I rarely name my pieces
during creation, waiting
instead for the final
word to set.
Why is that? Names
always afterthought.
I suppose it's the
piece that matters,
names are, after all,
incidental. You know;
"What's in a name?"
I'm tired of being
two-steps ahead:
full-on is a word,
or even a name,
it doesn't mean a
thing. So won't
someone explain
why it keeps
holding me back?
Someone teach
me how to slow
down. Backsteps
aren't possible.
It's so cold.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Southbound Musings
I
Have you ever glanced into
a puddle of water?
The excellence of your face
amongst the sediment.
You, too, have but one life to
live. Mortality isn't mine alone.
I drift through the
sea of drifters. Aimless,
formless, yet wholly
dependant on the forms.
A beleaguered response
then, from our broken
apathetic generation.
Sailing endless seas of
dreams looking for a
place to land.
We plot existensialist
revolutions and punch
young men in the face.
Utter esmasculation
countered by female
emaciation.
II
I dream of Steven Carter,
I want to be Steven Carter
but I can't - I wonder
if there's a blonde
caucasian athlete God
who wishes he was a
hairy Muslim intellectual
poet.
Sometimes the blood runs
over my hands and down
my arms, it's a matter of
gravity. What direction to
lean-to.
What a waster, what a
fuckin' waster. What the
fuck will you do? Father
shouts angrily down the
phone.
III
"I am not beautiful" is the
battle cry of all the beautiful
girls I know. They should try
living a day in my shoes, they'll
soon see their inaccuracy.
Fuck Tom G.
You damn right I'm bitter.
I am not in Love
I am not in Love
I am not in Love
I'm lying.
I am not in Love (with Her)
I am not in Love (with Her)
I am not in Love (with Her)
I'm dying.
Have you ever glanced into
a puddle of water?
The excellence of your face
amongst the sediment.
You, too, have but one life to
live. Mortality isn't mine alone.
I drift through the
sea of drifters. Aimless,
formless, yet wholly
dependant on the forms.
A beleaguered response
then, from our broken
apathetic generation.
Sailing endless seas of
dreams looking for a
place to land.
We plot existensialist
revolutions and punch
young men in the face.
Utter esmasculation
countered by female
emaciation.
II
I dream of Steven Carter,
I want to be Steven Carter
but I can't - I wonder
if there's a blonde
caucasian athlete God
who wishes he was a
hairy Muslim intellectual
poet.
Sometimes the blood runs
over my hands and down
my arms, it's a matter of
gravity. What direction to
lean-to.
What a waster, what a
fuckin' waster. What the
fuck will you do? Father
shouts angrily down the
phone.
III
"I am not beautiful" is the
battle cry of all the beautiful
girls I know. They should try
living a day in my shoes, they'll
soon see their inaccuracy.
Fuck Tom G.
You damn right I'm bitter.
I am not in Love
I am not in Love
I am not in Love
I'm lying.
I am not in Love (with Her)
I am not in Love (with Her)
I am not in Love (with Her)
I'm dying.
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