Saturday, April 4, 2009
Words written in a text message while on public transport.
~By Sproiler
1.
People are animals.
Drunk on decay.
Shaven hyenas.
Blistering in the sun.
The heat made us what we are, drunken hyenas trapped under cars.
High on the sun, so high you never come down.
Shaven hyenas, they drink ‘till they drown.
Humans are animals, humans are ghosts, they just don’t know,don’t know it yet.
(I would love to show them the lies and the slaughter, i would love to push the button and watch them all disappear.)
************************
2.
Backed my self into a corner didn’t I?
I only have one choice to make now, and of course its already chosen.
The path to take, my feet in that direction.
The roads, they are in front of me.
One sign says be human among others, fake it or be transformed.
The other ,be human, with others as but an inconvenience.
Then the path that seems the darkest but most beautiful, strip my self of all personhood beyond the shell Im bound to , wherever it may take me . If it be hell or salvation welcome it with open arms.
Just trust they will understand, just tell them the way it is, cold and full of thorns it would only be a deeper shade they will colour you.
Perhaps one day the blind mass will break and you will meet others who can see.
Be it a vision cracked and distorted . Yet somehow closer to the truth.
************************
3.
She walked on to the train with non-shoes, portable mice feet.
At least one tattoo, Im sure there were more.
She wore a red hair band, it was a cliche of colour.
She looked up, seemingly in my direction.
I try to choose my glances carefully to avoid appearing mad.
She pouts at something, a word or a thought,
its the most gourgeous thing I’ve ever seen.
There is a delay between reality and memory.
People smile dumbly or grumble with a bitter spit.
I forget I am a tourist in the centre of a working week.
There is so much beauty around me but none of it attainable.
I could reach out to touch, but my fingers are coated with acid and the blood of doves.
I would only bruise what is immaculate.
Soon she will depart from this portal.
She will fade out of memory and reality, living only in the shadow of these words.
But there will always be another resplendent stranger, a sudden infatuation.
For what I ask?
So I can sacrifice another portion of my flesh, so I can suffer with some kind of meaning, be it decayed be it insane.
Should I develop this instinctual hatred for that which I know not to hold.
But why should love be heralded as something holy and desirable, yet hatred a hollow corrosive artifact of existence?
Does hatred not have the passion, the force , the euphoria of that sickly romantic notion?
As a catalyst do they not stand on their own as progenitors of greatness?
Yet what remains after hatred, what remains after the violent self struggle?
What seed has the aftermath decided for its inventor?
***********************
4.
To my current vehicle of lust.
She is one of many that came before her.
Once unnoticed segments of her being have now become the finest elements of a creature designed only to manipulate my very will.
It is decided that I no longer believe in love.
Or that is love as myth, not temporary chemical exchange.
It was the the last romantic, unscientific notion I held onto, now it is gone.
I do not feel empty for it , rather liberated.
I am now free to explore the world as a dream of the senses rather than the protagonist in a poem.
The infatuations will not stop regardless.
They are nothing but current forms in line with my known and subconscious desirers.
But rather than live to explain them I should live to enjoy them.
I shall develop a force beyond wish, things will come to pass as I them and I shall experience as a spirit in a semblance of the truth.
Oh,present vehicle of the flesh teach me to live as man.
In return I will reward you with the needs accumulated by minds floating in the wind.
************************
5.
Falling asleep at the wheel, I wake up to fake living.
Making nothing but paper houses for the next winds to blow away.
My hands have become shovels, my eyes now one way windows ( with the blinds half drawn)
Just a tiny cog in a giant killing machine.
Exhale and worry about tomorrow.
People are animals.
Drunk on decay.
Shaven hyenas.
Blistering in the sun.
The heat made us what we are, drunken hyenas trapped under cars.
High on the sun, so high you never come down.
Shaven hyenas, they drink ‘till they drown.
Humans are animals, humans are ghosts, they just don’t know,don’t know it yet.
(I would love to show them the lies and the slaughter, i would love to push the button and watch them all disappear.)
************************
2.
Backed my self into a corner didn’t I?
I only have one choice to make now, and of course its already chosen.
The path to take, my feet in that direction.
The roads, they are in front of me.
One sign says be human among others, fake it or be transformed.
The other ,be human, with others as but an inconvenience.
Then the path that seems the darkest but most beautiful, strip my self of all personhood beyond the shell Im bound to , wherever it may take me . If it be hell or salvation welcome it with open arms.
Just trust they will understand, just tell them the way it is, cold and full of thorns it would only be a deeper shade they will colour you.
