An artist sits down to pondering existential
In a top notch creative wandering providential.
But while caffeinated in consternation
She broods in digressive twitternation
Finding her resume to lack the consequential.
Sunday, 31 March 2013
Friday, 29 March 2013
Hey Look! A Thing I Did.
I have started a Soundcloud account, on which I will be posting some of my music.
Here is the link to my Soundcloud profile.
Here is the link to my Soundcloud profile.
Thursday, 29 November 2012
A Bunch of Stuff Today (Stream of Consciousness)
Well, here we are again, another nail in the 2 by 4 that I call my self expressive mind. You'd better start running now. NOT THAT I'M SELF CONSCIOUS.
We all carry a weight on our shoulders, conceptually, we understand this; I'm not the only one with money issues. Somehow it's rude to draw attention to your financial problems, because you're immediately seen as disregarding other people's problems. How selfish!
All of the sudden, we realise just how taboo our individuality is. We feel the need to label ourselves. Do we do it out of ennui and/or disgust at our individuality? Perhaps in our lonely society, we strive for a common social connection. By "being" gay, straight, religious, or liberal, etc. we're sacrificing our individuality in order to relate to the community. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing; however, when our labels confine our individual expression to that which is socially acceptable, we limit ourselves drastically, and our individuality becomes quaint and unnecessary Heck, even a bit scary.
It's stream of consciousness.
So there I was, briskly marching ahead of the pack, leader's my middle name. They'd look up at me IN AWE, they would even name their children after me.
Yes yes, I'm introverted, and I don't tend to take the lead on things unless I know exactly what I'm doing. The above paragraph was obviously sarcasm, I'm hilarious. Wasn't sure if you knew that about me. I make jokes, they come easy to me. I go about my day to day life; standing up, sitting down, walking here, walking there. And that's just the beginning.
"Golly" he said unironically, "wait'll you hear what happens next!".
They were tranced in flabbergasted bafflement. None survived.
The rabbit floated on still water with broken wings guiding the way home towards the music.
He slept, fully aware of what happened the day after tomorrow. Grinning, he chucked the beaver into the river, "GIT BACK 'O 'ERE 'OU CAME FRUM!" he exclaimed, privy to nothing but his singular path. Jovial inside, he saw the reason in it all, even when she let him go. It's no wonder the Sun still rises, and dinosaurs don't exist anymore. Points make lines, and lines make cubes; linear motion is still a representation of the abstract, lest we forget.
All inhibitors inhibit. All walls block, and all barriers stop...
"Some people are simple, some people are complex", only two kinds of people, eh? Hmm.
Segue goes here, how about some all encompassing poem, yeah. About flowers, they're nice; pansies are edible. Stick your tongue out, catch a snow flake, whoopy doo. Any-who, something to do, don't know, what about you? ADEQUATE.
Wearing his job on his mind, he could no longer see his face two steps ahead. Forcibly confined to the present, it seems. Two roads to follow, one happily sequestered in escapism, and the other mishmashed with the other badgers underneath the grounded bolt of lightning as it strikes the new bridge on 57th.
Randomness is what exists right now, look any further than that and you get into some pretty confusing shit. Either imagine an existence for yourself, or try to understand it all to the point where the confusing shit just doesn't seem so confusing anymore. Neither is good nor bad, just don't do either if you're trying to get somewhere specific.
Eventually this will all seem like "a lifetime ago". I had a good life! Yes, surely worth the use of one of those fine meat bags that are so hard to come by. The 50's were some of the best years of my life, gosh. When we were younger...able to get around; we're getting old, you know. Anyways, we used to drive through the mountains, spotting the eagles perched on the tops of trees. I remember this one trip; oh, I don't remember where we were driving, up in Washington I think. Anyways. It was late November, and the snow was falling, it was beautiful. So we pulled over, it fell slowly and softly...
How do I stop my life from turning into a story? As if I imagined the whole thing.
We all carry a weight on our shoulders, conceptually, we understand this; I'm not the only one with money issues. Somehow it's rude to draw attention to your financial problems, because you're immediately seen as disregarding other people's problems. How selfish!
