History! History!
Catalogue of demise
Do the waters wash clean once the city is fortified?
Cities don't love
They demand blood
Sacrifice for the concrete survivial
Falling victim to Hegel and Marx
How to avoid the mill of epochs?
We're grinding now
Coming to understand the true meaning
Wake Work Sleep Wake Work Sleep
Culture of exhaustion to suppress true feeling
The metropolis, by day a necropolis
When the tide changes it becomes a playground
And little by little
Small victory over victory
I'm consciously winning space for creativity
And squaring circles to cement solidarity
Question norms and challenge regulated normality
Dispense with formalities
and proceed direct
Lets connect and exchange stories
Narratives of humiliation and glory
Of struggle, victory or honourable defeat
Of love, of hope
Of echoing humanity
Resonant in each and every person
Expressed in new forms that envelop and dissolve borders
Walls, divisions on maps
Untidy, disruptive transgressors,
Not only do we read,
We write between the lines!
Monday, 2 June 2008
Resilience
Sacrilege
A thoughtless abomination
Alone I stand
On the frontline
Of a Bloodless war
Demeaning
Self exertion
Willpower corrupted by flaccid principle
Bloodshed
From a damaged system
Bloated after birth of a ressurection
Existing
Staring into darkness
Now living
Acknowledging darkeness in me
And how could I not appreciate beautiful people like this?
More important than words
Impact of that left unsaid
Blood and stranger unsaid for 20 years
Swimming in stasis
Cold and deaf for half a decade more
I can't wait for a fraternal dream
When the world is my family.
A thoughtless abomination
Alone I stand
On the frontline
Of a Bloodless war
Demeaning
Self exertion
Willpower corrupted by flaccid principle
Bloodshed
From a damaged system
Bloated after birth of a ressurection
Existing
Staring into darkness
Now living
Acknowledging darkeness in me
And how could I not appreciate beautiful people like this?
More important than words
Impact of that left unsaid
Blood and stranger unsaid for 20 years
Swimming in stasis
Cold and deaf for half a decade more
I can't wait for a fraternal dream
When the world is my family.
Memory of Climate
Glaciers
Our collective memory
Beyond ideological argument
Embodying Earth's lineage
Her timeless beauty; cool immense liths of life
Glaciers express the fallibility of human time
Changing little but learning much
Whilst generations folly and perish
Yet now jealous animals that we are
We have defaced our monuments
And life ebbs away
Depressions agitated by our conflcited worship of time
(every.second.counts.)
In defiance of our God
We assault our memories
Perhaps the remnants of communion
Were too painful for these jealous animals to endure
Without dissolving our of our selves in the waters of amnesia.
(The memory of climate stretching back millenia is carried in Ocean Waters!)
Our collective memory
Beyond ideological argument
Embodying Earth's lineage
Her timeless beauty; cool immense liths of life
Glaciers express the fallibility of human time
Changing little but learning much
Whilst generations folly and perish
Yet now jealous animals that we are
We have defaced our monuments
And life ebbs away
Depressions agitated by our conflcited worship of time
(every.second.counts.)
In defiance of our God
We assault our memories
Perhaps the remnants of communion
Were too painful for these jealous animals to endure
Without dissolving our of our selves in the waters of amnesia.
(The memory of climate stretching back millenia is carried in Ocean Waters!)
Friday, 2 May 2008
Another Poem
Its imprint left on rock and flesh,
Flat Earth thought exists;
Layered strata of side steps,
Falses metamorphoses, cloaked legacies,
Persistent, stubborn,
Inerasable,
The pavement which we tread.
Liberated Souls gaze inward
With no map to limit their wanderings,
Depth no barometer of meaning,
But if they can't pull their finger out
Then they'll walk into a lamppost.
Flat Earth thought exists;
Layered strata of side steps,
Falses metamorphoses, cloaked legacies,
Persistent, stubborn,
Inerasable,
The pavement which we tread.