Perhaps one day the blind mass will break and you will meet others who can see.
Be it a vision cracked and distorted . Yet somehow closer to the truth.
************************
3.
She walked on to the train with non-shoes, portable mice feet.
At least one tattoo, Im sure there were more.
She wore a red hair band, it was a cliche of colour.
She looked up, seemingly in my direction.
I try to choose my glances carefully to avoid appearing mad.
She pouts at something, a word or a thought,
its the most gourgeous thing I’ve ever seen.
There is a delay between reality and memory.
People smile dumbly or grumble with a bitter spit.
I forget I am a tourist in the centre of a working week.
There is so much beauty around me but none of it attainable.
I could reach out to touch, but my fingers are coated with acid and the blood of doves.
I would only bruise what is immaculate.
Soon she will depart from this portal.
She will fade out of memory and reality, living only in the shadow of these words.
But there will always be another resplendent stranger, a sudden infatuation.
For what I ask?
So I can sacrifice another portion of my flesh, so I can suffer with some kind of meaning, be it decayed be it insane.
Should I develop this instinctual hatred for that which I know not to hold.
But why should love be heralded as something holy and desirable, yet hatred a hollow corrosive artifact of existence?
Does hatred not have the passion, the force , the euphoria of that sickly romantic notion?
As a catalyst do they not stand on their own as progenitors of greatness?
Yet what remains after hatred, what remains after the violent self struggle?
What seed has the aftermath decided for its inventor?
***********************
4.
To my current vehicle of lust.
She is one of many that came before her.
Once unnoticed segments of her being have now become the finest elements of a creature designed only to manipulate my very will.
It is decided that I no longer believe in love.
Or that is love as myth, not temporary chemical exchange.
It was the the last romantic, unscientific notion I held onto, now it is gone.
I do not feel empty for it , rather liberated.
I am now free to explore the world as a dream of the senses rather than the protagonist in a poem.
The infatuations will not stop regardless.
They are nothing but current forms in line with my known and subconscious desirers.
But rather than live to explain them I should live to enjoy them.
I shall develop a force beyond wish, things will come to pass as I them and I shall experience as a spirit in a semblance of the truth.
Oh,present vehicle of the flesh teach me to live as man.
In return I will reward you with the needs accumulated by minds floating in the wind.
************************
5.
Falling asleep at the wheel, I wake up to fake living.
Making nothing but paper houses for the next winds to blow away.
My hands have become shovels, my eyes now one way windows ( with the blinds half drawn)
Just a tiny cog in a giant killing machine.
Exhale and worry about tomorrow.
Labels:
Artist: Sproiler,
Medium: Poetry
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Alchemy of Being
~By Somebody
Let's go she said,
let's grow. And so
you did on rattling bicycles. (Her
amulet eyes were bewitching that morning.)
Way down to the river, down to the
sanctum where
she whispered
this is the navel of the universe.
September's sun was lush like warm sea
against your body; unseen birds were
singing, birds
in love she
laughed but you had to be cynical
and ended up with all the wrong responses.
The river gushed. Your wine is a conduit,
she said, to
ease the pill.
A spoonful of sugar and all that.
Amongst waving wildgrass, and between
the beech trees and devilwort plants,
you took it,
waited, said
the world is such a beautiful place I'll
never leave, then plunged into splendour,
its splendid stupor all bliss and halcyon.
let's grow. And so
you did on rattling bicycles. (Her
amulet eyes were bewitching that morning.)
Way down to the river, down to the
sanctum where
she whispered
this is the navel of the universe.
September's sun was lush like warm sea
against your body; unseen birds were
singing, birds
in love she
laughed but you had to be cynical
and ended up with all the wrong responses.
The river gushed. Your wine is a conduit,
she said, to
ease the pill.
A spoonful of sugar and all that.
Amongst waving wildgrass, and between
the beech trees and devilwort plants,
you took it,
waited, said
the world is such a beautiful place I'll
never leave, then plunged into splendour,
its splendid stupor all bliss and halcyon.
Labels:
Artist: Somebody,
Medium: Poetry
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Notebook
~By Shari
Longer hair, no. Shorter.
Lighter, smoother skin.
Bigger tits? Or...none at all.
Better teeth faster wits longer legs
A precise and razor sharp tongue.
A sea change?
A sex change?
A title?
But first....
a publisher.
Lighter, smoother skin.
Bigger tits? Or...none at all.
Better teeth faster wits longer legs
A precise and razor sharp tongue.
A sea change?
A sex change?
A title?
But first....
a publisher.
Labels:
Artist: Bear,
Medium: Poetry
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
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