Pondering

A deafening roar, the crash of the spray
The blood in my head, it pulses and thunders

Thunders like a drum
Like the one in me

I can only live today, to work for my bread
The breath I take, it may be my last

Lasting in me
I scream for more

Post existential, possibly transcendant
What shall become of me, within my life

Selfish desires
One just like me

I walk a shadow, my footsteps light
My deeds go punished, I know not why

Others who fall
Used to it as they are

I try to comprehend
The lives others live
I try to understand
But the silence is so loud

In my head
In my head
Oh this confusion
Simply trying to be

In my head
In my

But the silence is loud

An Untitled Poem 2

Sometimes I haven't a clue what to name a piece I just churned out, I just do it and slap an "Untitled" on it. Perhaps some other time I'll figure it out, but for now this'll do.

Like any and all good citizens in this modern era, I feel a strange range of emotions when regarding mirrors outside of their chief purpose. I've written a bit of stuff on 'em m'self, and this is just the most recent.

My hands are on the wrong places in the mirror
I look again and the thumbs are upside down
I blink and they're back again, facing the wrong way
Why can't I see my palms, the lines engrained in the callous?
Why won't the mirror let me see it?

My hands are facing the wrong way in the mirror.
I can't look up I know he's looking at me
It's trying to tell me something but I don't know
I can't understand what he's saying, communication
It's broken down between us, but I must know.

My hands are on backwards in the mirror.
A subtle message, clear of restraint and fear
He wants me to know, he needs me to know
And I'm honestly trying to understand
But the vision is unclear and the mirror is dirty.

Ode to your local diner

For me it'd be Shari's on Meridian Street. They're like a slightly comparably-priced version of Denny's, but with way better pie. Reckon they're comparable to Marie Calender's then, y'know?

Some people complain about the service, but I've never had any complaints, plus they're another 24/7 place to grub and hang out. And hey, dat pie!

Plenty of other good stuff there too, and the staff can be downright interesting if you get to know 'em.

It's all about what YOUR diner is like, y'know?

You know the name of the chef.

You know the names of the waitstaff.

You know this place by heart.

Your table is always ready for you, or in the very least a table like it.

There's a table for you and your people, when you need to gather about such a table and break fast or enjoy an after-work dinner in each other's company.

You know each and every special, but you have your own.

A plate just for you.

The pie is perfect, and the coffee too.

You know this place.

It knows you, your name carved into a table or a wall somewhere.

This is your diner.

This is YOUR diner.

It's ready for you at any point in time, at any hour, and will always accept you.

And that's a good damned thing.

Modern Celebrity

I pity anyone who doesn't have dreams of their own, who lack the longing to test their limits, and those who simply give up and live up to the expectation of whatever bloodline begat them.

Human beings were meant to be individuals. To express themselves and find themselves. And those born with silver spoons in their mouths, wracked with guilt and their palates cloying with foods that are too rich and wasteful, who rally at their apparent uselessness and cannot accept their lot in life, nor FIND that lot but rather just swallow whatever life gives them...

Yeah. I don't envy you people.

A Megadeth-ish thrash/heavy metal riff and beat. Believe it or not the timing is perfect right out the gate, and when Anubis Unit gets around to doin' this puppy (or No Rhymes, whichever) it's going to hit HARD.

Enjoy, lemme know what you think, the usual fixin's on the side. In the meantime, time for steak!

There strides forth those misbegotten Godly Ones
Those chosen within the framework of existence

There goes forth those children of the Gods
Paying heed only to their unnecessary whims

All bow to those unfortunate souls
Silver spoons deep within their orifice
All pay heed to their gormless words
Even as the guilt tears them from deep within

There by the grace of God goes they who
Live only up to the expectations of others

See them march upon their straightened path
See them as they fall prey to their chosen ends

All bow to those unfortunate ones
Silver spoons damming their insufferable cries
All ignore their true dreams and drives
But all pay heed to when they fall

Success
Success
Success
Completely unbidden

Success
Success
Success
Absolute unforgiven

Success
Success
Success
Increase the drive

Success
Success
Success
Profit from their lives

You cannot stand the head if you've never been burned
You shall wither under the gaze of scrutiny

Deny your dreams and deny yourself and
Whether or not you decide from life unto death

All bow to those unfortunate chosen
Those who can never do wrong publicly
Silver spoons tie up their silver tongues
They're merely lucky, they're merely lucky

Some may be humbled and some may be without
Some must live only so others must die

There strides forth the haunted procession
Of those who dared to struggle against the tide

All bow down to those fortunate souls
To win forever is their desired goal
Silver spoons plot out their every step
How can you wonder that their life is ever anything

but good....
For them....
For us....
To prove....
To us...
The dream...
Cannot die...
It's there...
For only 9.99~!

YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY LINE UP
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY FALL DOWN
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY MISUNDERSTAND
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY FOLLOW THEIR PLANS

YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY LINE UP
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY'RE MISQUOTED
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY'RE BLINDFOLDED
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY SMOKE A FINAL CIGARETTE

(bridge)

There strides forth those unholy godless ones
They listen to no other advice but everyone's

There goes forth those oversensitized
Their palates choking on the whims of bad advice

All must bow to these chosen souls
The silver spoon a misguided council
All must know of their quoted words
Dripping with filth even as they scream for help

There by the grace of God goes all of us
Teeming and surging with money, the root of their problems

There goes what little privacy they had
In the search for the contentment they left behind

All must bow to these hungry ones
Silver Spoon starving them as it feeds
All must pay heed to their struggles
Even though their soul continues to bleed

Success
Success
Success
Never just settle

Success
Success
Success
Never test your mettle

Success
Success
Success
At any cost

Success
Success
Success
No dreams of their own

What good...
For them...
Content...
Nevermore...
Their dreams...
Set aside...
Never trusting...
Bloodlines...
The proof...
Their excess...
The baggage...
They never rest...

YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY LINE UP
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY FALL DOWN
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY MISUNDERSTAND
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY FOLLOW THEIR PLANS

YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY LINE UP
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY'RE MISQUOTED
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY'RE BLINDFOLDED
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY SMOKE A FINAL CIGARETTE

YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY TAKE THE LINE
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY TAKE THEIR BOW
YOU WATCH THEM ALL SIMPERING PLAYERS
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY FALL DOWN

YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY LINE UP
YOU WATCH THEM ALL AS THEY FALL DOWN
YOU WATCH THEM ALL POOR PATHETIC PLAYERS
YOU WATCH THEM ALL WHILE THEY SUCCUMB

A block of text that could probably be set up somehow into a something....

"Less A Poem And More Just A Thingy"

Sometimes, I see things. I can't explain it, I just do.

Depends on the song, or the sounds outside my window, or in my head.

At times I see an old man, staggering alone and lonesome down a broken road, the glittering shards of dreams gathering about his shuffling boots. His back is bent, his head is bowed, but his eyes are still fierce, still fever bright and raging. They glow in the darkness surrounding him, that wicked, wicked old thing. The whole world beats on him, but he continues shuffling, heedless of the dreams he's lost behind him. Nothing left save his principles, nothing left save what honor hasn't been withered away by life.

Other times I see a beautiful young girl, barely of an age to be a woman, in a pretty yellow sundress. She's in an alleyway, a tenement building partially bombed out behind her but the wall is still strong. This is her wall. She leans back against it and raises her sundress teasingly, completely in control, her beautiful, creamy pale skin flashing as several young boys, barely coming into their own as young men, gaze with wonder at whatever she's willing to reveal. They want her, but know not how - she can be satiated, but for now this is all she wants, all she desires from them. All four are happy with the arrangement, a shared connection, a glow suffusing them at the semi-forbidden act of revelation.

And other times I still see a broad-backed father, proud of his son newly come into his own as a man, even as his son still labors intensely. Even as his son breaks himself through the daily rigors of simply surviving. Even as his son suffers under loss and strain and his own poorly made, but accepted and survived choices. The father, too proud to cry. The son, too proud to ever return.

I know, generally speakin', what all these images mean. But sometimes it just goes through my head in random flashes, and they become significant because of that. Even though some of these scenes contain tropes that can be applied to my own august and inglorious self, they are not inexactly about me.

Sure, I can claim to be the old man, the son, the young teenagers coming into their sexuality. I can even claim to be the road and the darkness that seeks to beat down and destroy the relentless old man, the father that watches his son go through life's hardships yet can do nothing but hope, the beautiful young temptress simply basking in the plying of her craft, enjoying the attention of those around her, their eyes gracing her skin.

But I'm none of those.

Why, did you perhaps see something of yourself then? Curious.

