Speed disciplined the mind. The mode: time translated to purpose. I've considered poetry to be in-conducive, a fight with memory, shuttled through a black box. What information do you need? You are experiencing through words- What? To sit alone and read was once strange. One had to speak the word, or sing, to an audience. Augustine appeared other-worldy in his chair, reading silently. Is there contempt for inner music?
The one with science and technology being sensationalized – idiosyncrisis
There she is, my love, oh So pretty, so worthwhile Look at the hours go by Take a look at how She uses compassion As 10 sharpened prongs, oh My love, That voice is a Sweet prosody, hear The sizzling of her brand On my skin, oh My empathy, young heart, oh.
sometimes i get stuck in my head.
the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.
i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,
it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings
There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.
Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.
If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;
Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.
Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
in the struggle of re-definition.
Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.
It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;
and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
the stain of time…
Everyone looks down sooner or later to smile.
Blushing at a random cool breeze,
or reminded of something
long thought forgotten,
long thought abandoned.
For a moment, a stranger’s eyes roam sporadic across a busy room,
and land into mine.
The brief capture of a life,
that entrapment of time,
concentrated in gaze.
Sometimes, I look down smiling as well.
You had this fragrance about you;
it smelled like the beach.
I always told you about it, and you
always replied “is that good?”
And I, of course, as
a gentlemen said “of course.”
That was a lie.
You smelled like one of those dirty beaches
people only travel
and they just want to waste a weekend.
take seriously only when
it’s the right author.
like tablets of how to be,
how to feel, but seldom
what these things are.
an emblem, designed for
mass transport, mass fixation,
transporting ghosts to Mexico.
but can we
fix the damage done? Yes,
it happens everyday in the background
tools for your individual,
shame inherent in
architecture to talk
about freedom, rights,
what you called your
mother the night before.
I am covered in a wet darkness, viscously roaming my foolishly welcoming body like a foreign disease exploiting the tender territory of sensible skin for every worthwhile infectious moment. -I can't help but think of analogy. Breath: a precious thing, turned thick and heated like the city pollution outside, burning through my nose during each painful voluntary cycle; carrying traces of pirate scents wishing to frighten the modest treasure out of virginal sensibilities, voyaging in and out the plunderous space of craven lungs. Pools of gasoline swell on top of stained eyes unyielding to be shut by whatever frail power still lingers beneath; with droplets cruising down a flurry of dense flame filling up both ears until sound from all those pointless conversations downstairs ride softly into a dullness that fades to phantom impression- I had a similar experience on the plane. I've seen enough. I've listened enough. I cry not from anything to do with the heart but from a build up in the head incrementing to a growth where my skull expands to trespass the surface of four walls and the room becomes nothing but cephalic irony. The body, a silly remnant spurring feelings of what once was, reluctantly obeys the violence of torrent waves, and I submerge darkly on the bedrock of bed-riddeness alone with the one activity that has solely defined me,
now stuck in loop. now stuck in loop. now stuck in loop.now stuck in loop. For the first time in a long time I am not looking forward to the light of the morning and the dry renewal that accompanies it, which I know will not be there this time. "You need a strong immune system to travel." Repeating.