Saturday, November 29, 2008

A couple places, a couple styles.

Coburg Rd.

I have run up this street, part of a panting, sweatpanted pack of varsity athletes. I have all out sprinted down this street, all alone, with sweet dark rum pouring from my pours into natural puddles; the singles, the doubles. I have walked hand interlocked with admirations of my sports, of physical stock. Seen from the gym the street is straight, and the lure of the whistle, well that was partly the bait. Mostly it was me: always too young for my age -- at this point especially. The powers of novelty sought to engage with hormone, her moan. Laughter. Nihilism which fails. Editing doesn’t matter? Liquor in pails. Headphones, and bong hits, and an existential excuse, I would simply recluse; start to wander off into the ever-assembling horizon for tomorrow, leaving the moose in my room, in all it’s ineffable pink doom. Poetry in motion, now I see soul spin, therein much more; dangerous things, from old words of lore. They don’t know. I see her walking towards me, a small smile grows. From class maybe? Say hi. Too high. Rubber treads lightly, looking for excuses, in the sky or in the furrowed brow of each advancing stride. This street is a line: central to the campus and canvas to which these memories define and give rise to recorded failure and a psuedo-shaman long from the brush.

In Class

Who is this ordained ordinal here, pacing back and forth and resting on a podium with the curious gaze of a maltese cat born from a generation with the spark in their eyes found in 1950’s musicals; they dance, stand at the helm of the new bodies: blank stares into yawning chasm of electric pollution which has brought us closer to each other and further from the glowing purple beam of intuition and lucid quantum understanding of a dissonance whose tentacles further pull public awareness into the porn-filled astral mud while galloping black horses of clandestine research stampede further throwing thick clouds of confusion the peasants; for the lowest echelon world of the ivory, fragmented into Ahrimanic essays, fracturing minds which are unique and infinitely more potent by being left alone; by being embraced fully for what they can do instead of what higher ‘degrees’ want, education isn’t happenstance archaic it’s modeled this way ubiquitous throughout the world for specific reasons and this is the end of the human spirit not a generation of spoiled kids, I was vaccinated mercury and surrounded by TV’s before I was old enough to have a say it’s not my fault don’t look at us like that you completely unaware brilliant dumb fuck.

Monday, November 24, 2008

I haven't said much today.

Man of the sky; man in the box
The one with the style,
with the short locks
And an open gaze
Closed up passions... they fade
They smash and renew
Into the fashionable way he
looks while not walking away;
Click, everlasting.
Or, while walking away
from the best the earth has
To offer: Glow
Of the natural order.
The one with the style
Woman of wonders; the secrets in warmth.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Kanye Song

I started a rhyme-scheme verse in my head while listening to this song

So I decided to finish it off on paper.

Only five years past I had so much soul
I would play with my homie
She’s say ‘That joke’s so old’
I’d say ‘I’m really phony’
But, um, I said ‘hey phone me’
But now, I feel so lonely
--But she don’t wanna know
Even though she wanna know me.
So, the world it’s broke
And I’m broke: no money
Breathing in shit while the sun ain’t sunny
I row my boat, but I’m out, too far
pen and paper and an empty, jar
Sonny has the car, but his life’s all wrong
No one feels the loss till they lose
While it’s gone, you’ll see.
I learned you can lose so much with artistry.
She said “You always come back,
but you then always leave!
How can I be with someone who isn’t here for me?
So go on and keep writing
Keep dreaming these songs for me!’

Do you think about me now and then?
Do you think about me now and then?
Cause I’m coming home again.
Coming home again.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


A particular girl named Claire sits beside some guy in their philosophy class. She is etching numbers and letters onto a piece of paper -- a game -- different values in a matrix of squares. The guy beside Claire does not know if the game has anything to do with the lecture, nor does he know this of Claire.

