What is words moor?
An incipient con...
Surreal yet infertile.
Confausea despairend
writhing, deep discussing
disgusting confusion and
logic(k) unchecked.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The moment passes...
There was, a slow almost imperceivable shrinkage, walls; familiar relics accumulating dust and weight. Weight also manifesting in her little heart.
The days all had been leading here, to this point in time, of this she is certain.
To a pretty yet intricately chaotic shrine. A shrine that encapsulated her melancholic lethargy...
She sighs, swallows thickly. The moment passes.
The days all had been leading here, to this point in time, of this she is certain.
To a pretty yet intricately chaotic shrine. A shrine that encapsulated her melancholic lethargy...
She sighs, swallows thickly. The moment passes.
I myself, aside myself...
Spreading of roots, vein-like
a bloody blossoming...
The exotic sort of sting she brings.
Complexity approaching pleasure.
Inhale...
Rinsing and wringing this heart.
I myself, aside myself
in this womb like self consciousness.
a bloody blossoming...
The exotic sort of sting she brings.
Complexity approaching pleasure.
Inhale...
Rinsing and wringing this heart.
I myself, aside myself
in this womb like self consciousness.
Seeded need...
The slightest greed growing in enveloping intensity,
the seeded need invested in the knowing of complexity.
Supposing a seeming abysmal singularity,
practices an escapism through inevitable polarity.
the seeded need invested in the knowing of complexity.
Supposing a seeming abysmal singularity,
practices an escapism through inevitable polarity.
On the quiet...
On the quiet perhaps.
We could surreptitiously thrive
by a series of messages brief
and hastily filtered through
our idealised selves.
Cleansing and renewing
those versions of vows.
Forever faultlessly tender.
We could surreptitiously thrive
by a series of messages brief
and hastily filtered through
our idealised selves.
Cleansing and renewing
those versions of vows.
Forever faultlessly tender.
To my...
Moth of beautiful un-adorn
to my butterfly tart tattered palate...
Betwixt frilly and the fruity,
let us insects be...
Amongst the exotic inhabitants
in this curious cerebral hothouse.
to my butterfly tart tattered palate...
Betwixt frilly and the fruity,
let us insects be...
Amongst the exotic inhabitants
in this curious cerebral hothouse.
into the new day...
Just view it bittersweet,
this delicious breaking.
Cracking of the egg
over dawn's horizon.
The skies experience
bleeding into the new day.
this delicious breaking.
Cracking of the egg
over dawn's horizon.
The skies experience
bleeding into the new day.
bend and not break...
What am I?
But to bend and not break.
Swelling into recesses
within the boundaries,
of your form limited.
You flow away free and
by a darkness and a glow
I let you...
But to bend and not break.
Swelling into recesses
within the boundaries,
of your form limited.
You flow away free and
by a darkness and a glow
I let you...
Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...
This is a seemingly ancient piece now, but while doing some journal "spring" cleaning, I noticed that I never re-added the revised version. So I shall do that now.
Emily Herself gazes fixedly upon screaming baby.
From a perspective such as this;
it may appear baby has never been,
other than a screaming.
Emily Herself does, reserve a certain fondness for baby.
But more so out of habit than actual emotional attachment.
These years have been elongated years...
Emily Herself fixed, pinned to this wall.
This particulate moment, particular scene.
Baby hasn't much to do, with the essence Emily Herself,
of or relating to her minute discrete particles or substance.
Emily Herself minus baby.
It is merely within the line of sight.
Nothing more...it was not planned.
She methodically yet distractedly,
narrates the largely void and silently sentimental details.
Not much fussed with baby, is the girl.
Emily Herself seldom herself looks at the girl.
Only stares...stares, huge cavernous eyes at baby...
On subject of Emily Herself, it isn't terribly important.
Only Emily Herself to the girl, and therefore by proxy to me.
Emily Herself; thinks the girl, is one of those quaint names...
Ever so popular in the nineteenth century.
Conjuring up images of porcelain white suicide brides, abandoned altars.
Although Emily Herself, a plain woman she may have once been.
