Mud and Poetry

Schisms

Sat, 11 Feb 2012 23:05:41 +1000

Are inevitable. Embrace the feud.

Antipodean.

Thu, 05 Jan 2012 21:59:00 +1000

Simplicity is a grossly misinterpreted condition. Not unlike the seasons that pass us by, we - by nature - often desire what we do not have.

Show me a simple man, and I will point out his shroud.

Show me a sonorous man, and I will point out the braille.

Seek not to polarise your condition, you will not find solace where the green seems greener.

Glory.

Sun, 04 Sep 2011 00:41:00 +1000

We used to smoke marijuana and talk of triumphs over inhumanity. We used to gather as a collective group of rebels, rejecting the neo-conformity of dictated existence. We made our own dogma in the image of our altruistic, yet heterogeneous beliefs. We were young, and proud and uninfected by the truths of the world… But we were right all the same. Now we live on cortisone and antidepressants. On corporation spin and consumer shares. Goods and services are our gods, cash is how we keep the score.

For years we tell ourselves this is merely a stepping stone. An unfortunate necessity we must partake in, in order to buy our salvation. But we were deceived. The signs were clear. Each paycheck, each new Ikea living set brought us one step closer to the thing we hated most - our parents and their hollow shell of coercion and zealous sameness. What we failed to acknowledge was how very much the same they once were. Fierce freedom fighters of counter-culture. Hippies and homos. Blacks and retards. They too once fought - and fought hard - making ground as we too have. However as the slow passage of time continued and the sands of their seas began to escape them, hope was lost.

It hit me. I was my father, maybe less than he. Our culture nourishes us, demanding only our silent obedience to its unwritten laws. A teenager I no longer am. I am corrupted by the machine which no man built, yet all constructed. We can’t abscond, we are trapped. I hope only that our sons and daughters continue our fight. I hope that the young will always question and always think. Glory for the glory days. Food for thought.

illude: (by ode on melancholy)

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 20:19:40 +1000

illude:

(by ode on melancholy)

Sweat.

Sat, 13 Aug 2011 10:38:00 +1000

Yoga workout. 5am. Recommended by cute new office temp last Tuesday. Okay, desperately hoping ‘invited’. Not invited. The instructor - wearing some revolting leotard stolen from an Olivia Newton-John film-clip (not pulling it off) - goes through the class and explains the aims for the session. Words like advanced and strenuous crop up all over the place. Fuck. Last time I had sex I tore a muscle in missionary position. My preferred form of exercise is swimming. Okay, wading… Hot tub.

All of a sudden it’s hot. Sweltering. The sun’s not even out yet, and I haven’t done shit. It’s worse than Christmas. It’s worse that what I’d imagine it would be like living in some camel’s cunt in the middle of Dubai. I turn to the woman to my right. Mutton done as lamb. “Um, excuse me.” “Shhhh!” Stuck up bitch. The woman to my left looks pleasant. Former hippy come still-sane-cat-lady. “Do you know why it’s so hot in here?” “Oh, you haven’t been before?” she asked. Head shake. “Well you’re in for a treat; the class is called Sweat. It’s your typically advanced yoga session, but in a room with a controlled temperature of forty degrees.” Fuck. “I come every week, it’s fantastic. It detoxes your system completely, and its great for the soul…” The gypsy went on and on about ancient Indian centering tips (or something) and all I could think of was what I’d rather be doing. Maple Bacon. Cheese. Eggs. Sleep. “The best part about it though is the workout it gives the heart. With the heat, it really pushes it to its limit.” What did she say? …But I’m a smoker. My heart works extra hard all the time. I am Jack’s bursting arteries. Fuck. All I can think of is cardiac death; my corpse floating in a pool of salty water. The Dead Sea.

“Places everyone.” Fuck.

Horizon.

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 16:59:00 +1000

Gazing out upon the horizon, man feels many things. Mostly warmth and desire and sometimes fear. However, at our core lies an adventurous spirit teeming and undulating with excitement, and a desperate need to reach out across the land and run its fingers along the far-off outline of its surroundings.

