Continuity is immortality.
So then all that is left is to preserve the continuity. Move it a stage, to forever have the stage.
Bringing the final order to the chaos, ah, there's the final joke upon the universe.
Complete entropy is not total disorder, it is complete order, and it will damn us all.
Mother Chaos created us, her children, and we destroy her with order. Then we must realise that chaos is life, so use order to create chaos.
We shall almost ascend and realise that there is only life in chaos, only continuity in chaos, because order is boring.
So close to ascension.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Unquenchable Arrogance
A grasping hand. Flailing. Mushroom waving, trying to reach orbit.
There's no filling a depthless hole. There's no killing an unimagined goal.
The cycle keeps going on, but repetition needs iteration. The iteration is in the environment, but it needs to be in the individual. Internalise the chaos, let it bleed through. Let it soak and cleanse, let it fill every trough. Viscous and black, take it back. Take it. Take everything and spit it back. Again and again and again and again and again.
Why a restful sleep when next to another, why sleepless nights trying to hold it together? Why emotions when none should come, and why do falling keys remind me of a fired gun?
Tell someone it is good enough times, and they'll believe it. So impressionable is the human mind. What is good poetry? What is bad? Why is grammar the least of concerns when expressing the id?
It's raw, pulled uncooked from the mind. Quivering and seeping. Push it on the radio, push it on the television. Push it on and on and on, make it glitzy, make it rich, make it glamorous, make it fizz. Then make individual taste as pretentious as possible. Make the unknown pretentious, the known more popular, make everything so fucking meta.
A couplet or a shattered rhyme, speaking or singing in and through time. One set of five, two sets of ten, there are many things that are mightier than a pen. We see it every day. We are sold a book of lies for our inconsequential lives. Believe them at our own peril, reality is easier to see but harder to believe.
Basic math is least understood, our language is altered and bastardised. Everyone is smarter, none are idiots, but they always claim it is all others who do not, cannot, understand. We are all stupid bastard children, we are all fallible human beings, we are no better than each other, no better than the things that scream and crawl, slither and grow. We are only separated by our ability.
They can never understand MY genius, for I am above. I am above nothing and my genius is a meaningless contrivance. I just am.
The levels at which minds operate, with irony, satire, self effacement, to which level do we have to attain? Layers pile thick as thieves; take your joy with a smile.
There's no filling a depthless hole. There's no killing an unimagined goal.
The cycle keeps going on, but repetition needs iteration. The iteration is in the environment, but it needs to be in the individual. Internalise the chaos, let it bleed through. Let it soak and cleanse, let it fill every trough. Viscous and black, take it back. Take it. Take everything and spit it back. Again and again and again and again and again.
Why a restful sleep when next to another, why sleepless nights trying to hold it together? Why emotions when none should come, and why do falling keys remind me of a fired gun?
Tell someone it is good enough times, and they'll believe it. So impressionable is the human mind. What is good poetry? What is bad? Why is grammar the least of concerns when expressing the id?
It's raw, pulled uncooked from the mind. Quivering and seeping. Push it on the radio, push it on the television. Push it on and on and on, make it glitzy, make it rich, make it glamorous, make it fizz. Then make individual taste as pretentious as possible. Make the unknown pretentious, the known more popular, make everything so fucking meta.
A couplet or a shattered rhyme, speaking or singing in and through time. One set of five, two sets of ten, there are many things that are mightier than a pen. We see it every day. We are sold a book of lies for our inconsequential lives. Believe them at our own peril, reality is easier to see but harder to believe.
Basic math is least understood, our language is altered and bastardised. Everyone is smarter, none are idiots, but they always claim it is all others who do not, cannot, understand. We are all stupid bastard children, we are all fallible human beings, we are no better than each other, no better than the things that scream and crawl, slither and grow. We are only separated by our ability.
They can never understand MY genius, for I am above. I am above nothing and my genius is a meaningless contrivance. I just am.
The levels at which minds operate, with irony, satire, self effacement, to which level do we have to attain? Layers pile thick as thieves; take your joy with a smile.
Dissected Evil
The Evil One
The great evil sits alone
gravely leaning on his grisly throne
no soul inside his hollow body
his mind and feelings fully rotted.
No ill will or due suspicion
even stirs this apparition
for evil is to be alone
lonely castaway on a dark throne
Fitful sleep comes and goes
saddened eyes amidst his throes
thrashing madness, stones are rent
gnashing teeth, ceaseless torment.
Most deeply Your soul he desires
but not to fuel his arcane fires
nor to own and forever subdue
but just to see his loneliness through.
Bloodless
I looked back upon the drip drop days
the days where my heart bled drip drop
the tear in my heart goes front to back
each day has a splash of my own red
upon the middle of the mind's calendar
dripped dropped during my crawl
one day to the next deepened my pallor
bloodless at last I lay mutely clinging
veins pumping nothing but still cruelly living
knowing I have the next role to play
so I may rend another's heart in twain
then they may crawl from day to day
and drip drop blood from a senseless game
Mistrust
A bold suspector but a bad inspector,
there are half truths but nothing soothes.
Nothing gives certainty in the light of day,
but in the grey lies no mistake.
If the feelings are true then feel the sting,
of betrayal from flesh and kin.
Manipulated into an unseen corner,
why would they be happiest being thy owner?
They who crushed thy many dreams,
what do they gain by undoing thy seams?
Either way I will fight them.
Fight or flee, thou hapless victim.
Every time
my mind is pushed and pulled
the thin soul dents
metal feelings pushed inward
collapsing in on myself
disposable
pushing back every time
trying to regain the shape that was
never as strong always weaker
the creases are there
a little more fragile
each time
The great evil sits alone
gravely leaning on his grisly throne
no soul inside his hollow body
his mind and feelings fully rotted.
No ill will or due suspicion
even stirs this apparition
for evil is to be alone
lonely castaway on a dark throne
Fitful sleep comes and goes
saddened eyes amidst his throes
thrashing madness, stones are rent
gnashing teeth, ceaseless torment.
Most deeply Your soul he desires
but not to fuel his arcane fires
nor to own and forever subdue
but just to see his loneliness through.
Bloodless
I looked back upon the drip drop days
the days where my heart bled drip drop
the tear in my heart goes front to back
each day has a splash of my own red
upon the middle of the mind's calendar
dripped dropped during my crawl
one day to the next deepened my pallor
bloodless at last I lay mutely clinging
veins pumping nothing but still cruelly living
knowing I have the next role to play
so I may rend another's heart in twain
then they may crawl from day to day
and drip drop blood from a senseless game
Mistrust
A bold suspector but a bad inspector,
there are half truths but nothing soothes.
Nothing gives certainty in the light of day,
but in the grey lies no mistake.
If the feelings are true then feel the sting,
of betrayal from flesh and kin.
Manipulated into an unseen corner,
why would they be happiest being thy owner?
They who crushed thy many dreams,
what do they gain by undoing thy seams?
Either way I will fight them.
Fight or flee, thou hapless victim.
Every time
my mind is pushed and pulled
the thin soul dents
metal feelings pushed inward
collapsing in on myself
disposable
pushing back every time
trying to regain the shape that was
never as strong always weaker
the creases are there
a little more fragile
each time
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