I can't be here anymore. Everybody seems to realize that.
Groups, ha! Go figure.
They choose me and cast me out. I'm the misfit.
I get thrown off the ship and into the deep ocean I dive. Two days later I emerge, the same as before. But now I have the
ability to fly, to filter offensive remarks and to sing like a mermaid. Merman, come on. To them I'm still the same, oh yeah, they see me and they don't even mention my awesome achievements. Hell, I'm simply back on track, I'm part of the herd again, I'm nothing but another specimen. Speciman, come on. How could anyone even begin to understand the narrow and complicated paths onto which I have roamed? They would if they wanted to, I guess. I'm no better than anybody else. Point is they don't give a fuck. Nobody gives a fuck. And so they shall pay.
So I begin my revenge. The first down is from the captain's side. His best man, his best friend. The guy who has had one too many sips of the eternal wine, the forbidden kind. As he takes his twelfth I strike. Right on the head. He drops like a rock. Rolls over and explodes. Everybody is curious, everyone wants to know what happened. I disappear and wait for the conclusions to be drawn. Two minutes after that the whole planet is ok again. These people have no memory, they don't seem to process the impossible coincidences that have brought them to this place. How could anybody, anyway?
God calls me on my mobile. I say I'm late for an appointment, make up some excuse, and just fling that bastard into the water. Some moments later I can already spot a fin, he's evolved again and now he's rallying around the ship. Panic increases rapidly. The seaman all start to go overboard. One by one they are eaten by him. In my mind I try to teleport myself to a better place, full of peace and love, but cries of pain and anguish bring me back to reality. This feels like a dream, this
tastes like a dream, it just can't be real. It's too bizarre, it's too mean. I can't be here, I can't! I won't endure this nightmarish reality! All these creatures emerge in front of my eyes, they simply come, one after the other, like fireflies
that don't glow. I try to squish them with my hands, but they don't seem to bother. Actually they penetrate my skin, infect my body and steal my soul. I am now a part of him. I feel like a puppet, a meat puppet, controled by this diety, this fiendish being that doesn't seem to exist. It coexists. It needs me. It needs us. He takes care of me now, he can't spare my life, my existence justifies his.
I created him at the same time that he created me. We too are one.
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Coffee Shop Poetry 3
Will it ever end?
Has it ever begun?
If I write it here, then I guess that it means yes. It has begun.
He wouldn't agree with that, oh no he would never agree with me.
He would prefer to be caught dead in his sleep, eyes closed, goofy grin, some random teeth showing. The morbid glance of death, cold staring you in the eye. Trying to fool life's own wisdom, the one we can't seem to find anymore.
Where has it gone? Where will it be?
Will I ever cross its path again?
Will it ever choose to find me?
All I got to do now is wait, hope that good things come my way one more time. Oh but just one more time, that's all I need. Oh I beg, please.
He had left his house five minutes before. The phone was ringing. Had he been there to answer, to talk to that person, to interact with another member of his own species. Had he been there to deny the accusations, stop the frustration and kill the vibration, then we would have known. Then we would have been able to say, with total certainty, that he wasn't dead. But as the phone rang, as the world turned, as life evolved, his gloryfied carcass was left behind. He was now nothing more than a footnote. Then it was erased.
All of a sudden a thud is heard. Muffled and distant. Deep in the night, void of spirit. The coffin is scratched from the inside. He knows it's too late, but he goes for it anyway. His nails are painted with blood. Crimsom tools of splinters and skin. The air is slowly being modified, his lungs now work as a backwards filter. For every breath he takes, there will be less oxygen for him to breathe. Anxiety makes his blood pressure sky rocket, he can't stop puffing. He looks around and all he sees is black death, a dark reality. At last he gives up, his brain gives in. His soul is drenched, bones and skin. His muscles are too tired, there is not enough air. There is not enough room, for him to despair. And as he takes his last sigh, draws his last breath, he closes his eyes, nods welcome to death.
The coffin lid flies open. Piles of dirt lie all around the grave. They are one second too late. He is not there anymore.
Has it ever begun?
If I write it here, then I guess that it means yes. It has begun.
He wouldn't agree with that, oh no he would never agree with me.
He would prefer to be caught dead in his sleep, eyes closed, goofy grin, some random teeth showing. The morbid glance of death, cold staring you in the eye. Trying to fool life's own wisdom, the one we can't seem to find anymore.
Where has it gone? Where will it be?
Will I ever cross its path again?
Will it ever choose to find me?
All I got to do now is wait, hope that good things come my way one more time. Oh but just one more time, that's all I need. Oh I beg, please.
