Lining up
Come...
Smother my every impulse.
Swell my glands; restrain my hands.
Walk me through it,
talk me through it,
push me to it.
Hit me one more time; across the cheek, on the table.
Give me a shot; I'll give you one for free then down it.
Walk me through it,
talk me through it,
push me to it.
We're running this into the ground,
both swinging and beating but still
going down.
Tie me down ring and gleam shine in front of me
then catch it between flash before our eyes to
catch the lie.
Smother my every impulse.
Swell my glands; restrain my hands.
Walk me through it,
talk me through it,
push me to it.
Hit me one more time; across the cheek, on the table.
Give me a shot; I'll give you one for free then down it.
Walk me through it,
talk me through it,
push me to it.
We're running this into the ground,
both swinging and beating but still
going down.
Tie me down ring and gleam shine in front of me
then catch it between flash before our eyes to
catch the lie.
Competitive Disdain
A federated disgust, a galaxy of scorn. Us with our busy, busy little lives, finding no better way to pass our years than in competitive disdain. (Banks; Consider Phlebas)
We hold others in disdain, at distance in disgust. We build walls to keep ourselves in, to keep them out, to preserve and prepare. Emotionally and physically, we do everything we can in regards to destroying the idea of those we don't want having any meaningful impact on us.
I consider most of us as nothing but spools of contradiction, puzzles of conceit and deceit. Myself, I ache for purity and goodness, strain against my every instinct and impulse to forgive all that has been wrought, all that has been done. But then this disdain seeps in, through my glands, in the air I breathe and the words that bleed between my ears.
Every horrible action that has been committed against me has been forgiven by me. Others seem incapable of understanding, unwilling to partake in this simple and supposedly common concept. They dig their trenches, they crawl over their walls, and ready their catapults. And so we inevitably both must march to war. But no more. (It will be a massacre)
I will carry what is left of my heart, wear it heavily as Atlas the earth, and present it for all to see. Every ache I feel will be plain to see, every throb a miracle to help me breathe. It will grow heavier as I walk along the paths I have chosen, and eventually it will break my back, leaving me for dead. A helping hand would carry me to the end of the road, but the hope for such a hand will make my heart beat all the more quickly; and the quicker the beat, the greater the blood, the more excruciating the pain beneath the weight.
Where could we go if we'd only learn to love and accept everyone?
Howards Alias, Time for Bed
We hold others in disdain, at distance in disgust. We build walls to keep ourselves in, to keep them out, to preserve and prepare. Emotionally and physically, we do everything we can in regards to destroying the idea of those we don't want having any meaningful impact on us.
I consider most of us as nothing but spools of contradiction, puzzles of conceit and deceit. Myself, I ache for purity and goodness, strain against my every instinct and impulse to forgive all that has been wrought, all that has been done. But then this disdain seeps in, through my glands, in the air I breathe and the words that bleed between my ears.
Every horrible action that has been committed against me has been forgiven by me. Others seem incapable of understanding, unwilling to partake in this simple and supposedly common concept. They dig their trenches, they crawl over their walls, and ready their catapults. And so we inevitably both must march to war. But no more. (It will be a massacre)
I will carry what is left of my heart, wear it heavily as Atlas the earth, and present it for all to see. Every ache I feel will be plain to see, every throb a miracle to help me breathe. It will grow heavier as I walk along the paths I have chosen, and eventually it will break my back, leaving me for dead. A helping hand would carry me to the end of the road, but the hope for such a hand will make my heart beat all the more quickly; and the quicker the beat, the greater the blood, the more excruciating the pain beneath the weight.
Where could we go if we'd only learn to love and accept everyone?
Howards Alias, Time for Bed
Hearthand
Cup your hands like butterfly wingsand give me your heart.
Give me an inch of your flesh, (to breathe)
and I'll turn it to art.
And if you sing your song on my lips,
my lungs will bloat with the love I choke.
But tear me from your scent and
the earth'll dark and destroy all that I wrote.
Self-
There's only one person in this world I respect enough to let myself upon without restraint. Everyone else is dealt with degrees and pieces of myself, regurgitated patterns of social standards and cultural archetypes. There's only one person with whom I can wear my own skin, disregard any concepts of prejudice, not have to account for ignorance.
True freedom is now lost to me, as I can only speak with the benefit of hindsight. A second chance would reveal my dedication, but my faith is tested and my worth questioned.
I may as well speak to the deaf and illuminate for the blind, take dance from the infirm and youth from the aged.
True freedom is now lost to me, as I can only speak with the benefit of hindsight. A second chance would reveal my dedication, but my faith is tested and my worth questioned.
I may as well speak to the deaf and illuminate for the blind, take dance from the infirm and youth from the aged.
A study into plant-man-mechanical relations:
If you are a tree and me a machine, what possible future can there be?