Has been lent a waning and frail bone pallid refinement.
The girl and her utter aesthetic contrast to Emily Herself,
is the primary reason she is so fascinated with Emily Herself.
The girl as Emily Herself with Baby,
has forgotten I'm here.
The girl is uncertain if Emily Herself is even aware of her existence.
She feels that her own awareness may be fading,
and may only be of significance in relation
to the admiring of Emily Herself.
That while defining Emily Herself,
She experiences a disintegration of her own persona and individual identity.
I often wonder, what The girl truly does see within Emily Herself.
What Emily herself represents for The girl.
The meaning of the silent daily observations.
I think it merely just exasperates the separateness of us all...
Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...
Emily Herself gazes fixedly upon screaming baby.
From a perspective such as this;
it may appear baby has never been,
other than a screaming.
Emily Herself does, reserve a certain fondness for baby.
But more so out of habit than actual emotional attachment.
These years have been elongated years...
Emily Herself fixed, pinned to this wall.
This particulate moment, particular scene.
Baby hasn't much to do, with the essence Emily Herself,
of or relating to her minute discrete particles or substance.
Emily Herself minus baby.
It is merely within the line of sight.
Nothing more...it was not planned.
She methodically yet distractedly,
narrates the largely void and silently sentimental details.
Not much fussed with baby, is the girl.
Emily Herself seldom herself looks at the girl.
Only stares...stares, huge cavernous eyes at baby...
On subject of Emily Herself, it isn't terribly important.
Only Emily Herself to the girl, and therefore by proxy to me.
Emily Herself; thinks the girl, is one of those quaint names...
Ever so popular in the nineteenth century.
Conjuring up images of porcelain white suicide brides, abandoned altars.
Although Emily Herself, a plain woman she may have once been.
Has been lent a waning and frail bone pallid refinement.
The girl and her utter aesthetic contrast to Emily Herself,
is the primary reason she is so fascinated with Emily Herself.
The girl as Emily Herself with Baby,
has forgotten I'm here.
The girl is uncertain if Emily Herself is even aware of her existence.
She feels that her own awareness may be fading,
and may only be of significance in relation
to the admiring of Emily Herself.
That while defining Emily Herself,
She experiences a disintegration of her own persona and individual identity.
I often wonder, what The girl truly does see within Emily Herself.
What Emily herself represents for The girl.
The meaning of the silent daily observations.
I think it merely just exasperates the separateness of us all...
Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...
Restless...
A vexation is such,
that restless constant.
I shall be to decide,
forced between inky darkness utter.
And an all encompassing
particle piercing brightness.
Radiating like some demented beacon,
into night's insomniaic depths.
The conundrum lies within
an apparent phenomenon...
Where three sentences paradoxically,
seem equal to atleast three hours
of tedious sleep deprived dialogue.
that restless constant.
I shall be to decide,
forced between inky darkness utter.
And an all encompassing
particle piercing brightness.
Radiating like some demented beacon,
into night's insomniaic depths.
The conundrum lies within
an apparent phenomenon...
Where three sentences paradoxically,
seem equal to atleast three hours
of tedious sleep deprived dialogue.
smile...
smear on the smile and morning cosmetics
for these days each in succession/secession...
Were perhaps inappropriately appropriated
to certain pirouetting schedules.
Biding my time in queue.
Unfortunately the burden of my years are yet,
too heavy and full, did spill over their,
seething contents upon you undeserving.
I greatly fear and loathe for you to realise,
the dimensional actuality of all this ugliness.
The true proportions of my despair...
After all then retreat would prove blameless, necessary.
for these days each in succession/secession...
Were perhaps inappropriately appropriated
to certain pirouetting schedules.
Biding my time in queue.
Unfortunately the burden of my years are yet,
too heavy and full, did spill over their,
seething contents upon you undeserving.
I greatly fear and loathe for you to realise,
the dimensional actuality of all this ugliness.
The true proportions of my despair...
After all then retreat would prove blameless, necessary.
existential malaise...
Lost childhood, eating the metaphorical apple of consciousness. Taking the red pill, waking to the dawn of a cold barren existence...These objects/concepts they give me no substance.
