poetry?
 

what am I doing writing poetry?

So he cried out to the unyielding sky
And it had become absolute
Between his unrealized fate
And himself, he could draw no connections
Only convey a tendency
Entropic principle of self
Naturally, he should be disjointed

Exposed parts gleam
Everything stumbles with him
A queue of the forgotten dead
In the rearview mirror, wave
And remind him where he's going
Ahead, the statues loom
And cast disappointed glances

He said it's enough to believe
He said tomorrow will be better
He said I think therefore
I must be right
And when he was alone again
He asked silently
Why me?

If everyone were like me
there would be no more problems
except the ones I have with myself
which might be all of them

If everyone were like me
we would all
put down our guitars
and pens
and lie on the ground
and get up
and walk around

If everyone were like me
we would look at one another
and see this look
that we knew we had
and couldn't escape
and we could feel it on ourselves
trying to tear through the skin

If everyone were like me
life would be death
and the dead
would mourn the living

If everyone were like me
we could still be less
and the boundaries reset
creation in the space of breath

Proof That 1=0
Stolen Words

Being in Hegel--
my self-consciousness leaps,
was the truth in a glitch
of self-something.
Certainty, according to
something, no longer
the words, nor the acts, nor out
of the phenomenology, nor
of Spirit, the native realm?
Of Truth? No. But soon,
sooner, a while yet.
Had they ceased, and ceasing, begun
to understand, to dream--
That! than the then, then the than,
bourgeoisie and self-concerned,
were self-interested, interesting...
conscious at least?
In the pride, an eternal glimpse
of self-deception, in that, completely.
They owned only their debts, later
property. Today is a living memory
self-conscious, in English,
self-prophecy in original,
self-parody in repetition, it
means only the reflection.
On the ego as an injury
to the membrane, an
embarrassment,
as the innervation of fabricated symptoms,
as the initiation of powerlessness:
to know, axiomatically,
that one is nothing.

There is more to it than that,
much more, so much that it always
threatens to overflow. Everything is
overflowing into the sacred void.
Everything is dragged parallel
as the whirlpool deepens.
Looking down a long corridor,
a man dressed in gray holds
a flail in one hand, a rosary
in the other. Running, there is
no escape when the doors are
smiling faces. The mouth is time,
it captures the radiating abyss.
The eyes come in when everything
is dissatisfied with itself, to
bring it back together.
The ears are only good for sleeping.
A queen can be found slashed
to ribbons in her bed,
the perpetrator had no motives
but the scene, the spread of his confusion
and disillusion.
A pope peers
from behind a curtain
to the absent referent.
This is just what I've always wanted
I'm so comfortable
Nothing bothers me
any more

^^
That poem was really lovely.

thanks

i wish to propose the constitution of a village
a village without boundaries, the utopian ideal
a village without judgments, a village which is not
a village, or at least cannot be said to be, a village
in this village, we would live, but not living for or to
something, not living in life, simply living
it would be a village of children, acting for the newness,
acting for what was never there, what never can be
not to apply interpretations, not to develop characters
permanent expression of nothingness, a deeper life
it is seen that i act and i move, and it is understood
that i act to act, and move to move, and am seen to be seen,
and i am nowhere in the acts, movements or observations
and that we are nowhere together, in our village
what is expressed cannot be predicted
we are mediators, not statisticians
we will touch unexpectedly and rediscover electricity
we will communicate new modes of communication
travel worlds within worlds
our village will grow until it is formless
villagers walk away from the world and
find themselves in the village
the world cannot see the village, only the villagers
and they have lost sight of the world

adam and eve: a private dream
Someone Familiar