
And it's part of the fall that makes the rise so sweet.
And part of the rise that makes the fall so difficult.
And it's the journey in between that makes all the difference,
so take the other path,
the long one that makes you struggle,
the one that knows you are alive,
the one that leads to happiness.
For on the way you shall grow, fall, suffer and love, and this is life and this is why we recognise the purity and grace of that dove,
for it too has grown, lived and loved and it naturally flys towards the heavens.
Just as we should; believers or heathens._
_But how can we resist?
When its beaten into our hearts with an iron fist
shrouded in glorious monotonous mist
deemed brilliant by those who insist
that within it must be a fundamental twist
allowing us to live in grace whilst being misfits.
It's not the shit that we have to deal with that gets me pissed,
it's the fact that it could already be too late
and I'm the crazy one for opening that gate;
for letting the sheep out of the pen
so that they may sense and then pen
their thoughts and hopefully progress so then
we may see something better within our temporal court
that may allow for us to ascend to something greater to where the eternal is wrought._
_And it leaves me here wondering why many of us can't see the end of the Devil's grin.
Why we feel we have to go out rather than have a night in.
Why we see the ancients as something grim,
and not worth our while to take in.
And to make within ourselves a strong fortitude
that gives us the aptitude to understand our lives
and therefore our deaths that are always coming soon.
By doing so humanity will be living within the tune
of being peaceful, intelligent and concerned with our eternal mood.
And it is too much to ask to be balanced, to be far away from that evil brood.
So when hate comes falling like bitter shards of ice we can melt it all away with forgiveness, the antithesis of vice._
_When our best years are spent buying things to kill ourselves it says a lot about our most intense fears,
that we cannot handle long life and the knowledge of falling so hard that we try to arrange the knife in such a manner that it will take our life before we have to pay for the false logic ingrained within our corrupt hearts._
_My heart wants you so bad,
but it cannot have you,
and your hard hair and stained locks drop around my face and shoulders,
holding you I find what I need - two hearts beating at once in solemn intuition;
but within me, deep down,
I know that this won't happen often -
because it is too beautiful.
But I am grateful, like the sea that laps at the solid cliffs,
you hurt me and degrade me,
but atleast I get to see the beauty that grows in such suffering.
Within the rockpools of my pain lies much life,
and this life makes many wonder because of its natural beauty.
Here, at this spot, in love I writhe._
_And there is so much time to do everything
so much of everything lies within doing something
but we do nothing
If we were to attempt something we may find everything
if our eyes are open at times when they should be closed._
_Let's devour these hearts so that we can disguise our truths to the world,
let's parade these cancerous unknowns as facts so that we can empower the money men
who moan for more gold in their pockets like poor souls trapped in strip clubs with paper power riding between their hip bones and their g-strings.
It's no hard reasoning that brings us to realise that these things
cause rifts between good times and bad stings;
as wasps and bees cause allergic reactions in our bodies,
it shows we're fragile and so is our mind at times when it is difficult to be at ease
when we're caught in the pale, purpley-green spotlight of a blown up tornado tearing apart our livelihood whilst the rest of the country watches on its knees
in front of the television praying to a God that doesn't exist within these walls nor in the temporal halls. Please oh please,
they scream as the same gale force winds tear apart their temporal lives piece by piece,
material value lost with every natural gust - and no amount of insurance will cover these losses -
this is bigger than monetary value - this is psychological damage.
Now that the material is inextricably linked with our own happiness it is no wonder that we try to become happier through fads and instant transactions. Nobody is happy just sitting down and watching life happen. Watching the birds and the bees, the bark growing on the trees, the earth-worms enjoying the dirt below and the leaves bringing us fresh air upon the pleasant breeze.
It's simple things like these that breed within us bliss; living on nature's soil we embrace hard work and toil that leads us to where we are happy as a character foil to temporality of this realm._
_Let's carve our thoughts into stone so that forever more intelligence can be related to rock-solid truth._
_And those purple covers once moved in gracious tones,
overflowing with sharp desires and low moans,
slippery solemn moments captured the atonement to something greater than those.
Such small people.
It is within these moments that what our society slides towards what is known;
and so the subtle intensions of those, that eventually fall like boulders towards roads, become evident to our once ignorant eyes._
_But I see purple covers wilting. And I never thought I'd see so many retirees hit golf balls across temporal greens rather than redeem their wasted lives and spend their time influencing and teaching the new generation about their history and their historical lives._
_Were it not so easy I'd like to call our history and our pride a burnt out furnace cold to touch, were it not so easy I'd like to propose that we stoke the fires and coals with time-hardened knowledge and truth, if it weren't for the constant decay of primal matter via the insidious and dark infiltration of modern and post modern ideals, a controversial proposition I do know, but when you stand for nothing you fall for anything, and so our coals are weak and futile and our fires are but poor reflections of our by-gone bonfires, or flourishings that have fallen by the way side - blown away by fast food and materialism._
_We're all so out of touch that we think we're in touch. When nobody touches anymore what it means to be touched has been lost. And so we're not touched by anything - give us Nihilism, give us helium, so when we act stupid we can sound stupid too. Is it too much to ask for a passion to understand, to love, to forgive, to life?_
_And when our society views hard work as 'old fashioned' it must mean that what we do nowawadays is not hard work at all.
Perhaps it's because people tend to pick up things that are immediately attractive - rather than things that will grow on you._
_These messages were once alive in the ether,
but they fell, pulled down by grasping hands groaning for meaning.
Stripping the universe of beauty in the search for freedom._
_It's time to go down in flames,
to have the truth thrown back in your face,
to have no home, to walk alone,
that's what's going to happen when the truth rains down,_
_I want...
To see the reign come down.
To hear the fame fall down.
To smell the truth become known.
To touch the beauty in God's nation,
To taste a world without fear._
_When Satan's stain sears the town.
Then everybody will know
I tried to make the truth known.
After passing through this town,
after living here and now,
I'm leaving with no burdens.
Giving truth to the unheard,
leading the herd away from the lies,
feeding fire to fire-flies.
Veritas Odium Parit.
I hope you never forget you._
_I'd like to intertwine a line every so often with a nice metaphor. Like the rose buds and the thorns, the beauty comes with pain._
_I'd like to find more within documents; both on paper and on pixels. Blogger for example, my phone and my notepad._
_I need more beauty; more faith; more similes and metaphors._
_I want to link the pen and paper,_
_I want to hear the voice and feel the touch._
_I notice the sense of truth and the sense of nothing._
_I see you grabbing onto loose seams. Falling into coarse dreams..._
_October is the fallen month,
where commotions arise due to tired souls and taught emotions,
like fountains of fear, the decisions within us flow up against our natural notions and the barriers fall down.
Tumultuous times, like seasons changing in the blink of an eye, satan is widespread and our blinking eyes draw attention to our head
where inside severe consequences lurch into the foreground.
Let us all reflect here for a moment,
a rationalised period of time dedicated to atonement,_
_Purple covers are wilting.
The same lilacs are yielding
to the powerful one,
the atomic sun._
_It is breaking me down,
couldn't find the ground,
when the temporal town
began to moan and make sound
like wolves alone and yet all around
this one man - myself, soul bound to this pitiful shelf._
_Placed here by fear I couldn't resist to subsist and make sure that I had no choice in my plans.
I did what they told me - took up the flag to fly and spread fear around this fractured society._
_Placate, vacate, these words are whispered in my ear late at night by people I don't know.
And when I wake up I can't hear myself - due to the gross noises of these eternal showers,
and I'm cold when I watch the sun grow old and sink below the horizon,
because I know that one day it is going to the last time - and I wonder how many will recognise the beauty.
And how this beauty reflects upon ourselves in our purest form - burning bright for truth and for reform
but so many are dull, and deceived and not rising or falling just being.
And it's part of the fall that makes the rise so sweet.
And part of the rise that makes the fall so difficult.
And it's the journey in between that makes all the difference,
so take the other path,
the long one that makes you struggle,
the one that knows you are alive,
the one that leads to happiness.
For on the way you shall grow, fall, suffer and love, and this is life and this is why we recognise the purity and grace of that dove,
for it too has grown, lived and loved and it naturally flys towards the heavens.
Just as we should; believers or heathens._
_But how can we resist?
When its beaten into our hearts with an iron fist
shrouded in glorious monotonous mist
deemed brilliant by those who insist
that within it must be a fundamental twist
allowing us to live in grace whilst being misfits.
It's not the shit that we have to deal with that gets me pissed,
it's the fact that it could already be too late
and I'm the crazy one for opening that gate;
for letting the sheep out of the pen
so that they may sense and then pen
their thoughts and hopefully progress so then
we may see something better within our temporal court
that may allow for us to ascend to something greater to where the eternal is wrought._
_And it leaves me here wondering why many of us can't see the end of the Devil's grin.
Why we feel we have to go out rather than have a night in.
Why we see the ancients as something grim,
and not worth our while to take in.
And to make within ourselves a strong fortitude
that gives us the aptitude to understand our lives
and therefore our deaths that are always coming soon.
By doing so humanity will be living within the tune
of being peaceful, intelligent and concerned with our eternal mood.
And it is too much to ask to be balanced, to be far away from that evil brood.
So when hate comes falling like bitter shards of ice we can melt it all away with forgiveness, the antithesis of vice._
_When our best years are spent buying things to kill ourselves it says a lot about our most intense fears,
that we cannot handle long life and the knowledge of falling so hard that we try to arrange the knife in such a manner that it will take our life before we have to pay for the false logic ingrained within our corrupt hearts._
_My heart wants you so bad,
but it cannot have you,
and your hard hair and stained locks drop around my face and shoulders,
holding you I find what I need - two hearts beating at once in solemn intuition;
but within me, deep down,
I know that this won't happen often -
because it is too beautiful.
But I am grateful, like the sea that laps at the solid cliffs,
you hurt me and degrade me,
but atleast I get to see the beauty that grows in such suffering.
Within the rockpools of my pain lies much life,
and this life makes many wonder because of its natural beauty.
Here, at this spot, in love I writhe._
_And there is so much time to do everything
so much of everything lies within doing something
but we do nothing
If we were to attempt something we may find everything
if our eyes are open at times when they should be closed._
_Let's devour these hearts so that we can disguise our truths to the world,
let's parade these cancerous unknowns as facts so that we can empower the money men
who moan for more gold in their pockets like poor souls trapped in strip clubs with paper power riding between their hip bones and their g-strings.
It's no hard reasoning that brings us to realise that these things
cause rifts between good times and bad stings;
as wasps and bees cause allergic reactions in our bodies,
it shows we're fragile and so is our mind at times when it is difficult to be at ease
when we're caught in the pale, purpley-green spotlight of a blown up tornado tearing apart our livelihood whilst the rest of the country watches on its knees
in front of the television praying to a God that doesn't exist within these walls nor in the temporal halls. Please oh please,
they scream as the same gale force winds tear apart their temporal lives piece by piece,
material value lost with every natural gust - and no amount of insurance will cover these losses -
this is bigger than monetary value - this is psychological damage.
Now that the material is inextricably linked with our own happiness it is no wonder that we try to become happier through fads and instant transactions. Nobody is happy just sitting down and watching life happen. Watching the birds and the bees, the bark growing on the trees, the earth-worms enjoying the dirt below and the leaves bringing us fresh air upon the pleasant breeze.
It's simple things like these that breed within us bliss; living on nature's soil we embrace hard work and toil that leads us to where we are happy as a character foil to temporality of this realm._
_Let's carve our thoughts into stone so that forever more intelligence can be related to rock-solid truth._
_And those purple covers once moved in gracious tones,
overflowing with sharp desires and low moans,
slippery solemn moments captured the atonement to something greater than those.
Such small people.
It is within these moments that what our society slides towards what is known;
and so the subtle intensions of those, that eventually fall like boulders towards roads, become evident to our once ignorant eyes._
_But I see purple covers wilting. And I never thought I'd see so many retirees hit golf balls across temporal greens rather than redeem their wasted lives and spend their time influencing and teaching the new generation about their history and their historical lives._
_Were it not so easy I'd like to call our history and our pride a burnt out furnace cold to touch, were it not so easy I'd like to propose that we stoke the fires and coals with time-hardened knowledge and truth, if it weren't for the constant decay of primal matter via the insidious and dark infiltration of modern and post modern ideals, a controversial proposition I do know, but when you stand for nothing you fall for anything, and so our coals are weak and futile and our fires are but poor reflections of our by-gone bonfires, or flourishings that have fallen by the way side - blown away by fast food and materialism._
_We're all so out of touch that we think we're in touch. When nobody touches anymore what it means to be touched has been lost. And so we're not touched by anything - give us Nihilism, give us helium, so when we act stupid we can sound stupid too. Is it too much to ask for a passion to understand, to love, to forgive, to life?_
_And when our society views hard work as 'old fashioned' it must mean that what we do nowawadays is not hard work at all.
Perhaps it's because people tend to pick up things that are immediately attractive - rather than things that will grow on you._
_These messages were once alive in the ether,
but they fell, pulled down by grasping hands groaning for meaning.
Stripping the universe of beauty in the search for freedom._
_It's time to go down in flames,
to have the truth thrown back in your face,
to have no home, to walk alone,
that's what's going to happen when the truth rains down,_
_I want...
To see the reign come down.
To hear the fame fall down.
To smell the truth become known.
To touch the beauty in God's nation,
To taste a world without fear._
_When Satan's stain sears the town.