My own created love turns traitorously against the heart which created it. We interact with senses of empathy, comradeship only as far as ensuring comfort, or suppressing suspicion.
Import and meaning are the coloured lenses in which we peer through life.
I feed this organic machinery; It wants to live. On some abstract level discerning only, that it is necessary.
I observe remotely from my tower, somewhat detached and resentful.
I am the depths of nausea and the presence of inertia.
My own created love turns traitorously against the heart which created it. We interact with senses of empathy, comradeship only as far as ensuring comfort, or suppressing suspicion.
Import and meaning are the coloured lenses in which we peer through life.
I feed this organic machinery; It wants to live. On some abstract level discerning only, that it is necessary.
I observe remotely from my tower, somewhat detached and resentful.
I am the depths of nausea and the presence of inertia.
of an ideal...
Why exalt,
one whose own morals and identity
rest so tenuously upon the shoulders
of an ideal which is fashioned
by fervor and dread.
Design and distraction to divert ones gaze...
For those who can not face a reflection
without the gauze like
veil of dogma.
one whose own morals and identity
rest so tenuously upon the shoulders
of an ideal which is fashioned
by fervor and dread.
Design and distraction to divert ones gaze...
For those who can not face a reflection
without the gauze like
veil of dogma.
elemental affinity...
It is for elemental affinity I ache
that fleshy earth's mingle,
salt in the blood and brine.
To tempestuous passions these soothe
upon drawn eyelids,
the red of sun through skin.
For the days dawn seeks
the subtleties of bird song.
that fleshy earth's mingle,
salt in the blood and brine.
To tempestuous passions these soothe
upon drawn eyelids,
the red of sun through skin.
For the days dawn seeks
the subtleties of bird song.
The beat suns...
Rusty dull ache, yet blissfully hollow.
The beat suns upon and
downs late mundane summers.
Screeching yesteryears cicada songs,
lazy nostalgia of idle days...
Only the listless awaiting
yet unarticulated desires for fulfilment.
At a loose end and rattling about.
An old bolt in an old tin can.
The beat suns upon and
downs late mundane summers.
Screeching yesteryears cicada songs,
lazy nostalgia of idle days...
Only the listless awaiting
yet unarticulated desires for fulfilment.
At a loose end and rattling about.
An old bolt in an old tin can.
Our Sunrises...
If I might bear the weight of the sun,
Prize free its grip, upon the tempting horizon.
Force sunset back, to travel east.
Sky up, I might.
And thus, will a giant hand...
Send the Earth spinning re-verse,
To unravel time, like a ball of wool.
I might.
Alternately arranging our sunrises,
To better coincide.
Within the Bell Jar...
How can one call oneself a writer, when one doesn’t write? It is easier when your pronouns have an extra layer of anonymity. I personally don’t have trouble writing at all, neither do you, but if one did, they may question their validity as said writer.
I have been reading a lot lately, mostly craving the escapist indulgence of fiction, losing my own features in the involved internal dialogues of easily integratable protagonists. I call it “accumulating” which I suspect is closer to “procrastinating.” My hands are cold as I type, which seems to make it worse, as if my hands are directly manifesting the rigid sluggish motion of my mind. It goes like this:
I had taken my books back to the library; overdue as usual (I am a repeat offender.) So that night I find myself with no new material, and a yawning expanse of night to fill (do expanses always yawn, are they frequently tired as I am?) Well...I decided to delve into my own stagnant bookshelf, and chose a copy of “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath, it seemed the time had come. I had had words with this book before, none of it eventuating to anything substantial. What with me being so heavily enamoured with “Ariel” I just couldn’t foresee how this could work out between us. But none the less, with the yawning expanse and my own lethargy I found myself settling down in bed with “The Bell Jar”, pulling the covers up high to my chin.
I read through with the familiar restless dissatisfaction, seriously contemplating the merits of this novel as “A near perfect work of art” (which I will proclaim now, are not words that I would attribute to this novel) yet something compels me through the storyline. The discomfort is insidiously creeping in, (this is how things happen... they creep, insidiously. Otherwise this would never have happened to you, or to me.)
