Time moves slower for you,

when you become one with it.



Think about that one, think about it.

I will persist, until I succeed,

and even after, even during, always, forever and even in the never.

A Quick and Dismissive Analysis of Fight Club (7/9/11)

Talking to a friend on fb chat, excerpts from discussion:


I think it's an angsty social commentary on the demasculisation of men in the modern world, delivered with a bit of a self-aware pseudo revolutionary jest.

Immature? Yes a little, but it's got some muthafuckin' merit.

The immaturity was just secondary to the them of demasculisation. That was just a form of backlash that these sissified men were imposing on this "sad bad mad world". And it was shown in the end NOT to be supporting these activities, and the whole movie in the end was about Jack's self realisation, which ironically, was him making peace with a woman. (who were wholly responsible for the whole cycle in the first place)
That being said, the "fuck you and your bullshit!" mentality was what originally grasped me.

As for the ending, that is where he finds his balance.
Where he conquers the immature and destructive reactionary impulse (Tyler) and comes to rest at an equilibrium, a self created "ground zero"
Where he can start anew, with his bitch.

Get Me On That Goddamn Road! (7/9/11)

I don't backspace when I type, and I don't do disclaimers when I hold my stuff out to the world.
Wait, whoops.

Here's to those iconoclast wracks!
America's moving scars that scuttled across its groaning back,
those lonely dresden poets with nothin' but a buck and a fuck not to give.
Those endless miles of sagged rubber,
Those restless nights of sweat and paradise,
those darker chapters of isolated fury,

the unholy beholdings of the holy lands-
Here's to them! here's to them...
Here's a  toast to the cats who didn't give a damn!
I raise my keyboard, I raise my tacking fingers out the windows,
I raise it out to the world,
out to a world that I am yet to know;
to one that begs me like a whimpering lover
begs me to join her in her
troubles
paradises
broken roads
and beat cities
whose glassy eyes and pouted lips beg up to me
      all because of your words.

Dean Moriarty, I think of you.
I think of Dean Moriarty,

Fleeting Spring (1/9/11)

she still takes my breath
from a thousand miles away
today-every day;

Let (Written 10/8/11)

.

Let every stream which aches the mind be crossed;

Let every empire fall to cinders,

      every hawk turn to stone,

      every eagle sleep as a carcass.

Every rume, and rumble in pits

Let every shudder, shake dry bones;

Let every jaw crack under the anvil,

      every needle pierce the eye,

      every shard scar the mouth.

Every smell, and taste in anguish

Let every ladybug scamper your chest;

Let every mantis weep on your toes,

      every spider whisper you oracle,

      every cricket croon an elegy.

Every insect, and pest in fray

Let every foot feel warm blood;

Let every lung wheeze stole air,

      every lip lock an escape,

      every hand feel a kin soul.

Every life, and moment, its breath.

Let;

Yes, I Mad. (Shat Out 7/8/11)

Godamn I'm angry,
I'm just plain fucked off,
Time is so quick gone,
And I am so left, felt robbed.

The clock always ticks,
Yet thine hands seldom move,
Lists are leeches and wicks,
Ends of what I'm yet to prove.

Classroom Tomfoolery: Angsty in the Maths Class (Written 19/7/11)

            Free verse,
untamed
      wilden, brazen, young
veins
      on black horse neck
bite
      champ bit, blood gums
spite
      scrape scrounge, shit speck
bile
      vile purge, innards convulse
eyes
      dead burnt, tired
feel
      weared worn, dead pulse
wrack
      perhaps against self, I've conspired...

Glass Box Sonnet (Recorded 17/7/11)

I write to you from a dust-borne city,

In chamber of frozed glass, pencil walks.

Plastic grass, grey green, paints scene, eyes gritty,

Sole/Soul, infant, upon ages, lone he talks

In crystal box housed on sea of steel, found:

Whispers around, rummage of faint lovers,

Bustle of Borders broad toned above ground,

In such space of many, yet no other.