Then everybody will know
I tried to make the truth known.
After passing through this town,
after living here and now,
I'm leaving with no burdens.
Giving truth to the unheard,
leading the herd away from the lies,
feeding fire to fire-flies.
Veritas Odium Parit.
I hope you never forget you._
Saturday, 28 November 2009
eternally
Eternal temporality.
Intertwine a line every so often with a nice metaphor. Like the rose buds and the thorns, the beauty comes with pain.
Find more within documents; both on paper and on pixels. Blogger for example, my phone and my notepad.
Need more beauty; more faith; more similes and metaphors.
Link the pen and paper,
the voice and the touch.
The sense of truth and the sense of nothing.
Grabbing onto loose seams. Falling into coarse dreams.
October is the fallen month,
where commotions arise due to tired souls and taught emotions,
like fountains of fear, the decisions within us flow up against our natural notions and the barriers fall down.
Tumultuous times, like seasons changing in the blink of an eye, satan is widespread and our blinking eyes draw attention to our head, where inside severe consequences lurch into the foreground.
Let us all reflect here for a moment,
a rationalised period of time dedicated to atonement,
Purple covers are wilting.
The same lilacs are yielding
to the powerful one,
the atomic sun.
It is breaking me down,
couldn't find the ground,
when the temporal town
began to moan and make sound
like wolves alone and yet all around
this one man - myself, soul bound to this pitiful shelf.
Placed here by fear I couldn't resist to subsist and make sure that I had no choice in my plans.
I did what they told me - took up the flag to fly and spread fear around this fractured society.
Placate, vacate, these words are whispered in my ear late at night by people I don't know.
And when I wake up I can't hear myself - due to the gross noises of these eternal showers,
and I'm cold when I watch the sun grow old and sink below the horizon,
because I know that one day it is going to the last time - and I wonder how many will recognise the beauty.
And how this beauty reflects upon ourselves in our purest form - burning bright for truth and for reform
but so many are dull, and deceived and not rising or falling just being.
And it's part of the fall that makes the rise so sweet.
And part of the rise that makes the fall so difficult.
And it's the journey in between that makes all the difference,
so take the other path,
the long one that leads to happiness.
For on the way you shall grow, fall, suffer and love, and this is life and this is why we recognise the purity and grace of that dove,
for it too has grown, lived and loved and it naturally flys towards the heavens.
Just as we should, believer or heathens.
But how can we resist?
When its beaten into our hearts with an iron fist
shrouded in glorious monotonous mist
deemed brilliant by those who insist
that within it must be a fundamental twist
allowing us to live in grace whilst being misfits.
It's not the shit that we have to deal with that gets me pissed,
it's the fact that it could already be too late
and I'm the crazy one for opening that gate,
for letting the sheep out of the pen
so that they may sense and then pen
their thoughts and hopefully progress so then
we may see something better within our temporal court
that may allow for us to ascend to something greater where the eternal is wrought.
And it leaves me here wondering why many of us can't see the end of the Devil's grin.
Why we feel we have to go out rather than have a night in.
Why we see the ancients as something grim,
and not worth our while to take in.
And to make within ourselves a strong fortitude
that gives us the aptitude to understand our lives
and therefore our deaths that are always coming soon.
By doing so humanity will be living within the tune
of being peaceful, intelligent and concerned with our eternal mood.
And it is too much to ask to be balanced, to be far away from that evil brood.
So when hate comes falling like bitter shards of ice we can melt it all away with forgiveness, the antithesis of vice.
When our best years are spent buying things to kill ourselves it says a lot about our most intense fears,
that we cannot handle long life and the knowledge of falling so hard that we try to arrange the knife in such a manner that it will take our life before we know the false logic ingrained within our corrupt hearts.
and my heart wants you so bad, but cannot have you,
and your hard hair and stained locks drop around my face and shoulders,
holding you I find what I need - two hearts beating at once in solemn intuition;
but within me, deep down, I know that this won't happen often - because it is so beautiful.
But I am grateful, like the sea that laps at the solid cliffs, you hurt me and degrade me, but atleast I get to see the beauty that grows in such suffering. Within the rockpools of my pain lies much life, and this life makes many wonder because of its natural beauty.
so much time to do everything - so much of everything lies within doing something and now we've got nothing to do - so within nothing we may find everything if our eyes are open at times when they should be closed.
And why is it that printing presses have become better equipped yet our literature has become sardonic and weak, useless and thin, ignorant and bent.
Let's carve our thoughts into stone so that forever more intelligence can be related to rock-solid truth.
Let's devour these hearts unknown so that we can disguise our truths to the world,
let's parade these cancerous unknowns as facts so that we can empower the money men who moan for more gold in their pockets like poor souls trapped in strip clubs with paper power riding between their hip bones and their g-strings. It's no hard reasoning that brings us to realise that these things cause rifts between good times and bad stings;
like wasps and bees that can cause allergic reactions in our bodies, we're fragile and so is our mind at times when it is difficult to be at ease - when we're caught in the pale, purpley-green spotlight of a blown up tornado tearing apart our livelihood whilst the rest of the country watches on its knees in front of the television praying to a God that doesn't exist within these walls nor in the temporal halls. Please oh please, they scream as the same gale force winds tear apart their temporal lives piece by piece, material value lost with every natural gust - and no amount of insurance will cover these losses - this is bigger than monetary value - this is psychological damage. Now that the material is inextricably linked with our own happiness it is no wonder that we try to become better and happier through fads and instant transactions. Nobody is happy just sitting down and watching life happen. Watching the birds and the bees, the bark growing on the trees, the earth-worms enjoying the dirt below and the leaves bringing us fresh air upon the pleasant breeze.
It's simple things like these that breed within us bliss; living on nature's soil we embrace hard work and toil that leads us to where we are happy as a character foil to temporality of this realm.
And those purple covers once moved in gracious tones,
overflowing with sharp desires and low moans,
slippery solemn moments captured the atonement to something greater than those.
Such small people.
It is within these moments that what our society slides towards what is known;
and so the subtle intensions of those, that eventually fall like boulders towards roads, become evident to our once ignorant eyes.
But I see purple covers wilting. And I never thought I'd see so many retirees hit golf balls across temporal greens rather than redeem their wasted lives and spend their time influencing and teaching the new generation about their history and their historical lives.
Were it no so easy I'd like to call our history and our pride a burnt out furnace cold to touch, were it no so easy I'd like to propose that we stoke the fires and coals with time-hardened knowledge and truth, if it weren't for the constant decay of primal matter via the insidious and dark infiltration of modern and post modern ideals, a controversial proposition I do know, but when you stand for nothing you fall for anything, and so our coals are weak and futile and our fires are but poor reflections of our by-gone bonfires, or flourishings that have fallen by the way side - blown away by fast food and materialism.
We're all so out of touch that we think we're in touch. When nobody touches anymore what it means to be touched has been lost. And so we're not touched by anything - give us Nihilism, give us helium, so when we act stupid we can sound stupid too. Is it too much to ask for a passion to understand, to love, to forgive, to life?
And when our society views hard work as 'old fashioned' it must mean that what we do nowawadays is not hard work at all.
Perhaps it's because people tend to pick up things that are immediately attractive - rather than things that will grow on you.
The social signals were not lost in the ether - no, they were far below that.
To go down in flames,
to have the truth thrown back in your face,
to have no home, to walk alone,
that's what's going to happen when the truth rains down,
I want...
To see the reign come down.
To hear the fame fall down.
To smell the truth become known.
To touch the beauty in God's nation,
To taste a world without fear.
When Satan's stain sears the town.
Then everybody will know
I tried to make the truth known.
After passing through this town,
after living here and now,
I'm leaving with no burdens.
Giving truth to the unheard,
leading the herd away from the lies,
feeding fire to fire-flies.
Veritas Odium Parit.
I hope you never forget you.
Intertwine a line every so often with a nice metaphor. Like the rose buds and the thorns, the beauty comes with pain.
Find more within documents; both on paper and on pixels. Blogger for example, my phone and my notepad.
Need more beauty; more faith; more similes and metaphors.
Link the pen and paper,
the voice and the touch.
The sense of truth and the sense of nothing.
Grabbing onto loose seams. Falling into coarse dreams.
October is the fallen month,
where commotions arise due to tired souls and taught emotions,
like fountains of fear, the decisions within us flow up against our natural notions and the barriers fall down.
Tumultuous times, like seasons changing in the blink of an eye, satan is widespread and our blinking eyes draw attention to our head, where inside severe consequences lurch into the foreground.
Let us all reflect here for a moment,
a rationalised period of time dedicated to atonement,
Purple covers are wilting.
The same lilacs are yielding
to the powerful one,
the atomic sun.
It is breaking me down,
couldn't find the ground,
when the temporal town
began to moan and make sound
like wolves alone and yet all around
this one man - myself, soul bound to this pitiful shelf.
Placed here by fear I couldn't resist to subsist and make sure that I had no choice in my plans.
I did what they told me - took up the flag to fly and spread fear around this fractured society.
Placate, vacate, these words are whispered in my ear late at night by people I don't know.
And when I wake up I can't hear myself - due to the gross noises of these eternal showers,
and I'm cold when I watch the sun grow old and sink below the horizon,
because I know that one day it is going to the last time - and I wonder how many will recognise the beauty.
And how this beauty reflects upon ourselves in our purest form - burning bright for truth and for reform
but so many are dull, and deceived and not rising or falling just being.
And it's part of the fall that makes the rise so sweet.
And part of the rise that makes the fall so difficult.
And it's the journey in between that makes all the difference,
so take the other path,
the long one that leads to happiness.
For on the way you shall grow, fall, suffer and love, and this is life and this is why we recognise the purity and grace of that dove,
for it too has grown, lived and loved and it naturally flys towards the heavens.
Just as we should, believer or heathens.
But how can we resist?
When its beaten into our hearts with an iron fist
shrouded in glorious monotonous mist
deemed brilliant by those who insist
that within it must be a fundamental twist
allowing us to live in grace whilst being misfits.
It's not the shit that we have to deal with that gets me pissed,
it's the fact that it could already be too late
and I'm the crazy one for opening that gate,
for letting the sheep out of the pen
so that they may sense and then pen
their thoughts and hopefully progress so then
we may see something better within our temporal court
that may allow for us to ascend to something greater where the eternal is wrought.
And it leaves me here wondering why many of us can't see the end of the Devil's grin.
Why we feel we have to go out rather than have a night in.
Why we see the ancients as something grim,
and not worth our while to take in.
And to make within ourselves a strong fortitude
that gives us the aptitude to understand our lives
and therefore our deaths that are always coming soon.
By doing so humanity will be living within the tune
of being peaceful, intelligent and concerned with our eternal mood.
And it is too much to ask to be balanced, to be far away from that evil brood.
So when hate comes falling like bitter shards of ice we can melt it all away with forgiveness, the antithesis of vice.
When our best years are spent buying things to kill ourselves it says a lot about our most intense fears,
that we cannot handle long life and the knowledge of falling so hard that we try to arrange the knife in such a manner that it will take our life before we know the false logic ingrained within our corrupt hearts.
and my heart wants you so bad, but cannot have you,
and your hard hair and stained locks drop around my face and shoulders,
holding you I find what I need - two hearts beating at once in solemn intuition;
but within me, deep down, I know that this won't happen often - because it is so beautiful.
But I am grateful, like the sea that laps at the solid cliffs, you hurt me and degrade me, but atleast I get to see the beauty that grows in such suffering. Within the rockpools of my pain lies much life, and this life makes many wonder because of its natural beauty.
so much time to do everything - so much of everything lies within doing something and now we've got nothing to do - so within nothing we may find everything if our eyes are open at times when they should be closed.
And why is it that printing presses have become better equipped yet our literature has become sardonic and weak, useless and thin, ignorant and bent.
Let's carve our thoughts into stone so that forever more intelligence can be related to rock-solid truth.
Let's devour these hearts unknown so that we can disguise our truths to the world,
let's parade these cancerous unknowns as facts so that we can empower the money men who moan for more gold in their pockets like poor souls trapped in strip clubs with paper power riding between their hip bones and their g-strings. It's no hard reasoning that brings us to realise that these things cause rifts between good times and bad stings;
like wasps and bees that can cause allergic reactions in our bodies, we're fragile and so is our mind at times when it is difficult to be at ease - when we're caught in the pale, purpley-green spotlight of a blown up tornado tearing apart our livelihood whilst the rest of the country watches on its knees in front of the television praying to a God that doesn't exist within these walls nor in the temporal halls. Please oh please, they scream as the same gale force winds tear apart their temporal lives piece by piece, material value lost with every natural gust - and no amount of insurance will cover these losses - this is bigger than monetary value - this is psychological damage. Now that the material is inextricably linked with our own happiness it is no wonder that we try to become better and happier through fads and instant transactions. Nobody is happy just sitting down and watching life happen. Watching the birds and the bees, the bark growing on the trees, the earth-worms enjoying the dirt below and the leaves bringing us fresh air upon the pleasant breeze.
It's simple things like these that breed within us bliss; living on nature's soil we embrace hard work and toil that leads us to where we are happy as a character foil to temporality of this realm.
And those purple covers once moved in gracious tones,
overflowing with sharp desires and low moans,
slippery solemn moments captured the atonement to something greater than those.
Such small people.
It is within these moments that what our society slides towards what is known;
and so the subtle intensions of those, that eventually fall like boulders towards roads, become evident to our once ignorant eyes.