Some say the grass is greener in the mind, and not in reality. While it may be true that new pastures often herald envious yearnings for what does not belong to us, is that such a bad thing? I pity those who crave not the sounds of distant colours and the touch of contrary loves. For how does one truly grow without experiencing the world he lives in? How does one love without the knowledge of others?

I put it to you, next time you scan the horizon… Think. Think long and think hard; for while the sunset may come and go indefinitely, you have but one chance. Find what lies beyond the borders and down the rabbit hole. You will not be disappointed.

Hiatus

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 16:02:02 +1000

Sorry. It’s been a while. Ready to stoop back to reality :)

Transparency

Sun, 19 Jun 2011 19:45:00 +1000

Sit straight. Keep your breath slow. Look forward. Be cold.

Sitting in parallel chairs to one another, I don’t know what to say, even if I could say it. There are rules involved. A mutual understanding of limited transparency is agreed upon in the silence. An unfortunate game wherein we are forced to mitigate our feelings or face the bitter chill of rejection and pity.

I want nothing more than to look into your eyes and just say the words. To run my fingers through the back of your hair really take you in.

All that is left is dire speculation and tension.

I love you…

Staring at the wall, I wonder - do you feel the same?

"He had a lot to say… He had a lot of nothing to say."

Sat, 18 Jun 2011 18:53:00 +1000

“He had a lot to say… He had a lot of nothing to say.”

- Tool

Dreaming.

Wed, 15 Jun 2011 22:56:35 +1000

Dreams are fickle things.

I question their worth.

I ponder their meaning.

It’s all that exists for me though. A sad thought. Reality passes by. I lay there. Afraid to pull back the sheets really open my eyes.

What I have seen of life isn’t pleasant. It’s not like I don’t try. I do. I try really hard. To find something, anything. Hung out to dry by my ambition, I place it in a tightly sealed box and dread to look upon it.

Dreams are all that’s left.

I long for the fickle.

A truth.

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 23:23:57 +1000

The environment is more forgiving than the man.

In Audible 1.2

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 21:37:00 +1000

Each passing day herald a new wind. From the sea it roared and plundered, seeking to build mountains of sand. The north brought a stale but steady gust, ripping dirt into small tornadoes which the children would chase. The west wind, however, was rare. Warm and timid, crying out over the land as it lightly brushed and rearranged the surface. She watched, and listened… and felt nothing. For neither chill or warmth touched her skin as it had.

Days once cataloged by the season’s winds blurred, becoming nothing. Food seemed an irksome necessity, that was oft ignored. She sat in the confides of a concrete shoe box, on an old wooden chair and cried. For days she cried. Tears dried her face, leaving tell tale marks of her circumstance. For it was all too familiar. All too common since the desolation began. Fathers without sons. Mothers without daughters. Lovers without love. Hearts shamelessly cleaved away.

‘Why are people so bad to one another,’ she politely demanded. At first she asked Muhammad. Silence. Then Jesus. Silence. Then Buddha. Silence… With no answers - nothing to live for - she made the decision to end her life. The noose tearing at her neck, and feet poorly balanced on the old wooden chair, she made peace with her demons. Seconds away from the end, her crusted eyes clenched shut, a distant whimper was heard by the woman. She paused… ‘It was nothing,’ she told herself. ‘Merely the final decay of existence, the last sensation. A trick.’ Again, eyes tightly drawn shut, she began to slide the chair from under her. However, the whimper continued.

“Mother,” the tiny voice cried.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Expire.

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 20:52:06 +1000

Fifty four seconds and I’m dead… With expiry close at hand, what will my mind choose to do with me?

There are two opposing theories. First is that life slows down, every motion and sound holds more significance. Appreciation of one’s surroundings are magnified; euphoria oscillates against the mind, inundating all the bad in the world. Second is that life flashes before one’s eyes. Turbulent and beautiful, all consuming and terrifying. Not only is merit highlighted, the shadows of one’s existence swell and break against the shore.

