Inspiration...Sadness...and whatever life takes
Saturday, October 27, 2007
 
Introspection

Halt the stopwatches; take the seconds as
they are. Shift no more; make not even that
whiff of noise. One should hear this petulant
child in himself; yelling; banging incessant
at something; mad at the world because he
is not the sun; his sad posterior whipped by
the outspoken audacity of what remains:
of his misplaced imagination; and that
of his erroneous visions.

Halt the stopwatches; take a look inside ourselves;
we shall find him baring his teeth, straightback at us.


cuRRent...jer
 
Monday, October 22, 2007
 
Minorities

This is his jungle; his silly politics; where the
grammar of his life is to bring on camouflage;
duck behind the bushes; leopard-crawl away
from the hostile forces. If you can't beat them,
he'd say: you join them. Even if his heart and
penis leads him another direction; in their (lack
of an) opinion: a horribly wayward one. Yet,

Oh little man, where art thou? Do you not see;
the earth cracking wryly at the center; there can
only be his team and their enemies? Whose side,
are you on? Set aflame the candles and pray: not
for reconciliation; but for victory. Do you hear?
Do you not hear? That strident voice; "Down
with the majority!"; The sergeant screaming,

"Oh! You minorities!
Hide no more; prepare for war.
Take up arms; take them down."


cuRRent...jer
 
Sunday, October 21, 2007
 
Beholden

There I lay, in a separate dichotomy of his life;
his dirty little secret; the scandal in his pocket;
that compartment of his trousers; that he would
reach for- when no one's looking. He tells me it's
that pesky bumaround fear of his; the fear of
the whole wide world; the fear of the world
who fears us. But what should I tell him?

That I would hold his hand; put our faces against
the glass panel that juxtaposes their fear of each
and other; that there was nothing daunting about
us; this place; and themselves- that we are the
ones beholden to no one; not even this stupid
ragtag institution we call: society. I would hold
his hand if I only; he only would; Or have

that dream replay in fantasy;
and never have it come to pass.


cuRRent...jer
 
pale as the white breeze, the eye cannot maketh its crease, the trough, the zennith, the power...it speaks...it reeks...Oh! how it piques my curiosity! how it delves into the nebulous truth of reality, how it

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