But I see purple covers wilting. And I never thought I'd see so many retirees hit golf balls across temporal greens rather than redeem their wasted lives and spend their time influencing and teaching the new generation about their history and their historical lives.
Were it no so easy I'd like to call our history and our pride a burnt out furnace cold to touch, were it no so easy I'd like to propose that we stoke the fires and coals with time-hardened knowledge and truth, if it weren't for the constant decay of primal matter via the insidious and dark infiltration of modern and post modern ideals, a controversial proposition I do know, but when you stand for nothing you fall for anything, and so our coals are weak and futile and our fires are but poor reflections of our by-gone bonfires, or flourishings that have fallen by the way side - blown away by fast food and materialism.
We're all so out of touch that we think we're in touch. When nobody touches anymore what it means to be touched has been lost. And so we're not touched by anything - give us Nihilism, give us helium, so when we act stupid we can sound stupid too. Is it too much to ask for a passion to understand, to love, to forgive, to life?
And when our society views hard work as 'old fashioned' it must mean that what we do nowawadays is not hard work at all.
Perhaps it's because people tend to pick up things that are immediately attractive - rather than things that will grow on you.
The social signals were not lost in the ether - no, they were far below that.
To go down in flames,
to have the truth thrown back in your face,
to have no home, to walk alone,
that's what's going to happen when the truth rains down,
I want...
To see the reign come down.
To hear the fame fall down.
To smell the truth become known.
To touch the beauty in God's nation,
To taste a world without fear.
When Satan's stain sears the town.
Then everybody will know
I tried to make the truth known.
After passing through this town,
after living here and now,
I'm leaving with no burdens.
Giving truth to the unheard,
leading the herd away from the lies,
feeding fire to fire-flies.
Veritas Odium Parit.
I hope you never forget you.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
2012 conspiracy - just a plot to allow people with power and money to do drastic things to make more money.
Marko-sophia knows this and tries to aid his town in coming to terms with it - his town turns against him and burns him with petrol on the hillside (after a long chase- and hide out lasting 3 weeks) as the nuclear dawn rises and the world is changed forevermore.
They all wanted Marko-sophia dead, for longer than they knew their potent dread.
Marko-sophia knows this and tries to aid his town in coming to terms with it - his town turns against him and burns him with petrol on the hillside (after a long chase- and hide out lasting 3 weeks) as the nuclear dawn rises and the world is changed forevermore.
They all wanted Marko-sophia dead, for longer than they knew their potent dread.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
My eyes
I want to make you feel nasty. Down right down and out and dawn light will drown the scars out. Boy scout medical paranoia will take your transmissions and twist them into -
submission
- taught around your minds, dark, in this nightmare you skylark. Fly, fly high, deep into the violet sky. Bruises pressed into your skin, squeezed into your mind, your memories bend like a bow bent -snap, broken in two for the sake of making a meager metaphor mend.
_Deep dark depths man, I went there just then. Couldn't speak, couldn't find no friend and man I swear that my fears were not hell bent but beginning to ferment in the hellish flames._
_Man, couldn't even put two and two together, they pushed apart like polar opposites and my reasoning cascaded down in salty drops from my pulsating crown._
*Breathe deep, fail to do so could see your conscience snap.*
_Never slept before this time before, never knelt before this throne before and felt the roar of a thousand collosal truths._
_So lacking in heartfelt energy - that could have been the final flight for this horrible verse._
_It was so deep, so dark, that my body repulsed the heat and pushed out droplets of energy and thoughts to cool down this machine, of sorts._
_I wish I remembered clearly,
I wish I could tell you dearly,_
_And now I'm here._
_Maybe I should just drop it? - Just fucking drop it and let it go_
_But I've never felt that way before._
_Never known how much I would be in uproar_
_when words were respected no more_
_and enemies used them to mop the floor_
_after they blew your head off with a metaphor._
_False lies, perverted since ages ago..._
_Lie strong in the heart's of old men._
_And many cannot understand.
Many minds cannot bend back,
or even bend at all,
they are so tightly strung to one side,
that they cannot see the lie,
if only they had my eyes.
If only they had my eyes.
If only -_
_I'll give them my eyes.
I won't let words be the enemy.
Compassion, understanding, knowledge and faith will befriend the vehement solemnity that encased my soul.
But I broke free._
_They shall have my eyes.
However, I shant go blind.
For what I see colours my mind,
and they can never take that from me,
nor mankind
as long as we stand for truth,
unity, love._
_White doves fly high.
La phenix rises from the ashes.
The pendulum swings back,
As the truth spreads through the masses,_
_They shall have my eyes._
submission
- taught around your minds, dark, in this nightmare you skylark. Fly, fly high, deep into the violet sky. Bruises pressed into your skin, squeezed into your mind, your memories bend like a bow bent -snap, broken in two for the sake of making a meager metaphor mend.
_Deep dark depths man, I went there just then. Couldn't speak, couldn't find no friend and man I swear that my fears were not hell bent but beginning to ferment in the hellish flames._
_Man, couldn't even put two and two together, they pushed apart like polar opposites and my reasoning cascaded down in salty drops from my pulsating crown._
*Breathe deep, fail to do so could see your conscience snap.*
_Never slept before this time before, never knelt before this throne before and felt the roar of a thousand collosal truths._
_So lacking in heartfelt energy - that could have been the final flight for this horrible verse._
_It was so deep, so dark, that my body repulsed the heat and pushed out droplets of energy and thoughts to cool down this machine, of sorts._
_I wish I remembered clearly,
I wish I could tell you dearly,_
_And now I'm here._
_Maybe I should just drop it? - Just fucking drop it and let it go_
_But I've never felt that way before._
_Never known how much I would be in uproar_
_when words were respected no more_
_and enemies used them to mop the floor_
_after they blew your head off with a metaphor._
_False lies, perverted since ages ago..._
_Lie strong in the heart's of old men._
_And many cannot understand.
Many minds cannot bend back,
or even bend at all,
they are so tightly strung to one side,
that they cannot see the lie,
if only they had my eyes.
If only they had my eyes.
If only -_
_I'll give them my eyes.
I won't let words be the enemy.
Compassion, understanding, knowledge and faith will befriend the vehement solemnity that encased my soul.
But I broke free._
_They shall have my eyes.
However, I shant go blind.
For what I see colours my mind,
and they can never take that from me,
nor mankind
as long as we stand for truth,
unity, love._
_White doves fly high.
La phenix rises from the ashes.
The pendulum swings back,
As the truth spreads through the masses,_
_They shall have my eyes._
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
FNX
Don’t downplay the distaste aimed at the state,
even though these suits know your number plate
and before you park your car in your garage it will be too late.
You have to rise up and fight the hate. Eliminate the oppressive state.
Take control of your own fate.
‘Coz that’s the world if we’re too late.
If these soulless shadows make you take a mortgage out on your intellectual estate,
then that’s the reality of our state.
OUR STATE
The truth is stranger than fiction, friends,
and that’s not a prediction,
it’s a description,
non-fiction.
Now let’s make amends.
even though these suits know your number plate
and before you park your car in your garage it will be too late.
You have to rise up and fight the hate. Eliminate the oppressive state.
Take control of your own fate.
‘Coz that’s the world if we’re too late.
If these soulless shadows make you take a mortgage out on your intellectual estate,
then that’s the reality of our state.
OUR STATE
The truth is stranger than fiction, friends,
and that’s not a prediction,
it’s a description,
non-fiction.
Now let’s make amends.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
fourth book, beatnik bush
hermione
meet her in the forest on the run from the authorities. Garcia is with me, we have been out there for two months, killing animals to live.
I meet her, Hermione, the most beautiful girl in the world. She kisses me, gives me the flu (as she got the vaccination moments before she escaped - but she didn't tell me) I come down with the flu. For 6 days I am falling in and out of consciousness. 5 days of thunder and rain. Our camp is flooded, Hermione and her friend are taken. Garcia only just managed to escape with his life - he left me under ferns, almost half a kilometre away from camp - for 5 days it rained and I felt the rain, purifying me. For five days I drifted in and out of sleep, was I wide awake in my conscience? Was this heaven? On the 6th day Garcia came back for me. On the 6th day the sun came out, warming my bones, warming me to my core, the morning sunshine brought me back to life. But I was out there for too long, I began to burn. Before I shrivelled up to die Garcia came back. He brought me into the shade. Cooled me with the river water. Fed me fish and water from his cup. He explained to me that Hermione had been taken and that he had escaped with his life, and he apologised for leaving me here. He told me that he wanted to show me something, that it was important... but I should also be wary of my health and that I needed to rest for a few hours. For these hours I gazed upon the beauty of the place. The beautiful running water. The cool shade. The life-giving heat, the plants, the bushes, the animals, bugs and birds. In my sleep I dreamt I was in heaven. Upon waking I witnessed my dream first hand. Pure pleasure. The orchestral sounds. The perfume smells. All natural. All free, balanced, perfect, good. All too soon Garcia called me to follow him. For about 3 kilometres we walked through the bush until we
(intentionally leaving the last sentence broken. It characterises the situation we are in. It's not finished yet. It's up to us to choose what to do. To write the conclusion, so to speak. - Perhaps there could be a part 2 of the novel, who knows.)
the cool, calm peacefulness of night time.
meet her in the forest on the run from the authorities. Garcia is with me, we have been out there for two months, killing animals to live.
I meet her, Hermione, the most beautiful girl in the world. She kisses me, gives me the flu (as she got the vaccination moments before she escaped - but she didn't tell me) I come down with the flu. For 6 days I am falling in and out of consciousness. 5 days of thunder and rain. Our camp is flooded, Hermione and her friend are taken. Garcia only just managed to escape with his life - he left me under ferns, almost half a kilometre away from camp - for 5 days it rained and I felt the rain, purifying me. For five days I drifted in and out of sleep, was I wide awake in my conscience? Was this heaven? On the 6th day Garcia came back for me. On the 6th day the sun came out, warming my bones, warming me to my core, the morning sunshine brought me back to life. But I was out there for too long, I began to burn. Before I shrivelled up to die Garcia came back. He brought me into the shade. Cooled me with the river water. Fed me fish and water from his cup. He explained to me that Hermione had been taken and that he had escaped with his life, and he apologised for leaving me here. He told me that he wanted to show me something, that it was important... but I should also be wary of my health and that I needed to rest for a few hours. For these hours I gazed upon the beauty of the place. The beautiful running water. The cool shade. The life-giving heat, the plants, the bushes, the animals, bugs and birds. In my sleep I dreamt I was in heaven. Upon waking I witnessed my dream first hand. Pure pleasure. The orchestral sounds. The perfume smells. All natural. All free, balanced, perfect, good. All too soon Garcia called me to follow him. For about 3 kilometres we walked through the bush until we
(intentionally leaving the last sentence broken. It characterises the situation we are in. It's not finished yet. It's up to us to choose what to do. To write the conclusion, so to speak. - Perhaps there could be a part 2 of the novel, who knows.)
the cool, calm peacefulness of night time.
The Island
We are all fans. Building and building and building up our idols but in doing so we are forgetting about our own foundations. Loneliness isn’t just a melancholic experience – it can also be superfluous exacerbated positivity, in my eyes.
I see the times fly by… From the last fall to the next one. One mindset knows all – all there is to know is known and this dulls my world. So I turn that off – I live with one eye open instead of all three. I know it sounds weird to you but it’s me. And I don’t live for you I live for me unless you’re a part of me – like my family than it’s different and you’ll see. I protect them just as they protect me.
And honestly, protection is all we seem seek in this modern world. Look at the world from the top to the bottom. The homeless seek protection, the underprivileged want more money, the middle class want more holidays, the wealthy want less tax, the famous want less paparazzi, the insecure want more self-esteem, the envious want more whatever and the greedy want more of everything.
And that’s apparently normal. It seems that it’s simply the way it is.
That is, of course, until we give up everything.
Until the day comes that we give up everything we are always going to be lost in our greed.
Give up greed.
Listen to your heart. It beats for you.
Learn to love yourself before you lose yourself in hating yourself and then trying to love yourself by falling in love with something or someone else and thinking that you’ll be better off with that thing.
You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t survive with what you’ve got already. You don’t need anything else. You can be tricked into wanting something else, but you can never be tricked into needing it. If you don’t get that new accessory – your heart won’t stop beating. If the other person doesn’t fall in love with you, you won’t spontaneously combust. But if you stop loving and you stop being compassionate and understanding and if you start to live like you have no soul then you will start to die – and you’ll be dead long before your bones rot and your body becomes another part of our Earth.
Until you realise that you are the most perfect and most beautiful and almost indescribable gift this planet has ever known than you will constantly be looking for something else and you will never feel satiated. Believe in your potential.
Think back to the time when the world felt perfect – when everything was in its place.
I think of childhood. As children, we weren’t hit by the media telling us that we were flawed and lacking materialistic things, we weren’t made to feel inadequate and small. Fuck that.
Once you realise that you are equipped to deal with this world than your whole life will change. You will stop making excuses, you will stop running away from the problems, you will be proud of who you are and what you are capable of. And you won’t be scared. You won’t be scared of falling, you won’t be scared of making mistakes – mistakes won’t ruin you now – they are the building blocks to knowledge and truth. Instead of letting mistakes crush you – use them, use that experience to build a bridge over troubled waters, to make a staircase to elevate yourself, use your mistakes as lights that lighten the path you have taken so that you may always look back and know where you have come from. Think of achievements the same way except the light is stronger.
