Segunda-feira, 12 de Dezembro de 2011

Death

 

 

Death is so unbecoming.

Cuts through today,
like a blunt knife through warm butter,

stops your breathing,
your heart and everything,
as pain reminds you,
for the last time,
of your body.


Oh wondrous transformation!

Death is a moment,
and,
as such,
it does not exist.

It’s the longing between nothing and something else,
between silence and disbelief.

What to say of the cessation of the voice of the narrator?
What should I write?
If anything...
on the demise of the story teller?

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 21:04
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Domingo, 10 de Julho de 2011

In Europe the squares are full of people

 

 

-It will come,

He said, sipping his beer and fumbling for the lighter.
-What will?
I listened to every other word,

hoping that was enough,


It wasn't.


-This thing that’s happening in Tahrir Square. It’ll come here,
-Here?
-Yes.

To the south first then to the North,
Maybe not as dramatic as in Egypt, but it’ll come.
-You think?
-Oh yes,

we both have regimes that no one believes anymore,

ailing economies,

elites that represent only themselves …

these things are infectious,


Said my father,

blowing cigarette smoke through his nose and looking me in the eyes,
forcing me into attention.

 

I grunted my accord and looked at my glass,
feeling cheated of the contemplative beer buzz,

I felt,

deserved.

Not really sure of what to say,

I said what I was thinking:


-Better late than never, I suppose.
-Yes, this place needs a cleaning …

Off course here it wont be so … revolutionary.

The EU won’t let it go so far,

but people will fill the squares very soon.


-Soon?
-Yes, soon,
-Like what, four, five years?
-No! A year … maybe less.
My father looked intently to his cigarette.

Waiting for me to say something.


I zoned out as I felt the conversation taking a turn to the improbable.

 

Off course there’s reasons for people to be fucked with politics, politicians and government,

but we have years of rot before we see people on the streets.


This is Portugal,

we’re all beyond indignation and certainly over protestation.


I looked at my father, encouraging him to talk some more,
and ask me nothing.
I looked over the roofs of downtown Lisboa that,

4 months from then,

would see camped protesters on Rossio Square.

A five minutes walk from my house.
So close.
All this things that I chose to believe were in a manageable future,
are already here.

On this particular grey Saturday afternoon,
during a boozy lunch in my house,
I was warned of the times that were coming.


Saintliness is a form of attention. I heard said once.
True.

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 17:47
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Domingo, 31 de Outubro de 2010

Maria

 

As I touched my daughter's hands,

small, clean and uncreased,

I heard a voice:

 

"Life is the elegance of leaving."

 

I held her tight,

 

and thought of all the time I won't have with her.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 13:56
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Domingo, 5 de Abril de 2009

Cassandra

 

 

These are the days of new beginnings,

and longing for  the ones that are not our own anymore,

and wont be missed.

 

These are the days of change and reinvention,

Of dead structure withering as dead leaves,

Of looking ahead to nothing known,

And living in the maelstrom of becoming.

Where we are just movement,

change,

and oblivion.


Some call it decay,

Others birthing.

We call it pain and confusion.

We call it, our lives.


These are the days of siren calls

Wailing their last warnings to deaf ears.

Everywhere we hear the Cassandra warning us about the demise of a life

That is already lost.

The death of the West,

Proclaimed for so long,

Is now an inexorable fact.


There are no ruins,

And there are no more men.

All the dreams are dead.

Sadder eyes and clearer heads are needed to live this becoming that engulfed us.

The past is no more a beacon,

As the future we’ve foreseen is no more there.

The plans of mice of men…

Are not plans but tropisms,

As men and mice are not agents but matter.

Nothing to do now but to contemplate the mill of history,

Grinding away at today

Replacing it with a future  that will frighten us all,

the Changing of the Guard generation,

or won’t be any kind of future.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 14:03
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Domingo, 6 de Julho de 2008

Ode to the Black Light

 

I ran into the heart of winter,

Deep,

Deep into the naked trees,

into the blistering wind.

In search of the cleansing rain I went.

 

I rushed into the snow.

Into the snow icy core I plunged.

 

Inside the frozen plain.

Into the throbbing Soul I moved...

 

The Ice respired death all around…

Stopping the world,

The winter,

The cold,

Thought.

