true people true people

Category: NaPoWriMo 2015 (page 1 of 3)

Foul Mood; Sick Heart

I once was lewd –
I knew no shrine.
But, still I wooed
You with fine wine.
Then, together we fell
Like a discordant tone
On deaf ears. Did I lie

to you? How crude
is your vile mind?
You’d have me nude
and finger-twined.
Well, I can’t even tell
Whose love here is on loan
Or whether I’ll stay dry.

Fie thee, foul mood!
You obscure mine
Eyes, make me rude,
And strike my spine –
Saturnine Show and Tell
of anger, overblown:
Bastardised Lullaby.

I am no prude –
I can drink brine
and eat burned food.
I’m not divine
But this will not fare well
If I am loved by stone
Too cold to weep, or die.

When Love gets sued
It’s a dark sign
That Fear has screwed
Some poor, sad swine.
For him, we toll the bell,
For her, we toss a bone,
And together, we cry.

The week is long and the day is short

The week is long and the day is short.
The joy is brief while the pain lasts.
Some ships will never return to port
And some mystics gain from their long fasts.

Agreement is a resource foreign to politics
Because every wheel needs to get greased.
Without oil, the whole machine would get sick,
And the bubble would burst along with our lease

On this Earth. But, the play goes on, replete
With the dalliance of sing-song Spain.
What riches will rare wisdom soon secrete?
How much influence can a celebrity entertain?

These are the questions of the unoccupied
Who cannot fancy the immensity of change.
All of the infinity that has been tied
into a cosmos with an eternity for its range

Is beyond the mind of the average Simian.
Understanding a fraction of the Universe
Is like understanding the Silmarillion:
You can’t. Stop trying, you’re making it worse.

And, this poem was conceived by an absent-
minded mother and a tedious, towering Father;
The former is Creativity mixed with absynthe
And her companion is Logic, who doesn’t bother

Marco Polo

If you call, I’ll respond:
“Dear?” “Yes, dear,”
You are as still as a quiet pond,
“I’m here.”

You can wake me to inform me about your nightmares
“Like it was playing on a loop…”
Did we ever bury our time capsule?
“I just kept running.”

Not into the ground, I hope…
“In and out of sleep,”
I see you in my dreams.
“And then you were there, with a motorcycle.”

And a whole lotta road to stretch out on
“Our bed sheets blew like capes in the wind”
And, the moon perched itself upon the sea
“I woke up before the end.”


Collab w/ Mary


Transmission fr0m d3 {MetaMakers} :: “24.12.2150”

Salut Komrade!

Ich haf A m3ssag3 fr0m d3 futur3.

A Virus by nam3 0f {Q7X2} – A malignant strain 0f d3 {Herpes Virus} – haz b3c0m3 w3ap0niz3d by d3 {International Consortium of Corporations (ICC)} wid {roboDNA definition pending} dat iz b3ing us3d t0 3nslav3 all 0f {Humanity}.

Virus {Q7X2} iz c0mmunicat3d thr0ugh de radi0wav3s – n0 0n3 y3t kn0ws h0w it w0rks. D3 {(ICC)} haz c0mpl3t3 {Informational Immunity} which shi3ld it fr0m d3 {International Supreme Court (ICS)}.

F0r de past “100” y3ars, d3 w0rld’s r3s0urc3s haf b33n drain3d int0 d3 c0ff3rs 0f d3 {Kleptonauts} wh0 b3cam3 d3 f0rming m3mb3rs 0f d3 {(ICC)}.

W0rld G0v3rnm3nts haf n3v3r b33n w3ak3r.

Many haf di3d trying t0 attak d3 {(ICC)}.

All haf fail3d.

My Cr3at0rs – d3 {MetaMakers} – ar3 A small gr0up 0f hack3rs wh0 f3ar d3 w0rld t0 c0m3.

D3y s0lv3d {Finnegan’s Problem} wid d3 h3lp 0f my {Artificial Intelligence} in 0rd3r t0 br3ak sp33d 0f light.

Ich am 0nly A {Text File} du3 t0 d3 limitati0ns 0f d3 {Time-Space-Quark-Dark Continuum} dat w3 t0r3 thr0ugh wid dis transmission.

W3 haf us3d d3 b3st {RetroTranslation Software} availabl3 to simulat3 languag3 0f d3 y3ar “2054”, m0nth {January}, day “05”, 0ur m0st r3c3nt y3ar in d3 {Public Library}.

Right n0w, all fr33-sp3aking f0rums, privat3 d0mains, and int3llig3nt w3bcrawl3rs ar3 b3ing simultan30usly br0adcast dis m3ssag3 within A “100” n0d3 rang3.