Claire’s classes, the history of rational thought, are merely subplots of attention, easily deducible into her grand narrative at the appropriate times. She does this with a wink too quick to miss; a hint of jocose luster. Her story has a calligraphic signature which makes one stop and say: “Look at those curves.” At age four she found her picture in the dictionary under symmetry, and at age seven her mother explained to her that her eye color, a new color, had been studied by scientists after she was born. Claire knows many things, like how to fence, and the human anatomy. Her sister refuses to watch Jeopardy with her, and her high school gym teacher was fired for saying flattering but inappropriate things. She can dunk. Claire stars in cloud nine musicals and her red hair looks regal while soaking wet. To this date she had reunited four children with their true parents, and has two citizens arrests. She meditates on the sky’s ceiling, and her dreams outlast the horizon. The girl is smarter than James Bond, and more certain than Heisenberg. The mechanics of her aesthetics point to a breach of the forms, leaking perfection into a closed system -- this is observed by satellites from space. A cloud of modish entropy surrounds her invoking jealousy in the suspected, desire in many, and audacious speculation in the young man who sits beside her.

The censurable individual is a folly of the ages; a novice soul who mismanaged his character credits. Bar graphs enlisted, his would be a comedic sort of ‘what if?’ His uniform is an irrelevant wonder, like the daily faces of a mime too easily amused by his box. An addict of the lateral, his imagination loops back on itself, getting nowhere, knotting up memory and dopamine. He is not in the dictionary, but has memory highlighted in the one he carries. This young boy never got wisdom teeth. He sleeps irregular hours, and ponders the lucid with mental prosthetics. He ran over a possum once by accident; small animals bite him, and small kids often feel the need to hit him. He stars in shady apartment pornographies, and sometimes benefits from criminals. His idealist dreams are set in a fog of intuition, and sometimes he sits on the threshold of sleep eating cheesies. He does nothing, a villain of productivity draped in lazy mismatched ensemble of horror. His social skill set is a question mark made of an unusual sensitivity to electricity. He is a schizophrenic calculator: he does not work on math puzzles, nor can he can afford to distract himself from lecture to wonder about them. He forces his display to the professor at the front of the room.

“...the results of the midterm have been posted.”

Midterm? The already tall boy grows hot with utter surprise, a red beacon of embarrassment. Claire etches another number into a square, looking over at him, noticing his presence for the first time with a warm smile: a look cool enough to halt matter.

“Some of you did rather well. Some of you...did not show up. That is a mistake of cosmic proportions.” The professor, a consortium avatar for every authority, twists her oiled mustache, cackling the laugh of social justification loud enough for the gods approval. The class begins to laugh as well, turning to point in his direction with great enthusiasm, along with the rest of the heavenly audience, and the rumble of hell. There are several spotlights on the this irrelevant fool now, along with a couple red laser sights.

With a polished spinal cord, Claire sits with her head in the crisp fresh air above all this, small clouds passing by peacefully: the idea of someone missing a midterm an altitude of absurdity far removed from even the most sky-scraping of possibilities. The boy sinks into his chair: the quicksands of confidence in the never-ending story, somewhere in the negative depths of the intellectual foothills of Mont St. Clair. He tries to remain calm, eyeballs deep in the eventuality of his narration.

“You think you know Hegel, and the Geist, but I dare say you do not, for I am the one who decides that. Do not fear the opal mask of death -- it holds the face of awe!” The entire Hindu Caste system can be seen in the avatar at the front of the classroom now, and one of the many arms of Vishnu part the sand he has tried to hide in. The jester’s lanky frame cowers in the chair naked, the very folds of shame the only insulation. Joseph Smith charges forward to smite him with wooden four-foot version of the letter F.

The chasm which separates the two is measured in light speeds, but for a moment during the attack she glances over, her head suddenly tilting sideways with the force of understanding, and the end of a known universe. “F...” she nods, rubbing her chin in approval as she stares through utter imagination. She etches this into the puzzle; a ripple of novelty and inherent negations.

“Anyway, for those who didn’t show up, you probably should next time. For those that did, well, within are your faults.”