I think one of the most unnerving factors about this novel, is the sort of, non-event of it. The material itself is not new to me, the subject, the types of experiences contained therein. I should explain that this could have been me to a degree, disregarding the particulars of character study, geographical location, at the core though, the coldness, the doubt, the yawning expanses, the insidious creep of non-event.
The suicide issue arose almost as a personal affront. Almost blackly comical in its genuine naivety, yet sickeningly she persists and I am granted both the outsiders perception as well as our own. Novels shouldn’t do this to me, it was really unfair to drag me through this whole affair and out the other end, to realise it was all a farce, well not all of it, perhaps only the end.
Suicides will do this, it is a disconcerting aspect. The lull at the end, it is the only way it is achievable really (for people like us.) The detached smile, the vague sense of improvement, perhaps this is why I worry about myself so much. This apparent improvement, before the plunge (this ensures no one suspects and or is looking at the wrong moment.) I can almost hear them uttering “but she seemed so much happier...healthier.”
I will eventually let these thoughts go, release them from me. I can hardly claim ignorance; I knew what she would do (safely on the edges of the pages, out of view of the sentences and paragraphs) when and how she would do it. It is a condition of the novel. I didn’t however expect it to cut so close to the bone, to have quite the icy after sting. So now I am full of sluggish words rousing in empty rooms, searching but not finding any true context to grasp upon...
I have been reading a lot lately, mostly craving the escapist indulgence of fiction, losing my own features in the involved internal dialogues of easily integratable protagonists. I call it “accumulating” which I suspect is closer to “procrastinating.” My hands are cold as I type, which seems to make it worse, as if my hands are directly manifesting the rigid sluggish motion of my mind. It goes like this:
I had taken my books back to the library; overdue as usual (I am a repeat offender.) So that night I find myself with no new material, and a yawning expanse of night to fill (do expanses always yawn, are they frequently tired as I am?) Well...I decided to delve into my own stagnant bookshelf, and chose a copy of “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath, it seemed the time had come. I had had words with this book before, none of it eventuating to anything substantial. What with me being so heavily enamoured with “Ariel” I just couldn’t foresee how this could work out between us. But none the less, with the yawning expanse and my own lethargy I found myself settling down in bed with “The Bell Jar”, pulling the covers up high to my chin.
I read through with the familiar restless dissatisfaction, seriously contemplating the merits of this novel as “A near perfect work of art” (which I will proclaim now, are not words that I would attribute to this novel) yet something compels me through the storyline. The discomfort is insidiously creeping in, (this is how things happen... they creep, insidiously. Otherwise this would never have happened to you, or to me.)
I think one of the most unnerving factors about this novel, is the sort of, non-event of it. The material itself is not new to me, the subject, the types of experiences contained therein. I should explain that this could have been me to a degree, disregarding the particulars of character study, geographical location, at the core though, the coldness, the doubt, the yawning expanses, the insidious creep of non-event.
The suicide issue arose almost as a personal affront. Almost blackly comical in its genuine naivety, yet sickeningly she persists and I am granted both the outsiders perception as well as our own. Novels shouldn’t do this to me, it was really unfair to drag me through this whole affair and out the other end, to realise it was all a farce, well not all of it, perhaps only the end.
Suicides will do this, it is a disconcerting aspect. The lull at the end, it is the only way it is achievable really (for people like us.) The detached smile, the vague sense of improvement, perhaps this is why I worry about myself so much. This apparent improvement, before the plunge (this ensures no one suspects and or is looking at the wrong moment.) I can almost hear them uttering “but she seemed so much happier...healthier.”
I will eventually let these thoughts go, release them from me. I can hardly claim ignorance; I knew what she would do (safely on the edges of the pages, out of view of the sentences and paragraphs) when and how she would do it. It is a condition of the novel. I didn’t however expect it to cut so close to the bone, to have quite the icy after sting. So now I am full of sluggish words rousing in empty rooms, searching but not finding any true context to grasp upon...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)