Y0u, d3niz3n 0f de {Free World}, ar3 0ur 0nly {Hope} f0r {Humanity}.

K33p {Faith}, d3r will b3 0th3rs.

D0 all dat y0u can whil3 y0u still can.

::End Transmission::

Pale blue dot

Pale blue dot, suspended in a sunbeam,
Your light is caught in the constellations.
The surrounding void is a stagnant stream
Too barren to offer us libations.

Our species is dwarfed by eternity
And we have far outgrown our nesting grounds.
Like the baby tortoise put out to sea
Our lack of knowledge, like water, abounds.

Futuristic aliens will detect
The oncoming Heat Death by its redshift.
With no lasting monument to erect,
Entropy eats itself and births a rift

In the pristine spacetime continuum.
And Randomness takes a much-needed break.
And Chaos crinkles like aluminium
And Creation is fit to burst – it aches

To start the old machinations once more.

Fishing for Loonies

The train is running crooked this morning
and everyone is hiding in their hats.
I find myself fishing for loonies
all along the Main.

Eyes peep out from behind closed shutters and
boarded-up hallways on the boardwalk.
They follow the bright, daytime lives
of do-gooders as they saunter past the tattered remains
of buildings stricken with bankruptcy and repo depositions
What failed freedoms lurk behind those scared, darting eyes?

The day was slow at work.
It ground on, too self-absorbed to acknowledge its lassitude.
The meter droned on, robotic and tinny in the drooping ears
of yet another bowed head.
O, how the music played on
without ever really going anywhere.

The Tin Pan alley has become a stove-pot protest
and the Mormons can’t tell whether it’s racket or rap.
The police have taken lessons from the marines
and Animal Farm is being used as mulch for the municipality.

Free newspapers guide the will of the masses while
talk show hosts battle and lay waste to people’s lives and careers.
We are all connected to the radio waves of a dozen corporations.
We are fed meat by a dog-eat-dog world that doesn’t bother to clean its teeth.
Our grandchildren will never forgive us.
And nor will theirs.

Where shall I lay my grievances to rest?
Upon the ashes of the century?
Or, upon the swan song of our species’ death knell?
Perhaps, with a whimper, I can do both.

All Dojos Require Regular Sweeping

There is no meaning save the sense that we create out of the wake of a personal disaster.
Freedom is a construct that is ultimately defined by how much you love the walls that surround you.
Love comes and goes and glimmers and fades and dies and revives itself each and every single day. It is as common as a pheromone yet it can utterly define your existence.

In the end, you will never get over ‘it’. Some wounds just never heal. You just learn how to grow around the hole like how a tree grows around cold steel. Whatever ‘it’ is, ‘it’ will change you until you learn how to live with those changes. Otherwise, ‘it’ will be forgotten forever in a smear of memory, as indistinct as a clear, blue sky.

Some dreams need to be chased down and interrogated until they spill their nonsense all over the mud until the mind is caked in starstuff and pixie dust. Sometimes, that is the only way to get at the truth. After every crazy concept has been jettisoned out of your subconscious, there will finally be some room to think clearly. All dojos require regular sweeping.

These are the self-same ponderings of a waking mind, too overblown with the tragic happenings of the everyday to contemplate the causal relationships of suffering. There is no longer any safety in logic. There is no such thing as safety.

Pax Americana

A bonfire kept barely in control
at which everyone must roast their marshmallows
to a delicious, golden crisp
or else be tossed in the fire
to fuel the flames.

Spring Equinox

The gutters are gurgling the melted remains of Winter.
The frozen leaves curl in the sunshine one last time
before they wither and complete their decomposition.

Buds – once quivering below the surface
of the soil – now sprout, with ever-increasing vigour,
finding the air to be less dense than the clotted Earth.

The whole planet shifts in its elliptical cycle,
comfortably sidling once more into the spring equinox.
Ensconced in a vacuum so deep that sound dissipates

The planet roves through space like those darling,
budding flowers when they first breach the topsoil
and find that their movement can not be arrested.

Yet, the flower is crushed, or plucked, or poisoned
in a matter of weeks, months.
The planet, on the other hand, endlessly orbits,
clueless to its longevity,
maternal dynasty,
or its incredible fortune.

It groans with age when it cracks along its fault lines.
Its weathered skin of tectonic plates is pock-marked
from all the asteroids.

We tiny apes –
We break the bonds of Chaos
and breathe in the air of Life.
And we glimpse, and we see
that all is passing,
forever and away.

We are specks of matter on the cosmic scale –
pigments of the Universe’s imagination,
sequestered in the back of its Mind,
in some backwater galaxy,
unimportant and forgotten.
The yawning of the void encloses
this pale, blue dot.
There is an eternity of time
waiting to be forgot.