Liberated Souls gaze inward
With no map to limit their wanderings,
Depth no barometer of meaning,
But if they can't pull their finger out
Then they'll walk into a lamppost.
Poem
I can feel forever
Slipping through my hands
Feverish cluttered space
Begets its own conclusion
Whilst competing tendencies bicker,
Siblings on the sofa of my life
This is reality
Without the TV
And there are no relatives anymore
Fresh alien climates await
Beyond the conflicted horizon
A passenger
I cling to my flaws
As they bear me downstream.
Slipping through my hands
Feverish cluttered space
Begets its own conclusion
Whilst competing tendencies bicker,
Siblings on the sofa of my life
This is reality
Without the TV
And there are no relatives anymore
Fresh alien climates await
Beyond the conflicted horizon
A passenger
I cling to my flaws
As they bear me downstream.
Note on Poems
Bit frustrated as I appear to have misplaced my current notebook. I have some other scraps flaoting around on bits of A4 and the backs of envelopes etc. I'm about to post a couple I wrote yesterday, hot offf the presses as it were.
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
When is there truth in the cliché of art reflecting life reflecting art? I don’t find that Life reflects Art except when it is at its most brilliant or grotesque.
Art is the transcendent communication of essential, intangible human truths. Real Life is a sideshow by comparison to one note of a beautiful symphony, or one word of the most heartfelt poem. Nietzche wanted us all to be artists of life by embracing our own elemental passions and power. Indeed it is in those rare moments of immediacy and fluid energy; whether I experience them as sexual, intellectual or spiritual, that I live, rather than just existing. Wherever I go, and whatever I do I work to create or promote that same energy. Sometimes it happens, more often than not, fleetingly or not at all. The definitive factor is that when it comes, it feels nothing like work at all. Philosophically is this because it is when we are most natural? If one pictures the Universe as a single unity, a continuum of energy so unfathomably vast that all of our consciousnesses are just elements of its whole, then can we consider a new paradigm of fulfilment beyond achievement. The reason that all of the hard work and material accumulation in the world can’t make us happy is because those models of behaviour and reward mistake peripheral accoutrements of being as being itself, rather than hollow, trivial options in artificial games. They can amuse and distract but never make one whole. This is probably all sounding dangerously religious. I see all of those structures as hollow in precisely the same fashion. They provide some people happiness some of the time whilst giving countless others the tools to ensure their own disappointment and suffering.
The one thing I perceive to always give the ‘individual’ that sense of presence to and place within the universe is paradoxically the expression of ‘self’ that is true Art is only defined in the experience of the creator or beholder (often the same person). That is why I love music and that is why I want to write.
Art is the transcendent communication of essential, intangible human truths. Real Life is a sideshow by comparison to one note of a beautiful symphony, or one word of the most heartfelt poem. Nietzche wanted us all to be artists of life by embracing our own elemental passions and power. Indeed it is in those rare moments of immediacy and fluid energy; whether I experience them as sexual, intellectual or spiritual, that I live, rather than just existing. Wherever I go, and whatever I do I work to create or promote that same energy. Sometimes it happens, more often than not, fleetingly or not at all. The definitive factor is that when it comes, it feels nothing like work at all. Philosophically is this because it is when we are most natural? If one pictures the Universe as a single unity, a continuum of energy so unfathomably vast that all of our consciousnesses are just elements of its whole, then can we consider a new paradigm of fulfilment beyond achievement. The reason that all of the hard work and material accumulation in the world can’t make us happy is because those models of behaviour and reward mistake peripheral accoutrements of being as being itself, rather than hollow, trivial options in artificial games. They can amuse and distract but never make one whole. This is probably all sounding dangerously religious. I see all of those structures as hollow in precisely the same fashion. They provide some people happiness some of the time whilst giving countless others the tools to ensure their own disappointment and suffering.
The one thing I perceive to always give the ‘individual’ that sense of presence to and place within the universe is paradoxically the expression of ‘self’ that is true Art is only defined in the experience of the creator or beholder (often the same person). That is why I love music and that is why I want to write.
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