He had left his house five minutes before. The phone was ringing. Had he been there to answer, to talk to that person, to interact with another member of his own species. Had he been there to deny the accusations, stop the frustration and kill the vibration, then we would have known. Then we would have been able to say, with total certainty, that he wasn't dead. But as the phone rang, as the world turned, as life evolved, his gloryfied carcass was left behind. He was now nothing more than a footnote. Then it was erased.
All of a sudden a thud is heard. Muffled and distant. Deep in the night, void of spirit. The coffin is scratched from the inside. He knows it's too late, but he goes for it anyway. His nails are painted with blood. Crimsom tools of splinters and skin. The air is slowly being modified, his lungs now work as a backwards filter. For every breath he takes, there will be less oxygen for him to breathe. Anxiety makes his blood pressure sky rocket, he can't stop puffing. He looks around and all he sees is black death, a dark reality. At last he gives up, his brain gives in. His soul is drenched, bones and skin. His muscles are too tired, there is not enough air. There is not enough room, for him to despair. And as he takes his last sigh, draws his last breath, he closes his eyes, nods welcome to death.
The coffin lid flies open. Piles of dirt lie all around the grave. They are one second too late. He is not there anymore.
Coffee Shop Poetry 2
"I believe I have made my case pretty clear, your honor."
"I understand you do so. And should you do so, under my clear warnings, my constant, raving accusations of forgery! Blasphemy! Lies and deceit to come since ever from your filthy mouth! Oh but how I loathe you and everything that you represent! Silence at once! Silent you shall rest! No! No more!
And so the water broke. Ripped the shallow and fragile levee that once withheld. Itself. Out came the surfers. Proud and vicious, skimmering the water, side by side, they sang in tune. Scared and ducked on the corner, we waited on the dune. The wave seemlessly evoked more bubbly effects on our water. We had been hurting the water, that was the purpose of the surfers, the grunge forecasters, the savage battle carriers. United they stand against our awe. Awesome is their power, destructive and plentyful fear. And so, after a moment of silence, the tide calmed down.
Into the water we went. Sunk forever yearnful of better days. Last sips of air bubble away in the green obscurity. The souls begin their chants. Haunting emotions translated into cries of pain. In comes the cult. You are in the middle of it. It is your initiation rite. Your last rites. Into a new life. You understand it and decide to carry on with it. What follows is a mass avalanche of destruction of everything you ever held dear. It is truly the end, the new beginning. The moment you had been waiting for. Served on a platter. Splattered on the floor. Vomitted across the living room. Twirling up into space never changing or decaying. The souls still observe, though now from a longer distance. Waves of different values begin with heavy debate. Masterful tides of sheer volume explode inside of you. You feel it normally now. The yellow now calms you. The feeling now repetitive, generates pleasure, not pain. Will feel better the next times, that's the way it sells itself to you. The next time will be better, in every way. This time wasn't perfect, the perfect hit still hasn't come. I am out to find it, out to get it. It will come one day, it has to. Otherwise life has no meaning, life has no purpose. Well, let me tell you of a big one... Loneliness.
She left at midnight. The egyptian guy still swept the room, looking for some time for himself. And you know what? He got it. I am out.
Produly I wake up in the bar. To not drink and still be welcome there, it is a bluff. It is a try. A mere attempt. Here went nothing. He spotted me in a flash. Started to weave towards me with the smallest of efforts. Eventually we collided. Everything changed from then on. Like it always does.
"I understand you do so. And should you do so, under my clear warnings, my constant, raving accusations of forgery! Blasphemy! Lies and deceit to come since ever from your filthy mouth! Oh but how I loathe you and everything that you represent! Silence at once! Silent you shall rest! No! No more!
And so the water broke. Ripped the shallow and fragile levee that once withheld. Itself. Out came the surfers. Proud and vicious, skimmering the water, side by side, they sang in tune. Scared and ducked on the corner, we waited on the dune. The wave seemlessly evoked more bubbly effects on our water. We had been hurting the water, that was the purpose of the surfers, the grunge forecasters, the savage battle carriers. United they stand against our awe. Awesome is their power, destructive and plentyful fear. And so, after a moment of silence, the tide calmed down.