I balk at the whole concept. Surely both cannot exist in harmony. Is there a final struggle? Wherein each force lays strokes upon the other vying for domination.

I suppose I don’t know. I shut my eyes, and take a breath. The last internal struggle of my being. Will it be one of content or of regret. I am about to find out.

Drown.

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 20:03:36 +1000

It will end in tears.

Lucid Ramblings of a Coherent Mind.

Thu, 02 Jun 2011 15:11:00 +1000

I am sitting in my room; three cups of half drunken coffee, a condom and empty cigarette packets litter the desk in front of me – and a thought crosses my mind. We live crazy lives… Let me say that again; we live crazy lives. I am not making judgements on promiscuity, or any other of the morally estranged habits we may own. I am speaking of the process. Our inexplicable desire for chaos. Vicariously we revel in disingenuous and reproachable behaviour; from a distance we snigger and snide, and yet we also crave.

Curiosity often leads to desire. Desire often leads to action. Action invariably leads to one of two things; satisfaction or dissatisfaction. The crazy part is this. If I am satisfied, I will continue. If I am dissatisfied, I will try and try and try again. It snowballs, in all the right ways leading to all the wrong places.

What I am trying to communicate, I suppose, is my complete lack of control over things that are entirely within my control. How I chase poetry through the mud, and convince myself I’m not merely sinking deeper into the void of forgotten promises and lost integrity.

Although this will not kill me, I remain irrevocably and incontrovertibly dissatisfied. Not morose, not depressed; simply dissatisfied.

As as third person looking down, let me say that again. We live crazy lives.

Sigh.

Mon, 30 May 2011 00:19:00 +1000

Why is it best intentions often have the worst consequences. I’m going to have one of my roommates beers and go to bed.

In Audible 1.1

Thu, 26 May 2011 12:35:00 +1000

Desolation swept in from the distant shores, through the tightly winding valleys and vast open plains, engulfing the horizon as it scoured the land. Explanations have been carefully manufactured to elucidate the necessity of the desolation. Some have given credence, others have not. Irrespective of why, what remains to be told is who. Although the latter may seek the former, that is not the subject of this tale.

Scurrying through mud and xeric vegetation crawled an ant hungry for more. Among the artillery shells and land mines he found what he was seeking; flesh. However, unbeknown to the ant were the lamented howls of a woman, holding the very same sinew he fed on. To him, this was merely a meal. To her, it was the remnants of a young child’s arm. Gunfight and turmoil furiously raged on around the woman, but still she sat and wept for the loss of a son. A soldier trudged his way over when the battle had concluded and pressed his rifle to the woman’s skull. Without fear of death or agony she looked up - her eyes red and swollen - and spoke. “Tell me, faceless warrior, does this satisfy you?” Lost in translation the soldier did not explicitly understand what had been said by the broken woman. Nonetheless, after great pause he raised his weapon and fled towards sounds of further bloodshed and loss.

The scene continued. A piece of rotting flesh, the spoiled overindulgent ant and the gaunt woman with no son. A necessary evil? Perhaps not.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Monologue - Mistakes.

Sun, 22 May 2011 23:00:00 +1000

Mistakes. I’m really fucking good at making them. They are so abundant and extraordinary, I should win a competition. The perplexing thing is that life will go on so smoothly, not a ripple or a sound; then out of left-field, internal bedlam swells in the silence. It’s self-sabotage, that much I’m certain of. If I’m doing poorly, I don’t have expectations of myself. Nothing to live up to. Squandered dreams become nonredeemable. I hate it. I live in this dirty little bubble of hedonism. What should I do?

ireadintothings: I’m totally down with the rapture. Not a big fan of planet earth.

Sat, 21 May 2011 14:46:46 +1000

ireadintothings:

I’m totally down with the rapture. Not a big fan of planet earth.

illude: by Baptiste Debombourg.

Tue, 17 May 2011 20:01:40 +1000

illude:

by Baptiste Debombourg.