 

Even me.

 

And, here,

In the shivering cold,

I sit down and,

For the first time I,

 

close my eyes

to never open them again

 

And, then...

As expected.

As wanted;

as needed.

 

Came the ominous heat

I’ve known for so long.

 

The warm nothingness that was here from the start.

In the beginning of days;

My days.

 

A life-time of blind love to a hidden God...

Only seen through the dim glass of the Black Light


 

Shining in me and through me...

Like an unspeakable silence that can not be understood.

Only embraced.

 

And, as I sat here,

To never rise again.

I wait most atently.

Not waiting for anything…

 

being wait in itself.

 

Available for all;

latent.

Frozen to the world and burning for the hand of God.

 

And the inky waters of Being start to move...

slowly.

Very slowly,

deep,

deep,

down there...

inside,

Me.

 

 

Like a tectonic revolution.

 

Rumbling upwards,

crushing everything in its path.

To

me.

 

And,

as I wait,

as I stop,

to never move again.

 

I pray to the God I don’t believe anymore.

 

To give me the strength,

and the fortitude.

to see the all consuming beauty,

 

Of the Black Light.

 


publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 13:40
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Nosferatu's Night Out

 

Stained clouds by the oily sludge of the night

mar the skyline who looms over the alley and dinner,

Twitching, squirming,

Bloody and delicious.

 

I watched as it moved one last time.

 

The moon cowered beneath the smog,

Neon sprayed light trough the dark recesses of the city…

Low, dwindling stars, illuminate a mankind that deserves no other light.

 

I lean against the wall, breathless and sated,

Casting my eyes to on high,

Searching for a God that has forsaken me.

 Leaving me alone with the billboards of banks and travel agencies,

Sneakers and massage parlours,

Shoe stores and chemists…

Brightly coloured hues of dreaming, irradiating over the street.

Full of the night lights and city sounds…

Resting and digesting,

as if the corpse before me was not my doing.

 

As if no one would,

ever,

Come here

As if I could rest …

for awhile.

 

The food stopped moving long ago.

An empty dish for a vacant meal.

The thrill of the hunt, the pleasure of the kill,

Feeding…

All so quick, so good and so sudden.

 

I get up and get ready to leave,

Button up my coat and leave this happy place of feeding.

Strangely nostalgic for this now that is ended.

 

 

The cold wind sharpens my pace as I look for the train station.

Hungry to be elsewhere.

Away from this geometric unwelcoming town.

Eager, so eager,

To get home.

 

Away from all the animals that roam these streets.

 

 


publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 13:33
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No Sun as come undone

 

No sun has come undone,

As no moon was found unclean.

Under the watchful eye of Being.

 

No God was found wanting,

No Spirits questioned…

Nor was the sea too shallow,

Nor the desert too dry.

No deed of beast was too base,

No will of rock too hard,

Compared to the inexorability of  the judgement passed to Man.

 

For, the scrape of Light ,

(that will let him live a little longer, so he can die a little later),

is hard and elusive to get…

as if it was a prize,

as if it was good…

A bounty for the worthy!

Not the least of our expectations.

 

It’s to this sad feast that we gather in the millions;

Like mongrels too stupid to see the difference between the carrot and the stick…

Biting everything and each other,

beneath the discouraging soul-gluttony of the Lord.

 

And,

For this, and more I ask you…

 

His not Man’s lot

A cast lot?

Is not is his destiny an answerable riddle?

 

Were we not singled forth?

 

Is not our being darker than death?

Is not our dying clearer than living?

 

Are not these the voices of reason?

 

 

And to answer these questions…

Only blind hate against the living,

And a strong mistrust towards the dead.

 

                                                                        II

 

This self righteous anger,

Speaks in the ever expanding riddles of science,

physics,

bothany,

biology,

geology,

the rest.

Drowning in the flood of the senses,

broken and confused…

cumbersome before the incumbent task.

 

Sense and Knowledge one,

before the ever thinning twine of unknowing.

 

 

Trying to remember the Word before Self came in.

 

 

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 13:17
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Hoje Começa Devagar

 

Hoje começa devagar.

Tímido da noite de ontem e tropeçando nos amanhas que não cantam...

 

Calam-se,

Tristes e silentes.