In a time of timeless haze, he wades, peers;

To the moon driven sea of is she were

here.

A Benign, Burst of Beauty (Written 20/7/11)

One day, there was a painter in his house, painting.

This painter, he had a son. A young boy, curious like his father; and like his father once was: demanding answers.

On this day he walked up to his father and asked:

"Father, you spend so much time here. We have hardly any money and this is all you do. Why do you paint?"

His father continued to move his brush and replied,

"Because it is what I enjoy doing son, and there is no more explanation than that."

His son, dissapointed with his answer, refuted:

"Father, we are poor and hungry. I have no toys like the other children I play with, no hat to keep the sun off my face on hot days, I have nothing. Why do you waste your time with this, why don't you work in the factory Father? Why do you waste your time? Why don't you make yourself useful so we can have what we need?"

His father's brush had stopped moving. A gate of silence had descended over the painter's eyes. 

After a few moments, a smile flecked across the corner of his mouth. With two hands he took his son, placed him on his knee, looked into his eyes and said:

"Son, because there simply are no needs."

Beauty is in the superflous,
take this world for example.
It could do without life, without animals, without plants and trees and birds and dogs and butterflies and wolves and humans,
without us.
And it would be uncluttered, organised, sorted, simple.

But would it be beautiful?
No, it would not.

"But the stars, the galaxies, the moon in the night sky! They are enthralling, magical, beautiful!"
;you may attest

But it is only so, because you are there to see it.
Because you are alive and the light shines in your eyes.
It can exist without us, but without us, without you, your mind, your soul: it all has no purpose.

Without us, without the superfluous beings we clutter we are, it all means nothing.


Without us: it is all superfluous.

Classroom Tomfoolery: Women (Written 19/7/11)

Girls,

such lovely

beings.

Cute smiles,

arms full of hugs

touch, euphoric, drugs!

Mothers made of love, kisses;

daughters, so nice, kisses.

Daughters, lust, wishes

waist and waste.

Hips, lips, fingertips

choke, pocket and throat.

Lips, other lips, where you go

to where they show,

to on your knees,

under her whim.

You, just "him".

Just a part.

a part:heart

just cash,

item

Girl's.

A Confession. (Written 23/6/11)

I've been in this chasm
I've been in this cage,
writing the same limmericks
for page after page

I've held myself here
out of old awkward fear
clipped my own wings
and kept them that way

there's no need for imagery
no shortage for metaphors
of horizons and sunsets, birds taking flight
no need for witty rhymes, right now

this, is a confession
an honest reply
to the valleys and ages
of Me and I
of the times I've spent
licking wounds in the womb
by myself
because I'm scared
like everyone else

so this is a toast
to those girls that I never kissed
to the nights that I've never lived
those feelings I never felt
because I too was timid,
just like everyone else

in my mallied magnificence
I recount those days
where I played in the rivers
and made love to men
where I lay in the sunset
saved the queen
where I rescued the princess
and all the other adventures I'd written in pen
all those journeys I'd been on
in my head

Fantasies, is all that
they are.

I'm Out Here To Grab Life Violently By The Throat and Fist in The Asshole With All My Might (Then Perhaps Caress It Gently and Make Friends With It?)

Imperfect diamante; contrasting then combining.
Swag.


A crowd's roar
A humble heel's rumble
Crystalline horizons, held on heights
Thumping nights and driving lights
Gorges caress and faces of fate undress;
Inside dawn windows of dusk redress
-
A quiet morn sunlight, held in haze
Soft mornings with love, hushed daze
Smiles and quiet sights
Stills so right
Ever gentle gift
upon sands shift
quiet, Loud
soft-Proud
Amongst trife:
A livéd life.

Class Haiku #1 (Written 20/6/11)

stale shuffling stillness

cold curled, carped coated crime

ticking time takes       me

school bores me sometimes.