And when you reach this point of believing in yourself – and in humanity, then you will have scaled mountains, traversed countries and crossed oceans.
And at the end of this major journey you will find yourself at the island. You will see
Stars dotted amongst the swaying trees.
butterflies dancing daintilly around them,
the young soft breeze seduces the sun and it sets beyond the warm horizon,
brush strokes melt the canvas as the water gently laps the golden beach.
Birds hum and call, a large throbbing bird song, meditating in the jungle,
bare stones and small pebbles line the path of love.
Cold drinks, every colour of the rainbow and more stand keeping guard.
No ignorant man shall step foot on this land. Only pure, enlightened minds can roam free.
Mellow yellow bamboo at every corner, holding up life and greenery, floating in the air.
The heavy warm wafts of salty sea breeze. Cold beer and moving music. The sultry start of a serendipitous slumber. Here lies the pure pleasure, where the beautiful brave live and let live.
Deep serenity. You and me, myself and I. All of us here, in my head, this island of bravery, intelligence and knowing. Pure personal bliss, a simple truth floating above a cataclsymic ocean of lies.
I see the times fly by… From the last fall to the next one. One mindset knows all – all there is to know is known and this dulls my world. So I turn that off – I live with one eye open instead of all three. I know it sounds weird to you but it’s me. And I don’t live for you I live for me unless you’re a part of me – like my family than it’s different and you’ll see. I protect them just as they protect me.
And honestly, protection is all we seem seek in this modern world. Look at the world from the top to the bottom. The homeless seek protection, the underprivileged want more money, the middle class want more holidays, the wealthy want less tax, the famous want less paparazzi, the insecure want more self-esteem, the envious want more whatever and the greedy want more of everything.
And that’s apparently normal. It seems that it’s simply the way it is.
That is, of course, until we give up everything.
Until the day comes that we give up everything we are always going to be lost in our greed.
Give up greed.
Listen to your heart. It beats for you.
Learn to love yourself before you lose yourself in hating yourself and then trying to love yourself by falling in love with something or someone else and thinking that you’ll be better off with that thing.
You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t survive with what you’ve got already. You don’t need anything else. You can be tricked into wanting something else, but you can never be tricked into needing it. If you don’t get that new accessory – your heart won’t stop beating. If the other person doesn’t fall in love with you, you won’t spontaneously combust. But if you stop loving and you stop being compassionate and understanding and if you start to live like you have no soul then you will start to die – and you’ll be dead long before your bones rot and your body becomes another part of our Earth.
Until you realise that you are the most perfect and most beautiful and almost indescribable gift this planet has ever known than you will constantly be looking for something else and you will never feel satiated. Believe in your potential.
Think back to the time when the world felt perfect – when everything was in its place.
I think of childhood. As children, we weren’t hit by the media telling us that we were flawed and lacking materialistic things, we weren’t made to feel inadequate and small. Fuck that.
Once you realise that you are equipped to deal with this world than your whole life will change. You will stop making excuses, you will stop running away from the problems, you will be proud of who you are and what you are capable of. And you won’t be scared. You won’t be scared of falling, you won’t be scared of making mistakes – mistakes won’t ruin you now – they are the building blocks to knowledge and truth. Instead of letting mistakes crush you – use them, use that experience to build a bridge over troubled waters, to make a staircase to elevate yourself, use your mistakes as lights that lighten the path you have taken so that you may always look back and know where you have come from. Think of achievements the same way except the light is stronger.
And when you reach this point of believing in yourself – and in humanity, then you will have scaled mountains, traversed countries and crossed oceans.
And at the end of this major journey you will find yourself at the island. You will see
Stars dotted amongst the swaying trees.
butterflies dancing daintilly around them,
the young soft breeze seduces the sun and it sets beyond the warm horizon,
brush strokes melt the canvas as the water gently laps the golden beach.
Birds hum and call, a large throbbing bird song, meditating in the jungle,
bare stones and small pebbles line the path of love.
Cold drinks, every colour of the rainbow and more stand keeping guard.
No ignorant man shall step foot on this land. Only pure, enlightened minds can roam free.
Mellow yellow bamboo at every corner, holding up life and greenery, floating in the air.
The heavy warm wafts of salty sea breeze. Cold beer and moving music. The sultry start of a serendipitous slumber. Here lies the pure pleasure, where the beautiful brave live and let live.
Deep serenity. You and me, myself and I. All of us here, in my head, this island of bravery, intelligence and knowing. Pure personal bliss, a simple truth floating above a cataclsymic ocean of lies.
rvr motto
I'll get to pastoral poetry later. For now I'm dealing with shit. Intricate, raw, confusing shit. And I'll spend all my energy working it out - teasing it out - it's what I've wanted to do since I began thinking of my possibilities in life. Make no mistakes about it - I'm a fuck-up, a loser, a down and out piece of shit. But that's me and I'll blow you away when I become free. So just let me be. I don't want you and I don't need you needing me. I'm nothing special but what I can give you will last for infinity and it's not because I'm doing anything surprising it's because the world has lost something, like Poseidon, went down with Atlantis and let's not sit around like praying mantis I'm destroying this canvas 'coz it's been painted all wrong - don't paint over the past like an ignorant ass. You gotta reflect and define, because right now corrupt minds do try to take your fine minds and make you into their maligned and in hind sight the world will look back and thank those who fight.
I've been born to do this. Been born to say this. It's easy for me and I don't think it's a big deal. But I do care. And I do hurt. And I do bleed. And I do envy and I do freeze when I think of these 'conspiracies' not being dealt with carefully. That's why I consult history. And this is me. Leaving these words here amongst many others for free and sometime in some year they'll be the light out of the tunnel, they'll be the medicine to your fear.
And what of me? I wasn't meant to be here long - that's why I'm wise beyond my years - and I'm not speaking out of turn here I hear those words alot they ring around my ears.
Brittney spears - definitely taken under by the illuminati - she tries to break free. They strap her down, make her look 'crazy' when she's trying to escape and then take her away to be hypnotised and possessed under their control once again. The illuminati use the human vanity to take control of us. The 'stars' are their weapons. Ever wondered why they are called stars? It's because the Illuminati want you to subconsciously LOOK UP TO THEM.
This life is stranger then it seems. But it all starts to make sense, once you think about it - and open yourself up to the truth.
Tupac - Blasphemy
"We probably in Hell already, our dumb asses not knowin'
Everybody kissin' ass to go to Heaven, ain't going'
Put my soul on it, I'm fightin' devil, niggaz daily
Plus the media be crucifying brothers severely"
literacy levels falling
one book leaving a question
the second book answering
This tattoo is how I signed my pledge to myself, to my family, to the world - that I will always and in all things act with reason, with good faith and with hope. The ink poured into my body and intertwined itself with my atoms, my thoughts mixed with the ink, the intangible meaning became a picture. All my feelings, all my thoughts, all my needs and desires, all my hope now embrace my body. My tattoo symbolises a unification of heart, mind and soul - it bonds my thoughts to my physical body. It symbolises my dreams becoming reality.
I've been born to do this. Been born to say this. It's easy for me and I don't think it's a big deal. But I do care. And I do hurt. And I do bleed. And I do envy and I do freeze when I think of these 'conspiracies' not being dealt with carefully. That's why I consult history. And this is me. Leaving these words here amongst many others for free and sometime in some year they'll be the light out of the tunnel, they'll be the medicine to your fear.
And what of me? I wasn't meant to be here long - that's why I'm wise beyond my years - and I'm not speaking out of turn here I hear those words alot they ring around my ears.
Brittney spears - definitely taken under by the illuminati - she tries to break free. They strap her down, make her look 'crazy' when she's trying to escape and then take her away to be hypnotised and possessed under their control once again. The illuminati use the human vanity to take control of us. The 'stars' are their weapons. Ever wondered why they are called stars? It's because the Illuminati want you to subconsciously LOOK UP TO THEM.
This life is stranger then it seems. But it all starts to make sense, once you think about it - and open yourself up to the truth.
Tupac - Blasphemy
"We probably in Hell already, our dumb asses not knowin'
Everybody kissin' ass to go to Heaven, ain't going'
Put my soul on it, I'm fightin' devil, niggaz daily
Plus the media be crucifying brothers severely"
literacy levels falling
one book leaving a question
the second book answering
This tattoo is how I signed my pledge to myself, to my family, to the world - that I will always and in all things act with reason, with good faith and with hope. The ink poured into my body and intertwined itself with my atoms, my thoughts mixed with the ink, the intangible meaning became a picture. All my feelings, all my thoughts, all my needs and desires, all my hope now embrace my body. My tattoo symbolises a unification of heart, mind and soul - it bonds my thoughts to my physical body. It symbolises my dreams becoming reality.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Time to Dance
Writer who writes well when a spirit comes into him during times of displeasure/aggravation/melancholy. He notices at the end of the year of his first year of major writing. Thus he questions, is it me? Or is it that? Should I stop it or should I let it go? But now I know when it happens, can I make it occur?
So he starts to womanize and aims to get rejected by women. He finds all his old crushes on facebook and wines and dines and then gets dumped by them and uses that melancholy to fuel his writing. He becomes a prolific writer and world famous. One day he aims to get rejected by a beautiful, amazing girl, but she falls in love with him.
Time to Dance
'Come on John, it's time to dance' - grade 10 dancing - the first time he was rejected. He asked a girl to dance and she wouldn't. He went home and wrote a 3 word poem about it 'fuck my life'.
So he starts to womanize and aims to get rejected by women. He finds all his old crushes on facebook and wines and dines and then gets dumped by them and uses that melancholy to fuel his writing. He becomes a prolific writer and world famous. One day he aims to get rejected by a beautiful, amazing girl, but she falls in love with him.
Time to Dance
'Come on John, it's time to dance' - grade 10 dancing - the first time he was rejected. He asked a girl to dance and she wouldn't. He went home and wrote a 3 word poem about it 'fuck my life'.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Monday, 7 September 2009
The crickets keep the beat,
as songs flood through me.
My feet hit the silent concrete.
Setting the stage; I am not worthy.
How many years has it known?
What fears has it seen?
Which behemoths has it enthroned?
Maybe walking alone, perhaps unknown.
It sits in constant disrepair,
as pairs and figures take it as a flat stair.
Flat stares are all it receives.
Nothing special,
nothing seen.
Until the brave muse finds
a certain sought of peace confined
within these stony halls,
so many meanings,
and many more years have crawled.
Does it rest or does it shake?
This motionless beast,
this defenceless drake.
Six of them sailing the seven seas
perhaps have never witnessed as many memories;
of which these man made giants believe
to be the essence of humanity.
Walking to and fro,
from whence we come
to where we go.
They utter not a sound,
nor a frown nor do they judge our bound,
short or long, they echo our song
of nothing; a blind bards song:
How can he sing of war and peace?
When nothing has ever graced his sight.
This marvel gives a lofty grease,
to the machinations I see this night.
‘Right’ and ‘Wrong’
throbs through my brain,
yet I am too young to sing this song,
singing it now would sound so vain.
So many challenges await my name,
and so many may dampen my spirits like rain,
yet just as the rain gives growth to nature,
I too shall grow in fame and stature.
Fear may keep the rain from hitting the roots,
like a well made yet misplaced roof.
Yet I cannot let this quell the truth.
I won’t let myself be led aloof.
Just as this path guides the hoof
of many a man who dreamt a night,
where the path rose to him in sight,
and so he followed it for it held him so tight.
As I gazed upwards this time,
I realised that this path was right.
and I realised, with a silent smile, that this truth was mine.
As the clouds flowed over the moon so bright – giving it time, in reflection, to realise its light.
as songs flood through me.
My feet hit the silent concrete.
Setting the stage; I am not worthy.
How many years has it known?
What fears has it seen?
Which behemoths has it enthroned?
Maybe walking alone, perhaps unknown.
It sits in constant disrepair,
as pairs and figures take it as a flat stair.
Flat stares are all it receives.
Nothing special,
nothing seen.
Until the brave muse finds
a certain sought of peace confined
within these stony halls,
so many meanings,
and many more years have crawled.
Does it rest or does it shake?
This motionless beast,
this defenceless drake.
Six of them sailing the seven seas
perhaps have never witnessed as many memories;
of which these man made giants believe
to be the essence of humanity.
Walking to and fro,
from whence we come
to where we go.
They utter not a sound,
nor a frown nor do they judge our bound,
short or long, they echo our song
of nothing; a blind bards song:
How can he sing of war and peace?
When nothing has ever graced his sight.
This marvel gives a lofty grease,
to the machinations I see this night.
‘Right’ and ‘Wrong’
throbs through my brain,
yet I am too young to sing this song,
singing it now would sound so vain.
So many challenges await my name,
and so many may dampen my spirits like rain,
yet just as the rain gives growth to nature,
I too shall grow in fame and stature.
Fear may keep the rain from hitting the roots,
like a well made yet misplaced roof.
Yet I cannot let this quell the truth.
I won’t let myself be led aloof.
Just as this path guides the hoof
of many a man who dreamt a night,
where the path rose to him in sight,
and so he followed it for it held him so tight.
As I gazed upwards this time,
I realised that this path was right.
and I realised, with a silent smile, that this truth was mine.
As the clouds flowed over the moon so bright – giving it time, in reflection, to realise its light.
If there was ever a good time
to make a name for one’s self,
to be who you are and actually be remembered,
then it is now.