Your leaves rustled by my wires, my memory unit concrete in knowledge of your every crook and cranny,
Cut from earth or created by man, we weave an intrigue,
Two separate hearts as one beneath skies such as these.
Plant me a seed and I'll hardwire your deceits,
Beneath the dirt amongst the rotted leaves
and everything shared through the waves or seeds.
And yes... I did simply snap a photo of the doodle. Can't be bothered with all that scanner stuff for something so simple :)
Like a first-graders drawing
You took the threads of earth and sky
and tore asunder,
Seperating the ocean of plant from sea of breath
and all in between
Was a longing for contact and touch, something in which
we could believe.
The inertia blinded my eyes but
not my heart,
It ached in loss as it faced the greatest truth
amidst utter chaos
My faith had been shackled to these threads which you
now snipped away.
What new worlds might you spin with the
threads of the old?
What old scars will you stitch away only to
cut me again?
Life will come sprawling out once more, though,
this I know.
F# A# ∞
You press the keys to my heart, through all the nerves along the skin. Different tones and inflections breathe through me new life, pushing out music from my follicles and pores. I hear the rhythms of life around us, surrounding the world we have become entwined in – this cocoon of horsehair and hormones will always be there, buried beneath the dissonance.
If you press me and I stroke you, the elongating sounds may well clash and create; the tempo will stiffen and the ranges elongate octave by octave. In the depths of merry melody I wish to bury my every thrusted stacatto note, up and down and all around. The invigorating throbbing beneath my skin trembles my skin, and the crash of life is a sudden burst.
When we're making music the world ceases to be, but for you me and the melodies.
If you press me and I stroke you, the elongating sounds may well clash and create; the tempo will stiffen and the ranges elongate octave by octave. In the depths of merry melody I wish to bury my every thrusted stacatto note, up and down and all around. The invigorating throbbing beneath my skin trembles my skin, and the crash of life is a sudden burst.
When we're making music the world ceases to be, but for you me and the melodies.
Seconds away
Purple skies rise for me while you trapped in black,
seconds away by way of sunlight.
You've pushed me away minute by mile by millenium,
and now I am worlds away, trapped beneath this familiar
yet alien place.
Without your idle breaths and sweetest touch I am walking but never waking,
dead to the world so long as I am dead to you.
If I let the earth cover me, take me back to her womb,
perhaps then I'd return home, but you took that too.
seconds away by way of sunlight.
You've pushed me away minute by mile by millenium,
and now I am worlds away, trapped beneath this familiar
yet alien place.
Without your idle breaths and sweetest touch I am walking but never waking,
dead to the world so long as I am dead to you.
If I let the earth cover me, take me back to her womb,
perhaps then I'd return home, but you took that too.
Pour out peace in the depths of the earth
The branches which carried the lies from your bosom blossomed little fragments of my soul. As the seasons changed, the buds became peaches, and when they were ripe for picking they were instead left to rot. They rotted into the dirt at your base, and when the skies would cry I would swell; but below the ground as well as above is your reach, and that too was fleeting.
When the men came in with their plans for the apartment complex, you were taken from the earth and turned to sawdust. All that was left of you was the seeds which flew away on the winds. For myself I was dug away, parts thrown to the air where they drifted along, others washed away to the seas or buried beneath the concrete where they would change into new lives with time.
But, for those pieces thrown to the air, those little descendants of my soul fragments, they scoured the earth. And sometimes they would crash against what became of your seeds, living that same life once more. And though there is strife and taking, loneliness and spite... those are the pieces of me most happy.
When the men came in with their plans for the apartment complex, you were taken from the earth and turned to sawdust. All that was left of you was the seeds which flew away on the winds. For myself I was dug away, parts thrown to the air where they drifted along, others washed away to the seas or buried beneath the concrete where they would change into new lives with time.
But, for those pieces thrown to the air, those little descendants of my soul fragments, they scoured the earth. And sometimes they would crash against what became of your seeds, living that same life once more. And though there is strife and taking, loneliness and spite... those are the pieces of me most happy.
Make the Earth Tremble
All I ask is endless chaos in your caress, fire in your softest touch. I'll walk to the end of the seas to take for you the world's mysteries, water to wine and rock to gold, nothing next to the passion for you which I hold. I'll strew you a necklace of burning stars and a dress of half light half night sunshine, but know the greatest glow will emanate from within your eyes. And when you smile oceans are swept away, lands sink and cities tremble. Your voice makes the sirens shiver in ecstasy while your breath shakes rivers through mountains.
At the time, anyway
I figured I would go for something a little different today. This is a song I wrote myself, so it is not only poorly performed, but also poorly composed. I offer my apologies, though at least it is brief.
It has words, but my singing them would have made the song seem infinitely longer (oh how I wish I were exaggerating on this matter). They're very corny, anyways, but simple and true. The original version of this song was used as a proposal a few years back, and my stumbling through the lyrics in my incredible nervous wreck of a state made me think this song was much longer.
