| 10/29/2005 04:33:00 PM |
[ distracted from distraction by distraction ]
Go, go, go, said the bird; human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
this according to Monsieur Eliot. and I can't. I can't bear the days devoid. And the moments less momentous than momus. Wherein withal notwithstanding the whispers wither and colloquy croaks. kee-ho-tay allay allay. gala gala t'seh t'seh. Discovery! Discovery! Loboto-scovery!
Sometimes my personality just fades under the weight of another. Even this, this water-color portrait of bad-teeth, balding, and strangely skipping speech can crush my measely, peasly, book-born pastiche-of-a-persona. With too much sorrow to ever get mad. Frustrated and annoyed yeah but with no such fury, I'll listen 'til there's a pause and leave. And I can't say or do anything drastic. My creativity is limited to what isn't, because, yah, I cannot bear very much of what is. So what then? Hurry to fury? Go, go, go? and where? I can't detach, can't break the cycle, can't make wild what's tame and leash-less for years. Even in rebellion, we lack panache. Like frickin' wolves turned vegan. |
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| 10/20/2005 01:07:00 AM |
[ The Simurg: Another Weird Bird Poem ]
In Kaf,
the birds rule more than just the sky.
When wings give rise to life and flight
the wingless too sigh with delight
and, in our wispy way,
we lift a hand and then an eye
to watch a myth drift gently by.
And then they vanish behind a cloud
what myth is this that mist can shroud?
Singing in the dervish dawn,
we only see what's gone is gone.
How can thirty birds turn into one? |
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| 10/14/2005 01:33:00 PM |
[ furia pt3 ]
if we say it one more time, i guess he'll go crazy. silly kid. if you don't free the something something within you it'll something something you. and if you play your music really loud i guess you'll get carried away. by tunes to rooms better suited for your own damn self. cry for sometingnah. i'm taking a nap after class.
stood
mis |
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| 10/11/2005 09:26:00 AM |
[ furia pt2 ]
frustration is like wax paper, nothing sticks. can't. do a thing but riverun run run run. life saved by rock 'n rolly-polly wanna. let the chords do the work, and ignore all the conservative forces. imagine using up my oxygen. and someting to talk about, walk-about. where's my permaculture? quarter quart cup nothin'. to live and love, love and live. when the codes code far too much. hdymls? 'braxasbraxas, galagala, tsehtseh. |
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| 10/05/2005 12:53:00 AM |
[ furia ]
there are no heroes in today's world. or at least they keep incredibly quiet. maybe their new masks are soundproof. maybe the brochures and cures and drugs and thugs just got too... overwhelming/whelming/underwhelming. being underwhelmed is probably at the heart of it all-- the destruction of significance, the destruction of import, the destruction of destruction-- sing-songy voices, wine and cheese, misunderstanding, maladaptation, the quieting of fury, the loss of slowness. i guess, they've been outsourced. life is elsewhere, mon amis. |
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Moosi
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