Mudos com o sal das lágrimas que não correram.

 

Falam dos amanheceres atros e vagos do futuro,

Dos acordares ignotos e perigosos.

Do dia de amanhã que não conheço.

 

E portanto estou,

Como sempre...

Entre há bocado e agora,

Neste quase nada a que chamam presente,

Onde eu devia estar e sentir-me e precisar-me

e...

onde não me encontro no presente dos outros.

...

porque a unica verdade de mim,

É um ponto questionante.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 12:51
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Sábado, 5 de Julho de 2008

Song of the Midday

 

 

 

“Seek and ye shall find.”

Says the Good Book.

Many were lost for heeding these words.

For if there are plenty of books,

Not one,

is Good.

 

But still they manage to get written,

engraving themselves in the hearts of men who bask by the fire of Words,

and,

foolishly,

 

look for their reflection in the World.

 

These are the starry eyed dreamers,

The heroes,

The revolutionaries…

drowning in contemplation of the Palace of Reason that exists only in the soul…

not the ever decaying chaos of becoming.

 

They’re blinded by truth,

drunk on certainty,

choking on Reality,

and gagging in Light…

 

They look to the world in hope..

waiting for it to turn out as they know it should.

And,

Seeing it carrying on indifferent and unaware of their plans.

They take on themselves the burden of change.

 

And so they walk;

 

The path of the good man,

The path of the righteous and the pious…

Of the northern man,

cowering under dreams of land and bloodlines…

The path of the Cow.

Oblivious to everything but of the small pasture his herd calls home,

Wanting for nothing and thinking about less.

And as they gather to celebrate their bovine ethos of exclusion, we hear their rambling ruminations on family,

land,

purity.

Celebrating closeness and sameness,

Making of their hearth their world.

 

But,

As we avert our eyes from this cozy landlocked scene,

and turn to the vast sea that faces us, each an every day,

We cannot help but think that,

 

Not for us the clear trek,

Not for us the known path…

 

We’re of the Midday,

We’re made of hard truths and harder lies…

 

Here,

baking beneath the inflexible sun,

lingers a race of dark men,

Who live under the terrible burden of the naked truth.

 

No wolf gods, no mists no trees, no rivers, no fountains no nothing!

But the unavoidable burden of living alone before the Great Power.

 

Distant, cold and aloof,

 

A God not for the man who needs prayers, sacrifices, dances, parties, feasts, drugs…

All the paraphernalia that lesser man use to cloud the unknowing.

 

Here

Beneath the high blue skies and the rampant violence of the sun,

Loiter those for whom God is so present that it hurts.

 

A belief so deep that is not a belief anymore,

 

But life devoid of pleasure and contentment.

Empty of everything but His intrusive existence.

 


publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 21:45
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Domingo, 11 de Maio de 2008

Mornings are for mourners


 

  Mornings are for mourners,

 

To mourn the night before.

 

Morning is Night’s final throes of desperation.

 

And in her place…

Nothing;

nothing but the cooling corpse of yesterday.

 

You open  your eyes , sit on the bed (still unsure of where, how and why you’re here) thinking what to do with the sprawling remains extended till noon.

 

You await for the new day

 the new day

 to come and rescue you from this queasy unsureness that is morning.

 

But no.

Oh no.

 

You’ll inhabit this no man’s land till the afternoon.

 

Morning the death shrine of last night.

All promises , all possibilities

growing in the hopeful shades of dark,

Fizzled to nothingness in the raw light of the new day…

 

Crumpled little ashen mounds of wanting ,

burnt by the ugliness of time.

 

And a dense cloud of unhappiness clings to everything and everyone as if t’was the Sun royal  mantle.

.Yellow and bloated;

 

Smilingly pontificating over the debris of the new day.

 

Another day.

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 00:41
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Terça-feira, 29 de Abril de 2008

Absent Friends

 

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

Will time leave us alone?

Will sloth and neglect, estrange us from the ones we love the most?

 

Will the mill of days grind away the ties that bound us?

 

No time like now,

No words but these words

No persons but these persons...

The ones here.

Not the chosen,

But the remaining.

 

But

I ask myself...

Will we forgive ourselves for our forgetfulness?

...

All people

Everywhere

Everyday...

The enormous throng of people we knew and loved...