When you are surrounded by malleable young minds,
or intellectually astute academics,
now is the time to make a name for yourself.
And whether you do it
via ‘good’ or ‘evil’
or whether you are understood,
does not matter to the history books.
Either way you will be written down,
you will continue to prosper.
Fine young minds will read about you
and engage in some sort of dreaming
About the man who wrote what he thought,
and wrote what he saw.
About the man who wrote the answers to his problems,
so he could continue forever more.
And as much as that seems so wrong right now,
history proves that at some time it will be deemed right.
And when that time comes,
this young poet, will have his night of nights.
For that time he will be remembered
as a young scoundrel,
a mischevious beast,
but he will also be fondly recognised
as the boy who brought fun to the feast.
Never a dull moment,
in this young man’s company,
he may always try to please you,
or to please me.
Whichever way it went
he worried about it often
until this feeling calmy departed
and he was left with intent.
To make this time important to himself,
to actually stand up and be proud.
So that one day his son would know
that his Dad was bigger than doubt.
His Dad fought for himself,
and held his own against many,
and he was put in these circumstances
in a way that was far different from any villainy.
At times he did not want to be found,
his head, buried deep under-ground.
Here he contemplated thoughts from above,
and his soul was like that white dove.
Which always creeps into our minds
when we think of something pure and great.
Just as his young mind was,
and will be forever more. It was fate
which showed this man the path
and gave to him the looking glass
which allowed him to see the world
in all its glory and in all its horror.
And so he turned this looking glass upon himself,
thoughts flowing through his mind as the pondered,
just what he may become given the chance.
The chance came and he took it,
many people were abhorred by what he did,
but this young man found comfort in history,
as it would show shows that he is not dead.
Not dead to the world, and now he won’t be, ever,
given the nature of this discourse it would be assumed
that this young man never presumed to be the best,
and such could attest to courage which would always find jest
in the hearts and minds of the most intelligent.
Here he would find some sort of foot hold,
and whenever he became bold this foot hold would fold,
and fall away he might do so.
But he never did fall,
and such that is why this story is being written…
Of a boy who was himself
and from this, found himself smitten.
Bitten with the love of knowledge,
compassion of spirit,
kindness of heart
and understanding of mind.
He always sought to cut himself short,
so he would not stand above the crowd.
Yet one day the sun shone through the cloud,
and his true height dwarfed the people around.
From this moment on he knew it was right,
to stand up to his full height,
and speak to this dark night;
just like his Mother taught him.
Fear knew no greater enemy,
and truth knew no greater friend.
to make a name for one’s self,
to be who you are and actually be remembered,
then it is now.
When you are surrounded by malleable young minds,
or intellectually astute academics,
now is the time to make a name for yourself.
And whether you do it
via ‘good’ or ‘evil’
or whether you are understood,
does not matter to the history books.
Either way you will be written down,
you will continue to prosper.
Fine young minds will read about you
and engage in some sort of dreaming
About the man who wrote what he thought,
and wrote what he saw.
About the man who wrote the answers to his problems,
so he could continue forever more.
And as much as that seems so wrong right now,
history proves that at some time it will be deemed right.
And when that time comes,
this young poet, will have his night of nights.
For that time he will be remembered
as a young scoundrel,
a mischevious beast,
but he will also be fondly recognised
as the boy who brought fun to the feast.
Never a dull moment,
in this young man’s company,
he may always try to please you,
or to please me.
Whichever way it went
he worried about it often
until this feeling calmy departed
and he was left with intent.
To make this time important to himself,
to actually stand up and be proud.
So that one day his son would know
that his Dad was bigger than doubt.
His Dad fought for himself,
and held his own against many,
and he was put in these circumstances
in a way that was far different from any villainy.
At times he did not want to be found,
his head, buried deep under-ground.
Here he contemplated thoughts from above,
and his soul was like that white dove.
Which always creeps into our minds
when we think of something pure and great.
Just as his young mind was,
and will be forever more. It was fate
which showed this man the path
and gave to him the looking glass
which allowed him to see the world
in all its glory and in all its horror.
And so he turned this looking glass upon himself,
thoughts flowing through his mind as the pondered,
just what he may become given the chance.
The chance came and he took it,
many people were abhorred by what he did,
but this young man found comfort in history,
as it would show shows that he is not dead.
Not dead to the world, and now he won’t be, ever,
given the nature of this discourse it would be assumed
that this young man never presumed to be the best,
and such could attest to courage which would always find jest
in the hearts and minds of the most intelligent.
Here he would find some sort of foot hold,
and whenever he became bold this foot hold would fold,
and fall away he might do so.
But he never did fall,
and such that is why this story is being written…
Of a boy who was himself
and from this, found himself smitten.
Bitten with the love of knowledge,
compassion of spirit,
kindness of heart
and understanding of mind.
He always sought to cut himself short,
so he would not stand above the crowd.
Yet one day the sun shone through the cloud,
and his true height dwarfed the people around.
From this moment on he knew it was right,
to stand up to his full height,
and speak to this dark night;
just like his Mother taught him.
Fear knew no greater enemy,
and truth knew no greater friend.
Bark along your solitary fence.
Scare away the neighbours.
Dig down deeper at the dents
which seem to hold a favourable flavour
of blood and bone that was once alive here.
The garden of life – a life turned into hatred.
Belated by a between a lie and a life story.
Of love and harmony, killed through a distant disarming
of understanding that caressed the enemy in dark times.
‘You silly dog! You don’t understand!
dig for the bone! Don’t bite the hand!’ I shouted.
Twisting, burning, turn the light out with a shout.
Blow through the hollow tube and seal the mist inside the room.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Scarring inside of you burns to break through and eat through this room.
It will fight its way out of you if it must.
Throw it up. Let lust disgust you enough to churn up your guts.
Allow the rot to get out and wet the dust
which strokes your fingers and toes.
Bedridden with woes – your dreams have turned on you.
Turning. Turning. Drink some water.
Gulp it down and turn some more.
The brittle bones rattle in your neck,
flexing to get out of this fleshy chamber.
Empty of health and flailing in desire.
‘You silly dog! You don’t understand,
dig for the bone! Don’t bite the hand,’ I mumbled.
Bulging ligaments groaned like old plumbing
as I craned down to look at my hand.
The bones were poking through the sand-paper skin and the teeth were sinking deeper now.
‘You silly dog! You don’t understand.’
‘I am not your meal!’ I moaned.
‘You silly dog. You don’t understand!’ Said I again, grumbling… my mouth was filled with salty, dirty flesh and blood. The metallic taste corroded my soft palette.
With sickening realisation, twisting my insides up once again, Truth burst inside the darkness, blowing my door to smithereens. Sunlight burnt my eyes, the bird song blistered my ears and the crisp air stripped the lining of my lungs.
‘I was once a man…’ I uttered. Yet there was nobody to hear me this time. Truth had left me with nothing. Not even a barking dog.
Scare away the neighbours.
Dig down deeper at the dents
which seem to hold a favourable flavour
of blood and bone that was once alive here.
The garden of life – a life turned into hatred.
Belated by a between a lie and a life story.
Of love and harmony, killed through a distant disarming
of understanding that caressed the enemy in dark times.
‘You silly dog! You don’t understand!
dig for the bone! Don’t bite the hand!’ I shouted.
Twisting, burning, turn the light out with a shout.
Blow through the hollow tube and seal the mist inside the room.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Scarring inside of you burns to break through and eat through this room.
It will fight its way out of you if it must.
Throw it up. Let lust disgust you enough to churn up your guts.
Allow the rot to get out and wet the dust
which strokes your fingers and toes.
Bedridden with woes – your dreams have turned on you.
Turning. Turning. Drink some water.
Gulp it down and turn some more.
The brittle bones rattle in your neck,
flexing to get out of this fleshy chamber.
Empty of health and flailing in desire.
‘You silly dog! You don’t understand,
dig for the bone! Don’t bite the hand,’ I mumbled.
Bulging ligaments groaned like old plumbing
as I craned down to look at my hand.
The bones were poking through the sand-paper skin and the teeth were sinking deeper now.
‘You silly dog! You don’t understand.’
‘I am not your meal!’ I moaned.
‘You silly dog. You don’t understand!’ Said I again, grumbling… my mouth was filled with salty, dirty flesh and blood. The metallic taste corroded my soft palette.
With sickening realisation, twisting my insides up once again, Truth burst inside the darkness, blowing my door to smithereens. Sunlight burnt my eyes, the bird song blistered my ears and the crisp air stripped the lining of my lungs.
‘I was once a man…’ I uttered. Yet there was nobody to hear me this time. Truth had left me with nothing. Not even a barking dog.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Fuck post-modernism. It's full of loud-mouthed fools who think that whoever can say the biggest word wins.
Fuck you for missing the point.
Fuck you for arguing for arguments sake.
Fuck you.
Furthermore. I fucking hate literary figures who explode over anybody who makes a grammatical error.
Fuck you you bignoting mother fucker.
This is disgusting.
Fuck the current way.
Re-write. Don't give them a chance.
Blow it out of the fucking water.
Be prepared for hate/misunderstanding. It's natural. Enjoy it you fucker.
Fuck you for missing the point.
Fuck you for arguing for arguments sake.
Fuck you.
Furthermore. I fucking hate literary figures who explode over anybody who makes a grammatical error.
Fuck you you bignoting mother fucker.
This is disgusting.
Fuck the current way.
Re-write. Don't give them a chance.
Blow it out of the fucking water.
Be prepared for hate/misunderstanding. It's natural. Enjoy it you fucker.
I am lucky.
This is meant to be.
Where ducks listen to me write.
And the grounds-keeper inspires the students in ways that nobody ever could.
If I was going to believe in God - it would be because of this place.
Because of NOW.
Yet I must disregard the secrets of my knowledge in order to enjoy the surprise.
Where ducks listen to me write.
And the grounds-keeper inspires the students in ways that nobody ever could.
If I was going to believe in God - it would be because of this place.
Because of NOW.
Yet I must disregard the secrets of my knowledge in order to enjoy the surprise.
The Concrete Path
The crickets keep the beat,
as songs flood through me,
my feet hit the silent concrete.
Setting the stage; I am not worthy.
How many years has it known?
What fears has it seen?
Which behemoths has it enthroned?
Maybe walking alone, perhaps unknown.
It sits in constant disrepair,
as pairs and figures take it as a flat stair.
Flat stares are all it receives.
Nothing special,
nothing seen.
Until the brave muse finds
a certain sought of peace confined
within these stony halls,
so many meanings,
and many more years have crawled.
Does it rest or does it shake?
This motionless beast,
this defenceless drake.
Six of them sailing the seven seas
perhaps have never witnessed as many memories;
of which these man made giants believe
to be the essence of humanity.
Walking to and fro,
from whence we come
to where we go.
They utter not a sound,
nor a frown nor do they judge our bound,
short or long, they echo our song
of nothing; a blind bards song:
How can he sing of war and peace?
When nothing has ever graced his sight.
This marvel gives a lofty grease,
to the machinations I see this night.
‘Right’ and ‘Wrong’
throbs through my brain,
yet I am too young to sing this song,
singing it now would sound so vain.
So many challenges await my name,
and so many may dampen my spirits like rain,
yet just as the rain gives growth to nature,
I too shall grow in fame and stature.
Fear may keep the rain from hitting the roots,
like a well made yet misplaced roof.
Yet I cannot let this head the truth.
I won’t let my self be led aloof.
Just as this path guides the hoof
of many a man who dreamt a night,
where the path rose to him in sight,
and so he followed it for it held him so tight.
As I gazed upwards this time,
I realised that this path was right.
and I realised, with a silent smile, that this truth was mine.
As the clouds flowed over the moon so bright – giving it time to realise its light.
as songs flood through me,
my feet hit the silent concrete.
Setting the stage; I am not worthy.
How many years has it known?
What fears has it seen?
Which behemoths has it enthroned?
Maybe walking alone, perhaps unknown.
It sits in constant disrepair,
as pairs and figures take it as a flat stair.
Flat stares are all it receives.
Nothing special,
nothing seen.
Until the brave muse finds
a certain sought of peace confined
within these stony halls,
so many meanings,
and many more years have crawled.
Does it rest or does it shake?
This motionless beast,
this defenceless drake.
Six of them sailing the seven seas
perhaps have never witnessed as many memories;
of which these man made giants believe
to be the essence of humanity.
Walking to and fro,
from whence we come
to where we go.
They utter not a sound,
nor a frown nor do they judge our bound,
short or long, they echo our song
of nothing; a blind bards song:
How can he sing of war and peace?
When nothing has ever graced his sight.
This marvel gives a lofty grease,
to the machinations I see this night.
‘Right’ and ‘Wrong’
throbs through my brain,
yet I am too young to sing this song,
singing it now would sound so vain.
So many challenges await my name,
and so many may dampen my spirits like rain,
yet just as the rain gives growth to nature,
I too shall grow in fame and stature.
Fear may keep the rain from hitting the roots,
like a well made yet misplaced roof.
Yet I cannot let this head the truth.
I won’t let my self be led aloof.
Just as this path guides the hoof
of many a man who dreamt a night,
where the path rose to him in sight,
and so he followed it for it held him so tight.
As I gazed upwards this time,
I realised that this path was right.
and I realised, with a silent smile, that this truth was mine.
