Got Goldie pumping through my friend's Dre Beats

Ahhhh, that entrepeneural spirit is rife, I smell it in the air, I see it in the vibe that is emanating from this young and fresh surge of music and media.  It's a big wave, and one that I see myself riding, not valiantly as some sort of general, but as some wide eyed kid laughing at the very front of it.
It's my time to move, our time to move really, this is a time of change. One where the revolution is not on the battlefield nor on the streets in masses, but in the minds of its participants and audience.
Where it all really counts, because at the end of it what we think creates everything around us.
We as a generation are becoming more self aware and ironically we're just unaware of it.
Amidst from our self abrasement and depreciation, this wave of youth is breeding more individualism, more questions for the world and more youth hungry for answers. It's becoming cool to be intelligent again, to be something different and I love being part of it.
I'll be a damn sweet part of this wave, relishing deeply in it, and dare I say I residing a cut above.

Or so I'd like to think ;)

Old man

Poem from about 7 months ago. Scribbled on a magazine tear-out after seeing a man busking on the street with an electric guitar and his sleeping companion, unedited.

Old man and his guitar
Old man and his sleepy black dog
Pouring songs on the concrete lawn
Old hands move and sing
Old man plays his songs
Old man's hands falter and slip
Old man plays on
Throwing his breath to crowds of two
To three, to me
Old man plays his songs
On his black box he makes it cry
From the rusty strings to misty eyes
Old man, he plays for free
Gulp back tears,
Old man, he plays for me,

Small poem-note from last year.

Whilst cleaning my room I lifted a tearaway patch of paper, a light-blue rip with scribbled ink from last year's Fringe Festival guide. Written about 7 months ago. I realise now I was mad with the way I thought, I liked it.
...
"Yes I was touched by the muses,

but not tortured, not held

They ground their hips against my throat,

my arms, my tounge and my collarbones
And in unision, came on my face

in a spasm or virility and unbridled
madness, joy, pain and passion

whence, breathelessly they collapsed
And will lay quivering in my palms

'til my las beating breaths. "

Unanalysed fresh speed poetry 10/3/12

As the Samsara tricks,
Augusts and lost winters

fall and slip,

Indebted indeed the masculine steed

who's march does much to suffer face
but to suffocate, be but saving grace-

in order to escalate and capitualte the unasphyxiation;
one must under, succumb to the 

plunge,

to the tatter and thrash, the

plunketting junction of 

flutter, the
wrestled-wash of the rollicking rash,

the wrath of washing-spears tip sunk through the butter

On the pancake of grace,
We wipe the crumbs surrounding the face,
Played by the sunlit place,
We sit in vinyl, amidst of our chase.

As the decembers and weather,
sweeps the crop on its way
As we as wheat, we stand and we sway,

So the melted hour-glass drips,
And so the Samsara ticks,

taking a pleasure trip through sore memories.

I hope that the realest thing I've felt isn't in the past,
Written about 2 weeks ago.
------------
In the red cubicle: black snakes in my ears
I smoked wistful breaths
Hearing the smell of sentiments
Worn, a million times before

Neither pain, not regret
Not the burden want
of those wanton hours; sands of a distant shore
.
And so the four would shift
Ups and downs like we once did
The purpled sky and the yellowed moon
painted with those flecks of bats

I'm older now, dear
Far as far and far from here,
Do I still wish you were near?

Gotta Love Late Night Revelations

    4:03 am. I feel a lot older now, look older than I remember myself being. One of those moments where the mother looks into the eyes of her child and notices how much he has grown, except this was a moment spent in solitude.

     There was something different in the reflection, very very far from wrinkles he stood, but there was still a line present in the glass. Hahaha, and some skewed and needless relation of pseudo-poetic metaphors. It's an off night for that kind of shit. I'll rest and have better thoughts and better words to capture them, but for now there are things I want to say. A moment of realisation I'd like to mark, even if it's with something as little as a few paragraphs posted onto a seldom read blog.

     197 pageviews the stats say, most of them most likely glances, maybe some of them seeing a glint of potential, but in the end it's a tiny audience for a seldom-seen one man show. Why write this now? Why not go to bed and be that tidbit more refreshed in the morning? This small cluster of words bears no significance now, but every sliver of a sliver of a second "now" passes and it's a new moment. And eventually, things will align, I will run into place, and these words in hindsight will matter much. It will be surreal when I did this back up. When we share and look to this moment that I am stating we would look to in this very sentence.

   The departure from childhood is dawning. Youth is in my bones and will never fade, but the life and mind of the child is dissappearing I now realise. This slow wean, this shift, this change, this "decline" as I often refer to it, seems much akin to the laboured, gradual peeling of a band-aid. The protective layer enshrining my inner being, my inner child, is stripping itself away. Soon, or perhaps even now, he is wide open.

     But the cut shall scar. I'm calling it now. It shall scar, harden before any can catch what lies inside. And when I make it to the other side, I know I'll be a different beast. But I'm calling it now; I will be the same person.

    And now my forehead is heavy, my eyes are tired, there's that dull ache in the chest at the end of a night too long, a slightly strained feeling in my left forearm. The words likely make little sense, and likely offer no comparison to what you felt and realised, what you are hoping you won't forget in the morning. But this was never meant to be flash. Never meant to be a grand sign. Just a small mark, a little etching in the park bench from which you shall soon depart.
   

Untitled i

Mirror shot,
Wide hipped, narrow legged, collars downturned
downcast, burgeoning spleen
downcast snarl, standback eyes

fucking nothing to be everything
utter bullshit.
prison.
bullshit