Into the water we went. Sunk forever yearnful of better days. Last sips of air bubble away in the green obscurity. The souls begin their chants. Haunting emotions translated into cries of pain. In comes the cult. You are in the middle of it. It is your initiation rite. Your last rites. Into a new life. You understand it and decide to carry on with it. What follows is a mass avalanche of destruction of everything you ever held dear. It is truly the end, the new beginning. The moment you had been waiting for. Served on a platter. Splattered on the floor. Vomitted across the living room. Twirling up into space never changing or decaying. The souls still observe, though now from a longer distance. Waves of different values begin with heavy debate. Masterful tides of sheer volume explode inside of you. You feel it normally now. The yellow now calms you. The feeling now repetitive, generates pleasure, not pain. Will feel better the next times, that's the way it sells itself to you. The next time will be better, in every way. This time wasn't perfect, the perfect hit still hasn't come. I am out to find it, out to get it. It will come one day, it has to. Otherwise life has no meaning, life has no purpose. Well, let me tell you of a big one... Loneliness.
She left at midnight. The egyptian guy still swept the room, looking for some time for himself. And you know what? He got it. I am out.
Produly I wake up in the bar. To not drink and still be welcome there, it is a bluff. It is a try. A mere attempt. Here went nothing. He spotted me in a flash. Started to weave towards me with the smallest of efforts. Eventually we collided. Everything changed from then on. Like it always does.
Coffee Shop Poetry 1
The indians have taken over. They waltz in great wagons. The cannons are pointed at the apex. The top of the palace has been protected by a crown of thorns and roses. The locals have adorned this gloomy gleeful tower head with gold and platinum seeds, shining away in the distance. Out come the fire crusade. They charge ever so relentless up against our barriers of human flesh. Ouch cry the soldiers who put the silence back in the track. But it seems to be far from over.
The cease fire will be broken. It comes as a vision, one troubled night in the tent.
The boy suddenly awakens, broken by despair and agony. His mother's hopeless lament is ignored by the now courageous general. His fleet stands tall, untouched and prestigious. From up high they observe the battle field, soon to be drenched in pure native blood.
The cavalry charges, cries sound like thunder, rips of blood that cut like blades, the emperor then decides to join the moment. All hell breaks loose. His voice is like metal saw shapes of cold determination. As bodies silently float, the old ones return to their lair. No more drive, no more air. The sounds of sin that dripped into tears in the old valley.
The ritual commences. The shaman clears the pipe from old smoke, cleans the tube from old dose. puts the powder that gives light, burns the head of the spike. The smoke is fluid and cold. Ice bubbles in red blisters of crimsom blood. Shapes are formed from silver rings that haunt the darkened tent. They are here. They haven't left.
They came looking for the theft. The way out. Their freedom. Where can they go?
If only we could stop thinking about it, we could solve it. If you never remember that you are playing the game, then you will finally win it. Until then, join us... The losers!
Oh how I despise them. How I just wanna see them burn. Cave. Give in. Cry for help. In vain. Give them the gun, put one bullet in, and eventually one of them will shoot the other in the head. Hopefully he doesnt shoot himself. I dont mean suicide is not fun. It just doesnt seem to spearkle any truthfully powerful emotion. Only sadness. And dismay. And dismay is not necessarily good.
I look at you. You just came out of her house. You blush and can't hide the obvious truth. You did it. Together. You are mine now.
I run. I catch. I kill.
The cease fire will be broken. It comes as a vision, one troubled night in the tent.
The boy suddenly awakens, broken by despair and agony. His mother's hopeless lament is ignored by the now courageous general. His fleet stands tall, untouched and prestigious. From up high they observe the battle field, soon to be drenched in pure native blood.
The cavalry charges, cries sound like thunder, rips of blood that cut like blades, the emperor then decides to join the moment. All hell breaks loose. His voice is like metal saw shapes of cold determination. As bodies silently float, the old ones return to their lair. No more drive, no more air. The sounds of sin that dripped into tears in the old valley.
The ritual commences. The shaman clears the pipe from old smoke, cleans the tube from old dose. puts the powder that gives light, burns the head of the spike. The smoke is fluid and cold. Ice bubbles in red blisters of crimsom blood. Shapes are formed from silver rings that haunt the darkened tent. They are here. They haven't left.
They came looking for the theft. The way out. Their freedom. Where can they go?
If only we could stop thinking about it, we could solve it. If you never remember that you are playing the game, then you will finally win it. Until then, join us... The losers!
Oh how I despise them. How I just wanna see them burn. Cave. Give in. Cry for help. In vain. Give them the gun, put one bullet in, and eventually one of them will shoot the other in the head. Hopefully he doesnt shoot himself. I dont mean suicide is not fun. It just doesnt seem to spearkle any truthfully powerful emotion. Only sadness. And dismay. And dismay is not necessarily good.
I look at you. You just came out of her house. You blush and can't hide the obvious truth. You did it. Together. You are mine now.
I run. I catch. I kill.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)