As the clouds flowed over the moon so bright – giving it time to realise its light.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
You should hold that shift key for just a bit longer as I slit your skin. Slowly I peel it away, each layer slowly slides away then pops off as the pressure get stronger and stronger. Blood starts to seep down your neck and I can see your veins and arteries, wind pipe and other nasty bits. I slowly poke my dirty, soppy, fingers into the gaping wound in your neck and I play with the nerves located on your spinal column. I tweak two or three and paralyze you from the neck down. Then I put on my robe and wizard hat.
Friday, 14 August 2009
Making myself unstoppable
"The human race may be comprised of intelligent individuals
but collectively we're blundering over a cliff with our eyes wide open."
-James Hedley, Oxford
I can see it happening in everything. Things are changing - the metamorphosis is occuring - I am deep withing my coccoon and the chemicals are burning, moving and bending my soul. I am losing my control to gain the highest sort of self-control known to human existence. To gain everything one must lose all. And thus it is happening. But it's not easy, no sir, ho ho. I could try and make it funny; bearable perhaps. But I won't - because that would defeat the purpose of the whole transition. It would all be in vain if I didn't take it seriously. And so, I sit here, understanding and enjoying the pain. Just as I enjoy the pain my retainers give my teeth when I put them in my mouth - the pain symbolises change, progress, it is Right.
This is the type of situation that I can't explain to anybody. It makes sense only to myself and it only means Something to Me. Life is deep. And so is this. We have the most control when we are at our weakest states - it's not that we find any sort of significant manifestation of earth-changing power- but it is that: we understand most fully just the extent of who we are. And in doing so, when we come back from the brink of insanity, madness and self-incarceration, we are able to acclimitise to situations perfectly because we understand the machinations of ourselves. Our brain understands our brain.
but collectively we're blundering over a cliff with our eyes wide open."
-James Hedley, Oxford
I can see it happening in everything. Things are changing - the metamorphosis is occuring - I am deep withing my coccoon and the chemicals are burning, moving and bending my soul. I am losing my control to gain the highest sort of self-control known to human existence. To gain everything one must lose all. And thus it is happening. But it's not easy, no sir, ho ho. I could try and make it funny; bearable perhaps. But I won't - because that would defeat the purpose of the whole transition. It would all be in vain if I didn't take it seriously. And so, I sit here, understanding and enjoying the pain. Just as I enjoy the pain my retainers give my teeth when I put them in my mouth - the pain symbolises change, progress, it is Right.
This is the type of situation that I can't explain to anybody. It makes sense only to myself and it only means Something to Me. Life is deep. And so is this. We have the most control when we are at our weakest states - it's not that we find any sort of significant manifestation of earth-changing power- but it is that: we understand most fully just the extent of who we are. And in doing so, when we come back from the brink of insanity, madness and self-incarceration, we are able to acclimitise to situations perfectly because we understand the machinations of ourselves. Our brain understands our brain.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Why does death appeal to me? What does this reveal in me?
I will sleep in my jacket in contrast I'm calm to this racket couldn't live without my mobile phone, cig packet, passing out... passion.
Drink window cleaner.
Rule number one of sleeping: Look comfortable.
In the dark shed I become the terror. In the dark I face my fear. I am not alone. And if I focus on my fear it will come to me with force and the flavour of a rhapsodical nightmare. But if I understand the fear, it will greet me happily like a rebellious teenager greets their parents who take them back into the household, with a strong and gnarled grasp.
Hunter S is my muse. Between he and I we have nothing to lose. Life itself is a clever ruse. But, ho ho, gotta laugh at the blues. Even Jesus died young. So just chill the fuck out you are so highly strung.
Walking on the moon
Fight against the tide
Boy loves Emma watson. He gets to go to her birthday party to meet her. She doesn't notice. She is too caught up in her fame. Boy returns home determined to get on with his life. Becomes famous through chance. When he reaches stardom she has dropped off the radar. Now she wants to know him but he doesn't care about her. He is too caught up in the fame.
Sweat bored it's way through the pores
Non-plussed, double tucked and kinda fucked. Wouldn't walk for the sake of flying. Wouldn't crawl to save myself from dying. Gotta give to get and get given. Gotta talk to be able to listen.
Linguistics. Incorporate the pyramids. Historical amnesia. It is scary to think of how much knowledge we have lost.
Now I think about, what sound I make, when I breathe in and out.
Red mist red shit. Mist strangles the headset necks twist closed mind and closed fist. Chemically de-brained why strain no pain head explodes chest gets wet. Life destroyed with a single bullet.
Listen long to my lucid lamentations.
Scientists creating animals with out pain receptors. And making humans this way for organ harvesting. A wayward chicken is found by a failed scientist who dropped out of school because of a drug addiction. Cocaine and amphetamines. as colonel krumkiy they don't have to pay for things to dull the pain. no pain, no happiness.
colonel krumkiy is a woman with only one child. the child is sick and needs an organ or two. Colonel K went to uni with Adrian. Very smart. Difficult uni to get into. Adrian fell in love with her at uni. She thought he was a hopeless drop out. He took drugs and wrote poetry. Now he must show her what she is doing is wrong. Her husband died a few years ago from liver failure. She doesn't want to lose her son - the only tangible link to sanity. In the end Adrian befriends her son and finds out he thinks that it's wrong as well but she won't listen. Adrian and the son convince her to stop - one life is not equal to thousands. Just before the son dies adrian and Col. K fall in love. As they tell him this, he dies. The son leaves behind a poem. Book finishes as a new sun rises. It is not known that the colonel is a woman until late in the book
The idea came to me as a i bit into a chicken wing from nandos as paul and i drove home.
It was all a sham. Pain enveloped me.
I like to talk in circles rather then outside of them because inside a circle my ideas echo and reverberate around; my questions are answered in the cacophony of sound.
The irony of dancing on a table wearing a disguise.
baby boomer material.
Turn the music up. I can hear my conscience.
Don't look so glum. I was just kidding. I wouldn't subject you to such highly challenging yet stimulating intellectual material on the forefront of universal knowledge with respect to historical literature. Your young minds are far too weak to handle such intense academic critique.
Anecdotes, he/she says, are the clever orator's equivalent to the stick a jockey uses to make their horse run faster.
Anecdotes: witty remarks or fillers of wasted space? A speculation about anecdotes in post-modern rhetoric.
I am delivering a speech on the distinctness of grammar in 16th century English hermetic literature.
Good Evening... formal stuff then for the students, read out names... pat, chris, jeremy, jodi... etc.
So gentlemen, be robust in life. Be intelligent. Be caring and carefree. Enjoy life. Enjoy learning. Enjoy being yourself.
An anecdote I shall conclude with is taken from the 2007 graduation speech delivered by the most gracious Madonna Spillane. Her words were... R.O.B.U.S.T
Thank you for entertaining me here today my brothers. Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.
Anecdotes my dear friends, old souls and searchers of the truth.
In my experience anecdotes have a wide range of use. Some are used to take up time or space in rhetoric or other forms of literature. Whilst at times they also can be used to separate the coffee mug and the table to prevent that awful stain from occurring. In the most peculiar circumstances the right anecdote can fold a square piece of paper in half eight consecutive times. No easy feat, trust me.
Anecdotes are the most beautiful things in language. They are the way the most pertinent, witty, beautiful and intelligent words that have ever had an audience are preserved.
He tells me that this speech came to him in depths of some dark night. His hand moved across the blank page, the cold sweat shimmering in the halogen light, he said. It took him 3 minutes to write the speech down word for word as you will soon hear it folks. But it took him five hours to re-write it in legible script. His hand was a tad shaky after seeing an angel, and all.
Therefore I am here today to present to you a speech written by a most brilliant gentleman who goes by the name RVRFNX
An annual anecdote will keep the analrapist at bay.
Potential pedo. Hates Lilly Allen. Well dressed. Likes a cocktail called the 'poet's piper'.
He lived in a town called reality and he moved away when he was 13.
He could punch the heart out of a grown man's chest.
Which knowledge burrows fear into your bones: the fact that I am a criminal or the fact that you are the only person who knows I am a criminal?
London is a phoenix
bronte langbroek
With every evil there is a corresponding good. Balance. It's the way of the world. And when we fuck with it, it fucks with us.
I'm going to give my first child the name 'opinion' so they will never be wrong.
Twisted cutlery. Pissed off?
Navel fluff
I like to say good night to passengers as I get off the train at 5am.
Like an old restrictive carcass shell I strip it off and relax.
Capture me in my most down and out poses.
Got people stomping around the dance floor looking like angry little ants.
Why does the bass sound like it is saying 'sex, sex, sex, sex' over and over again?
Not being famous sucks when you know you will be famous and all you want is a little servive, sex, booze or money.
The End Club - a group of writers who know the end has already come and don't give a fuck.
Imagine the fucked up dreams when asleep in a club.
I love it when I can feel the music
I'm not sleeping goddamit. I am just enjoying the music with my eyes closed and drool running down my chin. It's seductive, you fuck wit.
Parched. Can't swallow. The bass reverberates around my dry throat.
Transvestites in cages tricking everybody. It's all a sham. Fake. Not real. But people pay money for it. Fucking disgusting money.
A bundle of guts vibrating in a heated box, wet vaginas and cocks rubbing against the ferocious crotch.
Pretending to dance with the girls in the cages.
Music. The great communicator. Along with fear. Making everyone feel good. Even the girls in the cages look happy as they sell their souls.
Am I a freak? Do they know? Am I different? What does THIS mean?
Sweat mixing with tears. Really. Is this love a sear of people moving but not knowing. Love is blind. But not this blind.
Floating nowhere, foot scraping the wall for grip.
Who comes to a club to lie down?
Such as: I am mitsubishiying this waterboat.
Poet and student. In his spare time he writes exposes on dreams and creates new verbs from nouns.
For a sack of bones, some guts and organs. You really are a beautiful individual. On the insides and out.
I can be nervous but I want to push the boundaries.
Camera pointing. Segment. One thousand dollars.
And that's when I realised she was a pike.
Navel fluff.
Why the long pause
Waking up to people having sex. Horrible. It sounded like they were dying.
It was brilliant. It was beautiful. There was magic in the air that night.
Sex, philosophy, travelling, love and vodka. A tale of one boy's journey to manhood in a London Hostel.
Laura love story
What do I know? I'm a young impressionable student with a brain like a sieve.
Exploring the heart and soul of the boulevard of broken dreams.
Love the little things in life. A warm bed. A cup of milk. A bottle of vodka. Salt and pepper squid. A bottle of vodka.
Sleeping under the stars these days means sleeping under pictures of celebs.
You gotta bleed to know you're alive.
I will sleep in my jacket in contrast I'm calm to this racket couldn't live without my mobile phone, cig packet, passing out... passion.
Drink window cleaner.
Rule number one of sleeping: Look comfortable.
In the dark shed I become the terror. In the dark I face my fear. I am not alone. And if I focus on my fear it will come to me with force and the flavour of a rhapsodical nightmare. But if I understand the fear, it will greet me happily like a rebellious teenager greets their parents who take them back into the household, with a strong and gnarled grasp.
Hunter S is my muse. Between he and I we have nothing to lose. Life itself is a clever ruse. But, ho ho, gotta laugh at the blues. Even Jesus died young. So just chill the fuck out you are so highly strung.
Walking on the moon
Fight against the tide
Boy loves Emma watson. He gets to go to her birthday party to meet her. She doesn't notice. She is too caught up in her fame. Boy returns home determined to get on with his life. Becomes famous through chance. When he reaches stardom she has dropped off the radar. Now she wants to know him but he doesn't care about her. He is too caught up in the fame.
Sweat bored it's way through the pores
Non-plussed, double tucked and kinda fucked. Wouldn't walk for the sake of flying. Wouldn't crawl to save myself from dying. Gotta give to get and get given. Gotta talk to be able to listen.
Linguistics. Incorporate the pyramids. Historical amnesia. It is scary to think of how much knowledge we have lost.
Now I think about, what sound I make, when I breathe in and out.
Red mist red shit. Mist strangles the headset necks twist closed mind and closed fist. Chemically de-brained why strain no pain head explodes chest gets wet. Life destroyed with a single bullet.
Listen long to my lucid lamentations.
Scientists creating animals with out pain receptors. And making humans this way for organ harvesting. A wayward chicken is found by a failed scientist who dropped out of school because of a drug addiction. Cocaine and amphetamines. as colonel krumkiy they don't have to pay for things to dull the pain. no pain, no happiness.
colonel krumkiy is a woman with only one child. the child is sick and needs an organ or two. Colonel K went to uni with Adrian. Very smart. Difficult uni to get into. Adrian fell in love with her at uni. She thought he was a hopeless drop out. He took drugs and wrote poetry. Now he must show her what she is doing is wrong. Her husband died a few years ago from liver failure. She doesn't want to lose her son - the only tangible link to sanity. In the end Adrian befriends her son and finds out he thinks that it's wrong as well but she won't listen. Adrian and the son convince her to stop - one life is not equal to thousands. Just before the son dies adrian and Col. K fall in love. As they tell him this, he dies. The son leaves behind a poem. Book finishes as a new sun rises. It is not known that the colonel is a woman until late in the book
The idea came to me as a i bit into a chicken wing from nandos as paul and i drove home.
It was all a sham. Pain enveloped me.
I like to talk in circles rather then outside of them because inside a circle my ideas echo and reverberate around; my questions are answered in the cacophony of sound.
The irony of dancing on a table wearing a disguise.
baby boomer material.
Turn the music up. I can hear my conscience.