Taken by time and sacrificed in the altar of now.

Distant shadows of a past made unnecessary.


 

Not by you.

Not by the others.

But by now,

By the movement.

This place in this time, and this place in this

place.

 

Love trampled under the wheels of necessity

and the stupid fascism of need.

 

And to all this I ask:

 

Will we miss our friends forgotten?

Will we need their love and warmth?

Will we be lonely?

Afraid of being adrift with ourselves?

 

II


Time passes like a glacier trough a valley,

Slowly but surely, all will collapse under the weight of the frost.

Like the valley,

We’ll be striped of everything,

Naked and alone.

 

And here, in presence of our own structure,

Before the great truth...

We cowardly long for time we spent with others and the truths we shared...

Longing for all the things we left behind...

 

And,

Knowing this...

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 19:01
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Lazy Afternoons

 

 

Lazy afternoons,

 

 

all made of sunshine and permanence,

light and duration;

could they last forever...

 

Listless Sun soaked hours,

filled to the brim with nothing

and hollowed of any promise but its own shiny pointlessness.

These are the times that are,

truly,

 

ours.

 

This is our allotted time,

all else is purposeful living.

Years, months and days dedicated to the pursuits that we esteem as worthy:

career,

money,

the respect of our peers,

more money

ourselves,

family

the masses,

God,

the whales.

All these and more

much more,

occupies us inside and out,

 

as we dedicate large chunks of our lives to their conquest.

 

Noble and important as they may be,

(they’re not)

they are not truly ours.

 

 

Their place is the no man's land that separates what they want from you,

from what you want from them.

Its in this field of glory that you’ll forget yourself, to win them,

and where they’ll accommodate you, for no greater good.

Everybody gives a little,

nobody wins.

This is the base of the new social contract,

a fierce and equalitarian force preventing anyone from getting what they want.

 

Social justice making sure that everyone gets fucked the same

and in the same way.

A socialization of misery,

if you will.

But not today.

at least not this afternoon.

 

Today there’s nothing to do but be,

here.

Useless,

and with nowhere to go.


 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 18:38
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Domingo, 20 de Abril de 2008

Old Women

 

Hordes of old women storm the esplanade…

An archaeology of lipstick, rouge, and regret.

Hardcore harpies smeared with the crimson colours of days gone by.

Hordes of old women,

faces aghast with the ravages of gravity,

put together by the steely will of looking like the night before morning.

A carved romantic ruin to time blundering by.

Faces who want to be Venetian palazzos,

and look like empty spaces behind buildings.


publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 10:54
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Sábado, 12 de Abril de 2008

Times Arrow






In front.
Always in front. Ahead.
In your face.
Always in your face. Before you.

Hours await.

The long procession of minutes (armed to the teeth with seconds).
They wait at the corner of now
To become the ever expanding procession of days.

An infinite throng of instants peruses menacingly,
as I finish a cigarette and look trough the café window.

And,
Then,
When you’re not expecting,

The Hordes of time storm the tower, to enforce the grim yoke of Boredom.


You light another cigarette, and hope it’ll pass.

But it won’t.

You were conquered by the army most ferocious.



Thunderous cavalcades of infinity,
Roaring armies of permanence
Ready and waiting to rip you to shreds and serve you to
Uncountable multitudes of moments,
followed by more ravenous moments…

Pulling in…
Pulling to….
To…

Immeasurable quantities of instants,
Armed and belligerent...
Screaming for the bloody murder of you.


Time’s arrow is taut and awaits release.
Its vicious murderous desire for oblivion will not be abated.


Time’s arrow is taut and you are the target.

There’s nothing left to do …

All your efforts … all for naught.

Nothing to do …
But grit your teeth,
And brace for impact.

music by

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 19:46
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Youthful Indiscretions



The first of a (hopefully) series of poems on Emperor Constantine

My name is Constantine,
I’m a man blessed with destiny.

There’s purpose and a direction to my existence,

unlike the hapless fortune of most men,
void of fate and reason,
pulled only by the motions of the Universe,
no direction,
no goal,
being all that the Universe wants them to be.
Childish debris in the torrent of being.

The sons of time have no time of their own,
only movement.
Which,
belongs,
whole,
to Time.

