slow world - have to handle the pain longer than fast world - but the happiness is quicker.
fast world - the pain is shorter but so is the happiness.
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.
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