She said yes, by the way.
It has words, but my singing them would have made the song seem infinitely longer (oh how I wish I were exaggerating on this matter). They're very corny, anyways, but simple and true. The original version of this song was used as a proposal a few years back, and my stumbling through the lyrics in my incredible nervous wreck of a state made me think this song was much longer.
She said yes, by the way.
186,000 miles a second
I'm like a night sky without stars, made more empty and sad by the reminiscent blinkings of sky squatting satellites. Once full and beautiful, now empty and ugly, with a faint beep that barely acknowledges that I am even there, with a constant growing darkness. When will the sun rise?
Despondent powerlines trickle one-way messages, frayed and gnarled into twisted root on the other end. A barely-beating heart still beats out morse code messages of remorse, begging for reception. The satellites blinkings slow, though, and space and time stretch forever outwards.
A year between the winking light, a decade punctured inside every moment. A step is a mountain and every breath a shivering sea, elongated to a river of stars and yeses and nos.
If my transmissions might ever slip through your atmosphere, should those cries crash to your skin, I will wait the eons for your reply... if only it ever comes.
When will the sun rise?
Despondent powerlines trickle one-way messages, frayed and gnarled into twisted root on the other end. A barely-beating heart still beats out morse code messages of remorse, begging for reception. The satellites blinkings slow, though, and space and time stretch forever outwards.
A year between the winking light, a decade punctured inside every moment. A step is a mountain and every breath a shivering sea, elongated to a river of stars and yeses and nos.
If my transmissions might ever slip through your atmosphere, should those cries crash to your skin, I will wait the eons for your reply... if only it ever comes.
When will the sun rise?
We shape our tools and afterwards our tools shape us.
Another subtle sunrise which bleeds into the canvas of the sky, dull though against the flickering glow of streetlights. The wind and sea ache to be heard, clouded out by the far away sounds of the traffic sighs. The words deafen our ears, the control blinds our sights, and now too the degradation of our minds liberates us all of self.
What need have we of hearing when we print the words? What need have we of vision when we own the land? What need have we of thoughts when we automate the earth? We're layering high-fibre plastics across our skin, switching hearts for valves and thoughts for pumps. We corset the earth with gridlocks and border lines, trains tracks across asphalt paths.
When even the McDonalds and shopping malls can't breathe, trapped in between the Disney's and J.C. Penny's, perhaps then we'll again start to see, or perhaps just build higher until the cities meet the skies, and we have nowhere left to flee.
Burn what you own before the things which begin to own you dwindle us all to charcoal.
What need have we of hearing when we print the words? What need have we of vision when we own the land? What need have we of thoughts when we automate the earth? We're layering high-fibre plastics across our skin, switching hearts for valves and thoughts for pumps. We corset the earth with gridlocks and border lines, trains tracks across asphalt paths.
When even the McDonalds and shopping malls can't breathe, trapped in between the Disney's and J.C. Penny's, perhaps then we'll again start to see, or perhaps just build higher until the cities meet the skies, and we have nowhere left to flee.
Burn what you own before the things which begin to own you dwindle us all to charcoal.
In the middle of a moment, in the dark of a dream...
Welcome to my collection of thoughts, doodles, and snippets of writing that I consider worthy enough to post to the harsh realities of the web. The title is taken from the song My Lonesome Only Friend (RX Bandits) and like all great quotes, is most effective and at its most provocative when taken completely out of context.
I have issues of dedication, refinement, and editing my work as I find it difficult to return to something once I've lost the moment for it. So a lot of what I'm bound to publish online will be strictly caught in that moment when I felt I had a great idea, where I felt something beautiful and true. That's not to say it will always be good, or exude beauty with its mere presence... if anything, it is just a decent excuse for my poorer works :)
I write on my netbook, in journals and on napkins, or the backs of papers or quite often in texts on my phone. Whatever is near me when I feel the drive. Doodles are usually more strategically planned, and typically suffer for it. We'll have to see how likely it is I can even feel bothered to go through the effort of scanning and uploading doodles, but I'm sure we'll get there eventually.
Welcome once more! Enjoy your stay.
I have issues of dedication, refinement, and editing my work as I find it difficult to return to something once I've lost the moment for it. So a lot of what I'm bound to publish online will be strictly caught in that moment when I felt I had a great idea, where I felt something beautiful and true. That's not to say it will always be good, or exude beauty with its mere presence... if anything, it is just a decent excuse for my poorer works :)
I write on my netbook, in journals and on napkins, or the backs of papers or quite often in texts on my phone. Whatever is near me when I feel the drive. Doodles are usually more strategically planned, and typically suffer for it. We'll have to see how likely it is I can even feel bothered to go through the effort of scanning and uploading doodles, but I'm sure we'll get there eventually.
Welcome once more! Enjoy your stay.
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