But this story is not about those that make the flesh of Gods,
It’s about those who walk, head up high, among Them.


I move,
intent,
in my own life line,
Clear in the knowledge of myself.
pulled by the certainty of Fate.

There’s a reason for my existence.
and the reason is my own,
and the reason is me.


The Gods know my name,
as they know their own kin,

I’m alive since the beginning,

coexistent with Jove and Sol and the Ignoto Dei…
each of us a road in the map of Being,
where the rabble is but a moment of my path.

I exist, where everything around does not.
My trek is clear,
My spirit is sharp,
my will is keen.

Strong armed and quick.
I am now,
all the man that I was supposed to be.

My actions are weaved in the loom of Moira,
I have the certainty of rocks and the changing seasons,
I am,
whole,
the motor of history
and the reason for all becoming.

Constantine I’m called,
Known by name by the Gods,
and needing the love of none.

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 19:25
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Titan




I’m plagued by the vision,
cursed by the light,
and shunned by the welcoming hand of God.

Mine is a desolate trek.
a path of blind hate and consuming love.

a voyage full of sound and fury and nothing else.
a blind resolute voyage to nowhere,
yearning to arrive to the end of all this being.

The roads are paved in pain and are all mine.

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 19:05
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You




I’m talking to you from this place of silence.
From under the wreckage,
the debris
the soot and the stones and the iron ruins.

You,
all of you.
have chased me into this place of violence.
gasping and cornered,
I look horrified to the Your gaping maw of wanting,

You,
always sure,
always…
eager for more.


You,
all of you…
will be the death of me.


Scarring me with your love and attention
you…

You!

There can not be no greater indictment than being You.
And for this…
only this,
nothing is forgiven.

You’ve condemned me to my exile in this place of silence,
in the island of discourse,
the monastery of idle chat…
the graveyard of inane prattling about the heat…

This will not be forgotten,
I will excise upon you a vengeance most terrible!

Upon you will be unleashed questions about your health,
interrogations about the weather,
queries over your emotional well being,
and probings as to the exact nature of your dogs dreams.

No plattitude to empty,
no question to stupid.

I will be the spirit of family talk and courteous words in elevator,
and the ghost of Christmas past and future.

I will be uncomfortable silences!
long pauses and puzzled looks,
the tense hand that twitches as you look for the time,
the nervous laugh that assuages the unstoppable current of imbecility.

I will forever haunt your attempt to take me in conversation.


You…
you.

YOU!!

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 18:42
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Exhortation




I


Everywhere,
Every time.
There are men who lament the present because it’s not the past they foreseen.

They shun its crass materialism,
its crippling individualism,
abhor its rotting equalitarianism,

fleeing the diseased cities of the servants,
sickened with the stench of their baseness.
Longing to be elsewhere…

cleaner skies,
broader horizons,
an invigorating solitude.


Everywhere,
Every time.
There are men,
the best of them.
Who see History as an agonizingly long burial of the Spirit.
And as It drowns in Time they watch:
eyes wide with horror
the descent of Man into chaos,
and the following procession of foulness:

Lust and Chance as the new Love and the new Reason,
Man as the measure of all things,
Godlessness as Dogma,
Reason trapped alone in science,
Philosophy, a commentary on physics,
Religion as superstition,
Home as a place,
Nature as resources,
The how’s as the whys.


To all these Men.
everywhere…
Hiding in the mountains,
living in the darkness of the woods…
scorning humanity and keeping themselves pure,
I say this,
calling it “Waldgänger" wont make it less cowardly.

For today is the day!
The day before the great wheel stops,
for so long spinning only by inertia
and – finally! – time ends,
turning even our tainted being into a purer nothing…
and,
as time runs out of time
and acceleration becomes history,
We should be remembered of this truth…

There is no protection from becoming.
There’s no truth higher than destruction.
as no Gods were ever higher than Fate.


For all this…
and for the reason of Pride,
We make this last call to you,
Hoping that your soul will do the Black Work that lies ahead…
and needs to get done.



II


Brothers!
Don’t sail the boats to Hesperyon,
Don’t long for the western shores where the Ancients wait.

Forget the first days,
forget the unity of the beginning,
before time,
before movement,
before being.

Forget the chants of the sirens,
although they speak nothing but the truth.
The golden age is dead,
The Gods powerless,
all eternal truths are present lies.