Stone Bastard 1-7

I don't know, don't ask me. Just somethin' I wrote recently. Seems like my life has been full of ups and downs as of late, and as always there's the potential for so much to gain...but also the potential for even further disasters.

Nothing to do but to go forward with it. Yeap.

Instead of doling all seven pieces of this out, I figured meh, fuck it - just give it to you guys in one big gulp.

Swallow it all down, dear. There's still dessert, y'know?

Stone Bastard

#1

I died last night in my sleep.

I'm moving, I can feel my eyelids blink, my eyes move, my fingers twist.

But my back aches, and I can't hear my heart anymore.  It's quite strange, realizing how much our heart fills our ears, a background song that barely anyone recognizes.

My good ol' buddy ain't moving anymore, and I'm so cold.

So cold.


#2

I was dead as I walked about.

I see people going about their daily business, and appear to do so as well.

But I hurt, I hurt so much it burns.  My heart is dead, a stone rock within me, though I want neither food nor water nor rest.  The noise of the city fills me, but I still ache.

I'm just not me anymore, not really.  Don't know why, nor if I deserve this.

Hurts bad.


#3

I am dead, laying on my bed.

I'm still pretending to be alive, even now in the quiet of a restless night.

My neighbors are interesting, and the city never truly sleeps.  Like me it's a dead thing, but unlike me it's so noisy.  I can hear quite plainly the arguments and grumbling, the sounds of living, loving, hating. 

Hearing better.


#4

I have died, but I'm still here, ambulatory.

In a park, watching people as they go about their lives, unnoticed.

I miss this, miss being one of them.  My heart has stopped, its' thunderous noise replaced with the noise of others.  I don't like this, but I can get used to it.  Guess anyone can get used to anything.

Sitting still.


#5

How dead must I be, if I'm still here, still me?

A new, unsettling thought has entered my supposedly rotting brain.

My heart is dead, but I'm alive.  My body is dead, but I'm alive.  But I'm not different than others, not at all.  Perhaps I'm simply more aware of it now that I can't hear my own heart?  I have to figure this out more.

A frenzy.


#6

Now that I'm dead, I can see it visibly.

My options without a heartbeat, without a shadow.  So limited, yet so open to definition.

I'm dead, this is true.  I'm dead now, through and through.  Yet within the scheme of things, I have discovered a wondrous thing: worlds without end, choices to make and follow through with.

Time moves.


#7

Dead and buried, good and gone.

All is well 'twixt right and wrong.  If I'm there and I'm here, then from whence have I come?  Was I always like this?  Was I always only going through the motions?  Dead all the time?

Without reason and with plentiful joy do I now live, dead as I am.  To redefine my life as I am, to live as I wish, even as dead as I am.

My heart skipped a beat, that's all it did.  It's still dead, stone cold dead now.

But it plays, it PLAYS!  Such wonderful music as I've ever heard.

I heard it, I hear it.  The noise of the city, the noise in me.

Joyful, painful, and full of rage.  Loving, hating, fighting, needing.

And with each line do I make new rules, as I wish, wonton and willy-nilly.  Thither and hither, heckle and jeckle.

A world of my own.

This world of my wishes.

Do I need anything better than this, finer than this?  My palate is ablaze, my senses overloaded.

My heart is dead, my brain is aflame.

My tale does not end, even as I have already ended.  Perhaps yes, perhaps no.

But with each new line, I will continue.  With each line I will learn more, hear more, be more.  With or without my heart.

A Boot Shaped Poem Again

It's always the same thing, isn't it?
The dull grey that occurs afterwards
The hangover from emotional letdown
Always the same thing, time and again

Like a boot pressing down on your trachea
It'll fill you with wonder and light, only to hurt
To break, to rip and tear your very soul out, yet
We are constantly attempting to feel it again, unable
To differentiate between the true feeling or a facsimile
But rather, it's something that we seek, all of us, whether
Or not it's something that we actually need. In fact, some
of us are better off without it. So is it our biological endeavors
That pushes us to consistently try and try again? Are those who
Burn out and fail, never to try again, better off than we hopeless ones?
We romantics, sensitives, blind to the pain that even now haunts our weary
Hearts ?                                                Then let it be, and let it hurt, and simply
Do    as                                                  we can to let it hurt, to revel in that pain
and see                                                      to the pain never lessens or dulls, but
rather,                                                           that it hurts simply to remind us that
we are                                                           alive, a thing that we take for granted.