Dirty ducks got that sweet intuition
They just DO
I'll just get one here
And follow through
With whatever I've considered.
What was the purpose of this little thought exchange?
As someone said, the critique of the supposed superiors might limit me and slow me down in getting on to "higher places"
as may other forms of conscious elitism (?).
All that fucked up shit.
Now I'm thinking of how to pass the night, having just drawn a tree of litost.
Restless,
If only for that damned airplane and an overload of cigarettes and caffeine.
And what is to be a perfectionist anyways?
I might just have too much attachment
To what I do.
Burn your work after a quick polaroid shot
Like Syd the diabetic aging painter!
In class...
From Suger to Sugar.
I could say everything, but it'd just be nothing, since it's already been said.
So I remain silent.
Is Beauty not absurd (?)
It's up to a poet's pride to make it all worth it.
And everything is true, no use chasing or even getting at it.
My belt-buckle broke off during a bathroom run.
The most basic things very easily turn into hassles.
Perhaps to the teacher I now seem like I'm in some sublime turmoil...
No way am I returning after the break.
A 'lil traditional excersise in thought and perhaps poetry:
Inside the parlor where my thoughts collide
I woke up pure and clean and lively
Excited by the movements of the wind
And poses of the birch trees laughing
Behind my eyes an emptiness was filled
By things I live and dream becoming
Being, knowing, feeling, lacking
What matters if I'm blind or seeing
The trinkets played with inbetween the scenes
A universe beyond (and thus behind) my ghostly rims
And everything so beautiful that resonates inside it.
Something to look at:
Matters of envy or Polaroid recollections
Unintelligent drunkenness must attracts attention
Giving thoughts to berries when the sun's out
Skimping along reddened grasses in mind's glades
Surely, If he ever stops... if he ever cuts down on...
Singing these things in unison at social events.
And the following day:
Letting my mind unwind in a sullen cafe
And mindful of YOUR FACE
Looking for a mood to become me
And paint it into the shivering mists
Open eyes reflected in the waves
Ever sailing, dreaming through the sea
An auburn-haired youth weaves his personage into my skin
Along-side him always will I float
In emptiness both of us were born and told to build a paradise on earth
But on this side of heaven do my castles stand
For no-one came along to brand their tags and scripts onto my head
When I was young and light and pure and bare
Too late!
I have a crown of tangled hair
To weigh me down
And thus,
I can't soar higher than the clouds
And sleep beside the starlit moon
Or sweet-talk to the wise old sun
So every time I rise up from the sea
Where with the youth I flow
I fly around the clouds alone
And no place can become my home
A circle of fifths surrounds my gnawing ennui
And carries me along the currents of yet another uneventful day
But meanwhile,
Enshrouded in a bright and piercing chill,
The stoic March arrives aglow
Into the valley
Where a snowy Devil-mountain looms
Above some small organic forms
I'll just get one here
And follow through
With whatever I've considered.
What was the purpose of this little thought exchange?
As someone said, the critique of the supposed superiors might limit me and slow me down in getting on to "higher places"
as may other forms of conscious elitism (?).
All that fucked up shit.
Now I'm thinking of how to pass the night, having just drawn a tree of litost.
Restless,
If only for that damned airplane and an overload of cigarettes and caffeine.
And what is to be a perfectionist anyways?
I might just have too much attachment
To what I do.
Burn your work after a quick polaroid shot
Like Syd the diabetic aging painter!
In class...
From Suger to Sugar.
I could say everything, but it'd just be nothing, since it's already been said.
So I remain silent.
Is Beauty not absurd (?)
It's up to a poet's pride to make it all worth it.
And everything is true, no use chasing or even getting at it.
My belt-buckle broke off during a bathroom run.
The most basic things very easily turn into hassles.
Perhaps to the teacher I now seem like I'm in some sublime turmoil...
No way am I returning after the break.
A 'lil traditional excersise in thought and perhaps poetry:
Inside the parlor where my thoughts collide
I woke up pure and clean and lively
Excited by the movements of the wind
And poses of the birch trees laughing
Behind my eyes an emptiness was filled
By things I live and dream becoming
Being, knowing, feeling, lacking
What matters if I'm blind or seeing
The trinkets played with inbetween the scenes
A universe beyond (and thus behind) my ghostly rims
And everything so beautiful that resonates inside it.
Something to look at:
Matters of envy or Polaroid recollections
Unintelligent drunkenness must attracts attention
Giving thoughts to berries when the sun's out
Skimping along reddened grasses in mind's glades
Surely, If he ever stops... if he ever cuts down on...
Singing these things in unison at social events.
And the following day:
Letting my mind unwind in a sullen cafe
And mindful of YOUR FACE
Looking for a mood to become me
And paint it into the shivering mists
Open eyes reflected in the waves
Ever sailing, dreaming through the sea
An auburn-haired youth weaves his personage into my skin
Along-side him always will I float
In emptiness both of us were born and told to build a paradise on earth
But on this side of heaven do my castles stand
For no-one came along to brand their tags and scripts onto my head
When I was young and light and pure and bare
Too late!
I have a crown of tangled hair
To weigh me down
And thus,
I can't soar higher than the clouds
And sleep beside the starlit moon
Or sweet-talk to the wise old sun
So every time I rise up from the sea
Where with the youth I flow
I fly around the clouds alone
And no place can become my home
A circle of fifths surrounds my gnawing ennui
And carries me along the currents of yet another uneventful day
But meanwhile,
Enshrouded in a bright and piercing chill,
The stoic March arrives aglow
Into the valley
Where a snowy Devil-mountain looms
Above some small organic forms