Even our disgust is but affected snobbery when we watch the carnage of the universe.


It’s time to bury the last remnants of the Logos under the crumbling towers of today.
Because,
Each second inside us lives the spirit,
it’s a second more this diseased universe lingers on…
regardless of Reason,
or Right.

Its our being that still gives movement to this corpse.
We’re the maggots in the dead flesh.
And,
all this,
must have a stop.

It’s not the decadence of lesser men that is responsible for the grotesquerie of this living carcass.
It is us.
For clinging to the truth,
For not capitulating,
For remaining true…
For being men among ruins,
when we should be the harbingers of destruction,
raising to the ground every last vestige of Spirit.

So that, from that unknowable silence,
where all that is now, will be nothing,
will come something new.

For all this,
brothers,
I urge you into this crusade against being,
against everything,
against each other.

To cleanse the world of the old truths,
and bring forth the time before time.
Tiamat,
Uranus,
Chaos.

And hope,
not know, but hope,
for in the darkness of this cesspool there’s no place for knowledge, only faith.
That the cycle begins again,
and that the sacrifice of the Will is not in vain.

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 17:58
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Making Sense




Trying to eek out sense of all this …
Living.

Trying to shape the unruly indiscipline of existence
into an organized structure of ideas.
Making sense of everything by making it something…
Objects to be looked at and understood.

This is the first moment in the carnival of seeing.


They’ve polluted our eyes with beauty,
Soiled our ears with music,
Fouled our mouths with food,
And tainted our skin with love.

drunk with now,
infatuated with becoming
we become time’s obedient mistress..

Our senses now,
Pasture to the sickness of thinking.

Looking and then choosing,
Feeling and then reasoning,
And thus making of everything…

smaller.
Controllable,
Understandable,
Useful…

Knowledge if you will.


Questions who will fit the answers,
Answers who befriend easy questions,
taking us trough the bonds of empathy
that common men call logic.
Finding truth in similarity.
As if closeness was creation,
As if proximity was certainty.

Our intellectual journeys have taken us from the bedroom to the kitchen,
And we exult in the small steps taken … and called it Odyssey.

We’ve never left the cave.

And unable to know in any form but this sorrowful stumbling,
We’ve became trapped inside our answers,
And found closure in the cells of reason.

Monk-like eunuchs droning mantras of intelligence and discourse,

Keeping the devils of complexity and uncertainty safely at bay.

Howling alone in science.
Trying ceaselessly to break the bound that binds us to this dead knowledge.

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 17:16
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The Glass




“I’m done with drinking!”
said the glass.

“I’m done with the loud bars and the loud hearts,
with bragging souls and fighting spirits.

Done with the coming and the going of wayward travelers of the late hours…

I’m done with the night!”

Said the glass almost blushing…
awkwardly masquerading his unease with a smile.
He paused, gathering himself, and then he continued,
as if reading from a book,

“I’m done with the silky invitation of the dark and the smiling complacency of the moon.
I’m done with all this wanting and all this being and all this aimless meandering.
cruising blind and fast,
hither to thither,
from here to there,
from there to here again,
and then to nowhere.”


“I’m through with nights,
I’m through with days that are still nights,
and I’m through with days you wished were still nights!”

“I’m through.”
Pondered the glass…

“I’m through being half filled and half empty,
I’m through being drunk , spit upon, cried over, spilled and left on the ground…
forgotten.”



“All the things I could be useful for…
all things that I can do for me and others,
all these things,
all good.
Are nothing to me.”

“all the things that I am,
all the things that make me, me…
are things where I see me no more.”

“There is no more of “me” that I can do.
I have become weary of existing.
I’ve grown unaccustomed to being,
I’m a stranger to living…
none of this is mine anymore.”



“All that I am is elsewhere,
differently,
in places unseen,
and probably,
in moments unwanted.”

“I am now,
whole.
an enormous longing for being someone else.”


“Today I’m the cessation of volition,
the end of habit
and the answer to the algorithm of my own demise.”

“And,
knowing this,
knowing only this.”

“I wait that the Great Tyrant Time pushes all my doubts backwards into the past.
So I can be whole,
alone,
With what I am…
now.”

publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 17:12
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