Don't look so glum. I was just kidding. I wouldn't subject you to such highly challenging yet stimulating intellectual material on the forefront of universal knowledge with respect to historical literature. Your young minds are far too weak to handle such intense academic critique.
Anecdotes, he/she says, are the clever orator's equivalent to the stick a jockey uses to make their horse run faster.
Anecdotes: witty remarks or fillers of wasted space? A speculation about anecdotes in post-modern rhetoric.
I am delivering a speech on the distinctness of grammar in 16th century English hermetic literature.
Good Evening... formal stuff then for the students, read out names... pat, chris, jeremy, jodi... etc.
So gentlemen, be robust in life. Be intelligent. Be caring and carefree. Enjoy life. Enjoy learning. Enjoy being yourself.
An anecdote I shall conclude with is taken from the 2007 graduation speech delivered by the most gracious Madonna Spillane. Her words were... R.O.B.U.S.T
Thank you for entertaining me here today my brothers. Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.
Anecdotes my dear friends, old souls and searchers of the truth.
In my experience anecdotes have a wide range of use. Some are used to take up time or space in rhetoric or other forms of literature. Whilst at times they also can be used to separate the coffee mug and the table to prevent that awful stain from occurring. In the most peculiar circumstances the right anecdote can fold a square piece of paper in half eight consecutive times. No easy feat, trust me.
Anecdotes are the most beautiful things in language. They are the way the most pertinent, witty, beautiful and intelligent words that have ever had an audience are preserved.
He tells me that this speech came to him in depths of some dark night. His hand moved across the blank page, the cold sweat shimmering in the halogen light, he said. It took him 3 minutes to write the speech down word for word as you will soon hear it folks. But it took him five hours to re-write it in legible script. His hand was a tad shaky after seeing an angel, and all.
Therefore I am here today to present to you a speech written by a most brilliant gentleman who goes by the name RVRFNX
An annual anecdote will keep the analrapist at bay.
Potential pedo. Hates Lilly Allen. Well dressed. Likes a cocktail called the 'poet's piper'.
He lived in a town called reality and he moved away when he was 13.
He could punch the heart out of a grown man's chest.
Which knowledge burrows fear into your bones: the fact that I am a criminal or the fact that you are the only person who knows I am a criminal?
London is a phoenix
bronte langbroek
With every evil there is a corresponding good. Balance. It's the way of the world. And when we fuck with it, it fucks with us.
I'm going to give my first child the name 'opinion' so they will never be wrong.
Twisted cutlery. Pissed off?
Navel fluff
I like to say good night to passengers as I get off the train at 5am.
Like an old restrictive carcass shell I strip it off and relax.
Capture me in my most down and out poses.
Got people stomping around the dance floor looking like angry little ants.
Why does the bass sound like it is saying 'sex, sex, sex, sex' over and over again?
Not being famous sucks when you know you will be famous and all you want is a little servive, sex, booze or money.
The End Club - a group of writers who know the end has already come and don't give a fuck.
Imagine the fucked up dreams when asleep in a club.
I love it when I can feel the music
I'm not sleeping goddamit. I am just enjoying the music with my eyes closed and drool running down my chin. It's seductive, you fuck wit.
Parched. Can't swallow. The bass reverberates around my dry throat.
Transvestites in cages tricking everybody. It's all a sham. Fake. Not real. But people pay money for it. Fucking disgusting money.
A bundle of guts vibrating in a heated box, wet vaginas and cocks rubbing against the ferocious crotch.
Pretending to dance with the girls in the cages.
Music. The great communicator. Along with fear. Making everyone feel good. Even the girls in the cages look happy as they sell their souls.
Am I a freak? Do they know? Am I different? What does THIS mean?
Sweat mixing with tears. Really. Is this love a sear of people moving but not knowing. Love is blind. But not this blind.
Floating nowhere, foot scraping the wall for grip.
Who comes to a club to lie down?
Such as: I am mitsubishiying this waterboat.
Poet and student. In his spare time he writes exposes on dreams and creates new verbs from nouns.
For a sack of bones, some guts and organs. You really are a beautiful individual. On the insides and out.
I can be nervous but I want to push the boundaries.
Camera pointing. Segment. One thousand dollars.
And that's when I realised she was a pike.
Navel fluff.
Why the long pause
Waking up to people having sex. Horrible. It sounded like they were dying.
It was brilliant. It was beautiful. There was magic in the air that night.
Sex, philosophy, travelling, love and vodka. A tale of one boy's journey to manhood in a London Hostel.
Laura love story
What do I know? I'm a young impressionable student with a brain like a sieve.
Exploring the heart and soul of the boulevard of broken dreams.
Love the little things in life. A warm bed. A cup of milk. A bottle of vodka. Salt and pepper squid. A bottle of vodka.
Sleeping under the stars these days means sleeping under pictures of celebs.
You gotta bleed to know you're alive.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
_Attracted to the light.
Don't wanna eat the light
that gives me my nicotine hit at night.
I delight in what's not 'right'.
Fuck that right. I'll blind you with my plight.
I'm slight, silently all right, it's my life.
There's death night at every corner am I right?
Of course I'm right.
I'm not left. Not bereft of moral insight._
_Like an anti liberal offence
I will implode your innocense.
Fuck sense.
Fuck the dividends.
Are we men?
Fuck my words.
Aren't they irrelevant?
It's like I am hell-bent to represent the fear in the present
intent of vehement men.
Deliberate intentions raise fearful expectations amongst friends._
_Clocks rattle and shadows shift. Time bends_
_I'm debased, high as a kite.
The sun is the only fire in sight.
Sky high, with Roxanne, Bob and Vietnam.
It's the second stand against the 'truthful' reprimand.
I'll stand against the chaotic failed hand.
For man I'll fight to the teeth like a dentist deceived in the Middle East.
Fighting for truth it's a 'truth' at least.
Nervous, not at ease.
Praying to God we are like yeast;
so we'll rise at sunrise when the heat
starts to cook our weather-beat cheeks._
_This reeks of cheekiness._
_Fuck the write up
I'll write you up for a fucking cut up
and then I'll cut you up with words spat out and sped up
to rip the top off that creativity cap
I'll wrap this with some smack that will devour attack,
placed at my doorstep like a baby born, with love lacked.
I Learnt to adapt and learnt to be made to be more
I'll feast on the floor where you walk just to see you fall
I'll score many more just to decorate this wall.
I'll watch you wail in the fall seeing you fail makes me happy to say
that I always should have dug your grave
just to make sure that you couldn't be saved from the mess you made.
I'll defend the heavens to the heathens in any matter and I'll meet the maker
when I find the faker.
I'll create emaciated grace just to fuck with your undisclosed face.
I can feel it and it's real in its unreal reality which proclaims a diversity.
Poison tipped death threats, linguists doing back flips just to have your head on bread before you're pronounced dead.
Make a mental note of this mental incapacitation that's gonna take you before aggravation and assault deals with what's left of your body that God wrought.
This isn't sport when there are no losers or winners ain't no spectators that be grinnin' when you're foundation is deliberately sinnin'._
_Yes yes yes.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
These thieves hang in threes; its hell's grim tyrant ruminating about ruination._
_Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name._
Don't wanna eat the light
that gives me my nicotine hit at night.
I delight in what's not 'right'.
Fuck that right. I'll blind you with my plight.
I'm slight, silently all right, it's my life.
There's death night at every corner am I right?
Of course I'm right.
I'm not left. Not bereft of moral insight._
_Like an anti liberal offence
I will implode your innocense.
Fuck sense.
Fuck the dividends.
Are we men?
Fuck my words.
Aren't they irrelevant?
It's like I am hell-bent to represent the fear in the present
intent of vehement men.
Deliberate intentions raise fearful expectations amongst friends._
_Clocks rattle and shadows shift. Time bends_
_I'm debased, high as a kite.
The sun is the only fire in sight.
Sky high, with Roxanne, Bob and Vietnam.
It's the second stand against the 'truthful' reprimand.
I'll stand against the chaotic failed hand.
For man I'll fight to the teeth like a dentist deceived in the Middle East.
Fighting for truth it's a 'truth' at least.
Nervous, not at ease.
Praying to God we are like yeast;
so we'll rise at sunrise when the heat
starts to cook our weather-beat cheeks._
_This reeks of cheekiness._
_Fuck the write up
I'll write you up for a fucking cut up
and then I'll cut you up with words spat out and sped up
to rip the top off that creativity cap
I'll wrap this with some smack that will devour attack,
placed at my doorstep like a baby born, with love lacked.
I Learnt to adapt and learnt to be made to be more
I'll feast on the floor where you walk just to see you fall
I'll score many more just to decorate this wall.
I'll watch you wail in the fall seeing you fail makes me happy to say
that I always should have dug your grave
just to make sure that you couldn't be saved from the mess you made.
I'll defend the heavens to the heathens in any matter and I'll meet the maker
when I find the faker.
I'll create emaciated grace just to fuck with your undisclosed face.
I can feel it and it's real in its unreal reality which proclaims a diversity.
Poison tipped death threats, linguists doing back flips just to have your head on bread before you're pronounced dead.
Make a mental note of this mental incapacitation that's gonna take you before aggravation and assault deals with what's left of your body that God wrought.
This isn't sport when there are no losers or winners ain't no spectators that be grinnin' when you're foundation is deliberately sinnin'._
_Yes yes yes.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
These thieves hang in threes; its hell's grim tyrant ruminating about ruination._
_Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name._
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
Words
Words.
Some of us know how to use them and some don't.
Those who don't learn how to use them.
And those who already know forget the truth behind the words as they try to argue why or why not a word should be in its place.
Words are not here to impound people.
Words set people free.
Some of us know how to use them and some don't.
Those who don't learn how to use them.
And those who already know forget the truth behind the words as they try to argue why or why not a word should be in its place.
Words are not here to impound people.
Words set people free.
A letter to a friend I barely know... A bare letter to a friend who knows me...
If I leave myself alone to myself I find that I do tend to analyse things to death. And whether or not this puts me on a path to happiness or a path to pain I don’t fully comprehend as of yet.
When I write I am full of emotion. I feel like if I don’t write I will either go insane or burst. And so I write to let go of things that I have analysed. I write to find sanity in life.
When I talk about my study I come from the angle of a carefree student. I don’t take my studies seriously but people take them too serious.
In the words of David Gray “if you want it, come and get it” that’s how I feel. If I want it I will come and get it, or it will come and get me.
Right now I understand that I am simply a poet. Like the typical poet… I am unforeseen and unknown. Barely anybody who knows me truly knows me and who I am. I find understanding in cyberspace – in websites like this. Right now my struggle is to understand exactly who I am and what I stand for. If I am to become truly me I must face my demons.
In essence I am basically coming to understand that Rowan McKenzie, an 18 year old boy is not only part of a place in society which doesn’t understand who he is – but he is also part of a society who accepts and readily acknowledges what he may become. The struggle is to knit these two factors, to intertwine these to concepts so that I can feel at home.
My writing is where I am at home – but I also feel alienated because what I thought was my home seems to escapade farther and farther away from me.
The more I write the more I realise that I am not who I was.
The more I write the more I realise that who I am becoming is what I want to be.
The more I write the more I realise that people are going to have to come to terms with who I am.
They are going to have to understand that I am not as simple as I once was. That I am complicated. That I have my own ideas and beliefs. And that I am my own being.
And that is why I write. For relief. For understanding. For freedom.
xx
When I write I am full of emotion. I feel like if I don’t write I will either go insane or burst. And so I write to let go of things that I have analysed. I write to find sanity in life.
When I talk about my study I come from the angle of a carefree student. I don’t take my studies seriously but people take them too serious.
In the words of David Gray “if you want it, come and get it” that’s how I feel. If I want it I will come and get it, or it will come and get me.
Right now I understand that I am simply a poet. Like the typical poet… I am unforeseen and unknown. Barely anybody who knows me truly knows me and who I am. I find understanding in cyberspace – in websites like this. Right now my struggle is to understand exactly who I am and what I stand for. If I am to become truly me I must face my demons.
In essence I am basically coming to understand that Rowan McKenzie, an 18 year old boy is not only part of a place in society which doesn’t understand who he is – but he is also part of a society who accepts and readily acknowledges what he may become. The struggle is to knit these two factors, to intertwine these to concepts so that I can feel at home.
My writing is where I am at home – but I also feel alienated because what I thought was my home seems to escapade farther and farther away from me.
The more I write the more I realise that I am not who I was.
The more I write the more I realise that who I am becoming is what I want to be.
The more I write the more I realise that people are going to have to come to terms with who I am.
They are going to have to understand that I am not as simple as I once was. That I am complicated. That I have my own ideas and beliefs. And that I am my own being.
And that is why I write. For relief. For understanding. For freedom.
xx
gotta work on this too
Fuck the write up I'll write you up for a fucking cut up and then I'll cut you up with words spat out and sped up to rip the top of that creativity cap I'll cap this crap with a load of crap that will deny the rap to the banal. Learnt to adapt and learn to be made to be more I'll devour the floor that you walk on just to see you fall and I'll score the hall bounce off this wall gunna watch you wail in the fall seeing you fail makes me afraid to say that I always should have dug your grave just to make sure that you couldn't be saved it's what they say ironic justice my fist was full of solstice summer in the heavens I'll defend the heavens to the heathens in any matter I'll meet the maker when I find the faker in the race I'll create the emaciated grace just to fuck with your undisclosed face. Can't see it but I can feel it and it's real in its unreal reality which proclaims a diversity. Poison tipped death threats I'll have your head on bread before you're pronounced dead it's a mental incapacitation that's gonna take you before aggravation and assault deals with what's left of your body that God wrought. This isn't sport there are no losers or winners ain't no spectators that be grinnin' when you're for to the floor spinning no foundation to keep your centre and I'm deliberately sinnin' as long as you're being driven I'm living for the moment when I can take my time to deliver a final killin' rhythm.
gotta work on this
Yes yes yes.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
But thieves hang in threes, no pairs and its free.
Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name.
In jest we ingest the impressed information.
This metriculation of idealised narration puts a nation at ease.
The ideas squeezed from fruit that doesn't hang in trees.
But thieves hang in threes, no pairs and its free.
Gotta get a handle of my kingdom.
Should'a known narcissistic kings don't
like to give up power and wont
alleviate the shower of pain so
gotta pop hood on this game until
the machinations come out plain.
I will fight for the common man,
I will fight for the unknown name.
Friday, 24 July 2009
Book yes I do ahuh
Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.
Douglas Adams
Douglas Adams
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Monday, 1 June 2009
Sunday, 31 May 2009
feeling
Feeling inspired I sit down and write,
feeling over-tired I stay up all night.
Feeling crucified I deliberate and hate,
feeling intensified I do not wait.
Feeling bold I open up the door,
feeling shot down I cry on the floor.
Feeling intelligent I smile all around,
feeling intelligent I can only frown.
feeling over-tired I stay up all night.
Feeling crucified I deliberate and hate,
feeling intensified I do not wait.
Feeling bold I open up the door,
feeling shot down I cry on the floor.
Feeling intelligent I smile all around,
feeling intelligent I can only frown.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Fridges.
I want to live in a fridge. The clean, ordered space. Cold, yet cosy with warm clothes. Fridges smell wonderful when full with food and drink. I would never be hungry. My diet wouldn't suffer either, in fact, I think I would be healthier; fatty foods don't look, nor taste, very good once they have been in the fridge for awhile.
I want to live in a fridge. The fresh cold air invites me. It is a peaceful place - just a gentle hum sings sweetly in the background.
I want to live in a fridge.
I want to live in a fridge. The clean, ordered space appeals to me. Cold, yet cosy (with warm clothes on). Fridges smell wonderful when full with food and drink. I would never be hungry. I think I would be healthier; fatty foods don’t look, nor taste, very good once they have been in the fridge for awhile so I would not eat them.
I want to live in a fridge. With my doonah and pillow, kept consistently cold and fresh. I want to contemplate philosophy, read theology, dissect history and enjoy literature in my fridge.
I want to live in a fridge, with pets too. With pets that also want to live in a fridge. I will have a pet puffin named Bill who will share a glass of milk with me at night. I’ll read him poetry and he’ll flap his wings happily. My Arctic fox named Volttaire will contemplate philosophy with me, his great big black eyes will glitter and shine when he acknowledges the wisdom of the ancestors. And my Arctic Hare named Waldo will tussle his ears in rapture as I recount the wonders of the eternal to him.
I want to live in a fridge. The fresh cold air invites me. It is a peaceful place – with a gentle hum singing sweetly in the background.
I want to live in a fridge.
I want to live in a fridge. The fresh cold air invites me. It is a peaceful place - just a gentle hum sings sweetly in the background.
I want to live in a fridge.
I want to live in a fridge. The clean, ordered space appeals to me. Cold, yet cosy (with warm clothes on). Fridges smell wonderful when full with food and drink. I would never be hungry. I think I would be healthier; fatty foods don’t look, nor taste, very good once they have been in the fridge for awhile so I would not eat them.
I want to live in a fridge. With my doonah and pillow, kept consistently cold and fresh. I want to contemplate philosophy, read theology, dissect history and enjoy literature in my fridge.
I want to live in a fridge, with pets too. With pets that also want to live in a fridge. I will have a pet puffin named Bill who will share a glass of milk with me at night. I’ll read him poetry and he’ll flap his wings happily. My Arctic fox named Volttaire will contemplate philosophy with me, his great big black eyes will glitter and shine when he acknowledges the wisdom of the ancestors. And my Arctic Hare named Waldo will tussle his ears in rapture as I recount the wonders of the eternal to him.
I want to live in a fridge. The fresh cold air invites me. It is a peaceful place – with a gentle hum singing sweetly in the background.
I want to live in a fridge.
The favourite quote of mine.
"A world of potential with potential to save the world"
Let the power unfurl,
like a sail curled,
upon applying pressure,
the boat moves,
apply pressure to me,
and i'll move in ways you never knew,
Let the power unfurl,
like a sail curled,
upon applying pressure,
the boat moves,
apply pressure to me,
and i'll move in ways you never knew,
P
Purge preposterous perpetual
petty pack of potato
people pulling the principles
and persecuting the perpetrators.
Personifying a particular
problem paraphrased in
promiscuity.
Personality pierces a poor pardon
parrying a picture of power.
Principles of perseverance pack a
punitive portrayal of passions polarised.
Picture this, picture that,
picture a picture of this
pattering that pebble.
Pitch a pity and pity the pitch of the
peaceful protagonist who patters the
pained person pleading plausibility.
Possible plotters plot a possibility,
possibly placing a penalty on
plotting a persecution of peaceful prayer.
pieces of prayer parallel a paralysis, a paradigm of
philanthropic philosophy,
proving a plethora of passes prevail.
petty pack of potato
people pulling the principles
and persecuting the perpetrators.
Personifying a particular
problem paraphrased in
promiscuity.
Personality pierces a poor pardon
parrying a picture of power.
Principles of perseverance pack a
punitive portrayal of passions polarised.
Picture this, picture that,
picture a picture of this
pattering that pebble.
Pitch a pity and pity the pitch of the
peaceful protagonist who patters the
pained person pleading plausibility.
Possible plotters plot a possibility,
possibly placing a penalty on
plotting a persecution of peaceful prayer.
pieces of prayer parallel a paralysis, a paradigm of
philanthropic philosophy,
proving a plethora of passes prevail.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
rsc
Sup fatty :)
You killed that agility man, epic amount of xp in an epic time. I heard you haven't seen daylight in a whole month though.. and your cat died. But yeah, epic. Well done do it again, 50 mill hunter xp is gunna be sweet, awesome clicking and stuff. Clicking is rad, especially clicking all day, for 12 hours, it's the best! There is nothing better and more exciting then clicking all day! Mad probs to you, don't mind the haters they are just dumb and probably have a good head on their shoulders and recognise that achievements in this game are not similar to any sort of achievement in real life, and if you find that the only way to get a bit of self confidence, and to feel like you have 'achieved' something by sitting down and clicking all day, then there is something wrong with you. But hey doesn't matter coz you probably are a product of your society, family, friends (or lack there of), etc. So yeah, TL;DR, you are stinking AWESOME. Killer xp you really can kick mule, good luck with hunter i'll be rooting for you
You killed that agility man, epic amount of xp in an epic time. I heard you haven't seen daylight in a whole month though.. and your cat died. But yeah, epic. Well done do it again, 50 mill hunter xp is gunna be sweet, awesome clicking and stuff. Clicking is rad, especially clicking all day, for 12 hours, it's the best! There is nothing better and more exciting then clicking all day! Mad probs to you, don't mind the haters they are just dumb and probably have a good head on their shoulders and recognise that achievements in this game are not similar to any sort of achievement in real life, and if you find that the only way to get a bit of self confidence, and to feel like you have 'achieved' something by sitting down and clicking all day, then there is something wrong with you. But hey doesn't matter coz you probably are a product of your society, family, friends (or lack there of), etc. So yeah, TL;DR, you are stinking AWESOME. Killer xp you really can kick mule, good luck with hunter i'll be rooting for you
Monday, 25 May 2009
Ps. If you are going to argue against me at the very least cite the article, or define a term, or cite another source which backs up your argument. Otherwise it's just an opinion and opinions are metaphysical concepts which entirely transcend the realm of evidence, proofs and certainties, they are a personal belief or judgment that is not founded on proof or certainty. Personally I like to debate within the borders of the former realm because in this realm there is a logical way to finish an argument, whereas in the realm of opinion arguments can go on and on ad infinitum, depending on the ignorance/stubbornness of the people involved.
Comment on the liberal arts article
Not a bad read Alexander. Quite thought provoking and insightful whilst also very concise and easy to follow. I also am a student of the Liberal Arts. I attend the (only) Catholic Liberal Arts college in Australia. I'm in my second year and thoroughly enjoying the course.
I can relate to you when you said "it became one of those rare courses that changed not only what I know but also how I think", this speaks to me very clearly as I have share the same feelings about the power of a Liberal Arts course to change people.
Furthermore you raise the point about the world value, and seemingly the importance attributed to it. Today I sat in on a lecture given by John Young, a very intelligent Australian man who specialises in Thomist Philosophy, and he made the point that philosophy is a lot more difficult to understand than history (or many other subjects for that matter). John Young said, "If I walked into a history class, with no knowledge about history, nor the study of history what so ever, and the teacher said to me "Caesar crossed the Rubric". I would have no idea what he meant. However, to understand what he meant the teacher would only have to explain to me that Caesar was a great leader and the Rubric was a river. In comparison, if I walked into a philosophy class, with no knowledge about philosophy, nor the study of philosophy, and the teacher said " The argument says that there are entities possessed in common but not as a whole, possessed in common as a whole but not simultaneously, and possessed in common, as a whole, and simultaneously, but not so as to form part of the substance of the things it's common to. And he says, the substance requirement is one that we must impose on species and genera. So none of the ways in which a single thing can be possessed in common the way in which species would of have to be common" I would have no idea what he meant, and it would take a very, very long time for me to understand what he said due to the vast complexity of philosophy. Thus, Young's point was that words have a power associated with them, a value, which ties in with what you were saying.
That's my two cents.
I stumbled here whilst searching on wikipedia information about Harvard (it was tiresome as the drool on my keyboard was not helping things at all).
I shall forward your article to my colleagues.
regards,
Rowan
I can relate to you when you said "it became one of those rare courses that changed not only what I know but also how I think", this speaks to me very clearly as I have share the same feelings about the power of a Liberal Arts course to change people.
Furthermore you raise the point about the world value, and seemingly the importance attributed to it. Today I sat in on a lecture given by John Young, a very intelligent Australian man who specialises in Thomist Philosophy, and he made the point that philosophy is a lot more difficult to understand than history (or many other subjects for that matter). John Young said, "If I walked into a history class, with no knowledge about history, nor the study of history what so ever, and the teacher said to me "Caesar crossed the Rubric". I would have no idea what he meant. However, to understand what he meant the teacher would only have to explain to me that Caesar was a great leader and the Rubric was a river. In comparison, if I walked into a philosophy class, with no knowledge about philosophy, nor the study of philosophy, and the teacher said " The argument says that there are entities possessed in common but not as a whole, possessed in common as a whole but not simultaneously, and possessed in common, as a whole, and simultaneously, but not so as to form part of the substance of the things it's common to. And he says, the substance requirement is one that we must impose on species and genera. So none of the ways in which a single thing can be possessed in common the way in which species would of have to be common" I would have no idea what he meant, and it would take a very, very long time for me to understand what he said due to the vast complexity of philosophy. Thus, Young's point was that words have a power associated with them, a value, which ties in with what you were saying.
That's my two cents.
I stumbled here whilst searching on wikipedia information about Harvard (it was tiresome as the drool on my keyboard was not helping things at all).
I shall forward your article to my colleagues.
regards,
Rowan
Thursday, 21 May 2009
A.
Arrogant argonauts arbirtrary and aloof allow almost anything to allegorically amplify an agoraphobic atom-bomb available to anthropologists adding to an already accidental ability of the All-inclusive-military adjudicating anywhere agnostic affidavits across an avidly assorted axiom of approachable aliens alleviating agitation and anxiety through an arrangement of assumptions actually adding to the apprehensions of arguably admirable accidents.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
the chase
I'm the chase.
The eternal race,
feeling outa place outa the race,
perform the moves with grace,
and she's mine,
gone without a trace,
The eternal race,
feeling outa place outa the race,
perform the moves with grace,
and she's mine,
gone without a trace,
Anna
Anna the cunning linguist disguises a severed fist, whilst reading a list with her lisp it sounds devilish, crisp and delish i wonder if she'll care when i slit her throat.
r
Row rides the rigid, red rickshaw reeling raucously throughout the rabid roads of Rome. Right amongst the real ravenous, railed against a reeking roll of robbed ripped, ruthlessly ruled out and randomly roared upon by a rival of rural ravens raping the rope
Monday, 18 May 2009
Hi..
"in a perfect world men wouldn't be scared of rejection and women wouldn't be scared of judgement"
Row. Monday, 18th of May. 2009.
Whilst talking to Jacqui on Facebook lol.
Row. Monday, 18th of May. 2009.
Whilst talking to Jacqui on Facebook lol.
Friday, 15 May 2009
Hi.
I wanna wake up where you are,
to kiss you and hold you,
and listen to the sound of your beating heart.
This feeling is slowly creeping in,
containing such strong emotions,
finding it's special spot,
the niche, the space, the place where it all begins.
to kiss you and hold you,
and listen to the sound of your beating heart.
This feeling is slowly creeping in,
containing such strong emotions,
finding it's special spot,
the niche, the space, the place where it all begins.
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