Post by Glamses on May 14, 2023 4:59:34 GMT -6
"Words are windows to meaning. Most words are meaningless. But meaning can be extrapolated from meaninglessness. Know what I mean?"
Maybe it was found in a burnt-out apartment. Maybe under a bridge. Perhaps under a corpse, or still sitting happily above the mantle where an old sword sits, unused. They're the unassuming ramblings from a complete stranger, found written between the lines of Mao's little red book stuffed with pages stolen from Rashomon and other exciting stories of morality and daring. It's etched with a broken pencil. It probably means nothing. Maybe it means everything.
You look at me with no sweetness, but my teeth hurt.
I'll choke you with hot air and smoke,
until you spit at me with acid.
Me when I'm burned is the only warmth between us.
I can't tell if you like me or hate me.
I don't want to. I like the suspense.
I don't know what
I can say to you anymore.
There's a biting wind
whenever I speak to
what remains of my
attraction to you.
I don't even
remember
who this
was
for.
-
Eyes like stars. They don't flash bright like them, though.
They are open wide. They claim to see nothing.
Claim no sentiment. Appeal to it anyway.
Deep black frames. Microphone. You make me famous.
My bones are buried beneath your foot.
That power over me will never go away.
I haven't seen you in a little bit.
I hope your wings didn't burn.
maybe they did.
maybe they did.
-
A beautiful man (boy?) of a million faces
They're all the same, you know
The sum of a million most ugly and terrible people
coming around again to be perfect.
Maybe you told me about what it means to be beautiful, once
maybe through with you, I can be beautiful, too.
Loudmouth.
I had no idea what you were capable of. You did it.
Now that it's all paid off, I don't know what I see.
Sometimes your humanity shines through, though.
You're gone. Just like the rest of them.
You're gone. Just like the rest of them.
You're gone. Just like the rest of them.
You're gone. Just like the rest of them.
You're gone. Just like the rest of them.
-
Your eyes are tired.
You hardly sleep.
Why are you here,
among murderers?
I'm completely convinced it's all just a joke.
-
Tall, tremendous machines stapled to men.
Both of you are the same, yet act differently.
Now you both ride together.
All wearing the same colors.
As if the colors meant anything.
One's a hypocrite.
The other, a hero.
I didn't know he
Needed Saving.
I should have helped.
I should have helped.
I should have helped.
I should have helped.
The only one that's left
lost sight of who he was
who he could become
who he will become.
-
They're all gone.
They're all dead.
They're all dying.
-
I've been thinking of you how
every ounce of health
washed away
in gallons
of
conjecture
spite, misery,
and a great big, sick
utterly selfish precedent
It's not fair, if you think of it.
Even if you are a bureaucrat.
I bet all you wanted to do was
help.
-
You're a quintessential product of your kind.
Bullet-headed in both business and planning.
You've come a long way, just to say what's
always been said. A broken record on a human
gramophone. Perhaps that's the source of your
popularity, playing a tune that's been danced to
and will continue to be danced upon.
until something new comes by to replace it.
I admit, sometimes I see the appeal.
-
You're an icon of sin.
Funny how you're the
only one who talks to
others with compassion.
The pages turn a different shade. Lower-quality paper. Cheaply-printed ink that bleeds through when wet. The stories within, however, are far richer. Screenplays from old Samurai flicks. One reads a lot like King Lear. A few droplets of blood here and there stain the pages. Still, meticulously, words are scratched in as if with the shard of a broken pen salvaged from the same pit of garbage the books were.
doctors vs. me
S C O R E:
0 - 2
it's almost like they
don't know they're losing.
-
every wound to my stomach,
is a reminder about how easy
harakiri can be to do.
i only screamed the first time.
the second time, i cried.
the third time, i felt nothing.
-
there's a lack of something in me, now.
maybe it's this festering wound on my chest.
it's growing, whatever it is; and every ounce of flesh
it hurts more. it hurts more. it hurts more. it hurts more.
-
-
every ounce of carbon in me is a burden.
maybe they were all right when they said
the flesh is weak.
-
I sometimes wonder if it's worth all this pain.
In a past life, I would have been crippled in my
many, many wounds. I would be dead from the
many ounces of blood I've lost. I can hardly walk
the same way I did only a few months ago. Why?
I sometimes wonder if we really have a choice.
I could sell myself, open a shop, living on meager
livelihoods or at the command of a corporation.
All my money goes to surpassing boundaries. Why?
-
I always say I wish for a professional courtesy
I really just hope for someone who is worth it.
-
I often think about how anyone reading this would never know what I was truly talking about. Maybe that was always my intention. I remember a friend of mine said I should keep a journal of what I was up to this side of the pacific. The words felt truer if I wrote them down instead of just letting them slip away. They feel ten times as heavy as I put them down in this alien language of mine. Perhaps some other Pacifican would pick this up moments after I died. Maybe they broke into where I lived, or maybe picked it up off of my body moments after I got shot in the chest in just the right place. Every day, I wonder how I'm never hit in the right spot to kill me. Maybe fate is real, if there ever was a day where I bothered to carry this anthology on me and I happened to die only a few hours later. Maybe the fool could read what I wrote, instead of trying to sell it at the neighborhood cleaners. Maybe they'd learn something. Maybe I'd mean something, too.