Writing poetry, attempting to be honest, and trying to steadily improve my outlook and myself.
Currently reading up on the Japanoise music scene from the 80’s and 90’s…if that’s not pretentious, I don’t know what is.
I want to fist fight a storm cloud.
I want to kill the abyss sitting
at the end of the internet.
I want to burn Valhalla down
just so the vikings will shut the fuck up.
I want to adapt every Greek tragedy
into an ABC family sit-com
just so people can realize that
there is ugliness in all beauty.
I want to find art that has been lost for years
and then hide it in my basement.
I want to use rare Elvis stamps
to mail priceless vases to junk yards.
I want to tear down the HTML code
of the universe, and start from scratch.
I want people to start thinking more
and stop acting as if its okay
to act like things are as they seem,
because we’re all dying for something real,
and spitting endless static
pretending we even know
A SINGLE FUCKING THING
is only making us blind and deaf
to everything that could make us great.
Someone remind me this poem existed, and since I’m pretty happy with how it came out, even after all this time, I figured I should reblog it for shits and giggles.Jacob Miller-Alderman
Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt"Slaughterhouse-Five" by Kurt Vonnegut
The rumbling rhythm of laundry
is sending me to sleep.
This is so plain,
and I want to gleefully give into it.
This, as well as
drifting off in car rides
surrounded by friends,
might be as close as I can get
to a perfect moment.
There is a numbing quality to it,
one that holds me tight,
wrapping me in a warmth
that I wish I’d never have to leave.
There is nothing complicated about it,
no alternative motives, no back stabbing,
it is as it should be, honest as life gets.
The low tones of the dryer
turning over clothes
has no interest in lies,
and the thumping bumps in the road
have no sense of greed,
they just simply are,
and it allows me to simply be.
Oh dear Chaos,
why can’t this be all of life?
Lyrically stagnant, echoing off cave walls,
it repeats onward into anxious silence,
touching the ghost of eventual nightfall;
today felt like nothing, and now its gone.
Tomorrow will bring less on the wings
of the coming week, and I will continue
to look blankly into the swirling stream,
uttering a barely audible note
to be lost in the dense field of noise.
I am the lack of will looking listlessly at its plate,
picking at the remains of a meal long gone
waiting for the lights to turn off so it doesn’t have to see
the thousand of creatures staring back at it
in the day’s uncomfortable buzz and hiss.
Nothing feels natural,
it all stings with consciousness,
and I’m flowing between mouthfuls,
swallowed like the swig of a drink
on a tragically average day.
Scars; a cliche’d touch to my poetic license,
but I see some appear where I had removed something
in order to become something different,
and it worries me that I don’t remember what I got rid of.
Have I cut off too much? What did I lose
when I tried to become this no-nonsense monstrosity?
Did I kill my revolutionary? Did I lay him out like Cesar?
What if I burned off my creativity to be “an artist”;
trading genuine hope for bloated pretensions
which I now find myself pulling my hair out over?
I wish I could look back and tell myself
that no title can be that important,
don’t be so ready to become a legend,
because you will lose everything
that would turn you into one.
Please, tell me I can get it back. Is it too late?
Did I try too hard? I just wanted to be better,
and now I feel like my bones are collapsing.
Why was I so eager to strip myself down to this?
Popping out of joint,
I feel my ethereal existence dislocating
and I am so tired of wanting all these loveless things.
Humorless, that’s what I am. I can laugh,
but I’m so quick, too quick, to question another’s joke.
Just smile, you big dumb prick, not everything needs your approval.
When did I become so unimpressed? Why am I such an asshole?
I just want to love, and love unabashedly!
I want to write, and write freely.
I want to live, and live unrestricted.
I just don’t want it to be too late to that back.
Pretty pretty pretty.
Too much, smash some windows.
I want something mean to say,
because I’m sterile with a polite demeanor,
but no no no, we need to keep the picture clean.
Want to sing the chorus? Fuck the verse,
lets all see the simple conflicts through
and dance through the parts we don’t recognize,
why would I remember yesterday when its today,
I’m only a moment in each direction,
and I don’t have time to keep thinking.
Its the family photo finish, don’t mess it up,
everything needs to be perfect, so be a mask,
at least for a little bit. HA HA HA, what were we talking about?
Cross the eyes, dot where the lines already meet,
because if I connected my own dots,
who knows what image it’d make,
it looks like a body, watch the screen
watch the screen, watch the screen,
pay no attention to the wires or lights behind it,
all you need to know is that it works;
that’s how it’s always works and how it always will,
so don’t worry, its all already figured out.
Oh, have you heard this joke,
of course you have,
but let me tell it again,
so we can all laugh on cue,
and so we don’t talk too much,
because I would have to be active for that,
and then I would have to question the curtain,
then what would happen to the monotony?
Sleep, sleep, sleep (Nah… I don’ wanna)
Sleep, sleep, sleep (No… I don’t wanna)
Sleep, sleep, sleep (NO! I don’t want to)
Sleep, sleep, sleep (NO! I do not want to!)
Tear the picture, break the frame,
smear the color, forget the smile,
destroy the screen, diffuse the glow,
I want to think and give a shit again.
I want to be vulgar because I can choose to be,
I want to be yelled at, not nodded with.
Bring me a hurricane, and I’ll breathe it in deep!
Plainly lost in listless sight,
we pour sad songs down throats
in joined solemness as a sort
of meaningless gesture
to keep the lines still.
Liar angels dance on damp sleeves,
losing the war in their abandoned message,
a work force on strike bringing the end
by passing time in blank looks of apathy.
They use to watch over the crater city,
but now they live there, hoping for rain
as they drink the months away, because it
gives them something to pray about.
Will these walls hold? Probably not,
but we are nothing if we aren’t waiting artifacts,
stranded in deserts of our own ridiculousness,
and maybe we will sing to archaeologists and architects
when their minds wonder to our final steps.
Let them hear us, let them polish the stones,
and then let them walk away, let them move one;
move on like we never could.