All of the sudden, we realise just how taboo our individuality is. We feel the need to label ourselves. Do we do it out of ennui and/or disgust at our individuality? Perhaps in our lonely society, we strive for a common social connection. By "being" gay, straight, religious, or liberal, etc. we're sacrificing our individuality in order to relate to the community. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing; however, when our labels confine our individual expression to that which is socially acceptable, we limit ourselves drastically, and our individuality becomes quaint and unnecessary Heck, even a bit scary.
It's stream of consciousness.
So there I was, briskly marching ahead of the pack, leader's my middle name. They'd look up at me IN AWE, they would even name their children after me.
Yes yes, I'm introverted, and I don't tend to take the lead on things unless I know exactly what I'm doing. The above paragraph was obviously sarcasm, I'm hilarious. Wasn't sure if you knew that about me. I make jokes, they come easy to me. I go about my day to day life; standing up, sitting down, walking here, walking there. And that's just the beginning.
"Golly" he said unironically, "wait'll you hear what happens next!".
They were tranced in flabbergasted bafflement. None survived.
The rabbit floated on still water with broken wings guiding the way home towards the music.
He slept, fully aware of what happened the day after tomorrow. Grinning, he chucked the beaver into the river, "GIT BACK 'O 'ERE 'OU CAME FRUM!" he exclaimed, privy to nothing but his singular path. Jovial inside, he saw the reason in it all, even when she let him go. It's no wonder the Sun still rises, and dinosaurs don't exist anymore. Points make lines, and lines make cubes; linear motion is still a representation of the abstract, lest we forget.
All inhibitors inhibit. All walls block, and all barriers stop...
"Some people are simple, some people are complex", only two kinds of people, eh? Hmm.
Segue goes here, how about some all encompassing poem, yeah. About flowers, they're nice; pansies are edible. Stick your tongue out, catch a snow flake, whoopy doo. Any-who, something to do, don't know, what about you? ADEQUATE.
Wearing his job on his mind, he could no longer see his face two steps ahead. Forcibly confined to the present, it seems. Two roads to follow, one happily sequestered in escapism, and the other mishmashed with the other badgers underneath the grounded bolt of lightning as it strikes the new bridge on 57th.
Randomness is what exists right now, look any further than that and you get into some pretty confusing shit. Either imagine an existence for yourself, or try to understand it all to the point where the confusing shit just doesn't seem so confusing anymore. Neither is good nor bad, just don't do either if you're trying to get somewhere specific.
Eventually this will all seem like "a lifetime ago". I had a good life! Yes, surely worth the use of one of those fine meat bags that are so hard to come by. The 50's were some of the best years of my life, gosh. When we were younger...able to get around; we're getting old, you know. Anyways, we used to drive through the mountains, spotting the eagles perched on the tops of trees. I remember this one trip; oh, I don't remember where we were driving, up in Washington I think. Anyways. It was late November, and the snow was falling, it was beautiful. So we pulled over, it fell slowly and softly...
How do I stop my life from turning into a story? As if I imagined the whole thing.
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
As We Paint Over Stippled Ceilings
Our worlds collided with a stick of the tongue,
A petulant bond.
Petty trivialities; mere bi-products of our adolescence, I guess.
Though wounds heal with time,
the objective memory of ourselves will stagnate and strive for permanence.
We'll wallow in each others wake,
until it all inevitably becomes ironic.
A petulant bond.
Petty trivialities; mere bi-products of our adolescence, I guess.
Though wounds heal with time,
the objective memory of ourselves will stagnate and strive for permanence.
We'll wallow in each others wake,
until it all inevitably becomes ironic.
Friday, 16 November 2012
Outsider
Immediately he looked like an outsider. It doesn't matter what he says, nothing can convince me that his opinion has any weight. Sitting there alone, casually, soft smile on his face. Why is he here? Outsider.
The long hair, unkempt facial hair, the hole in his jeans, I know they don't mean anything; but they sure don't help. We're all products of our experiences, he can't help who he is. Shouldn't he be at school, or work? Where's his girlfriend? Why is he laughing?
You need to start when you're a kid. He's 21, maybe 22; too old to become one of them. It's a brain development thing.
After the show, on his cellphone.
He spoke with a steady, prevailing rhythm, laughing again, colloquialisms easily conjured.
He smiled as he stopped to gaze at some paintings on the wall before he left
Alone.
So it's not just music. Outsider.
The long hair, unkempt facial hair, the hole in his jeans, I know they don't mean anything; but they sure don't help. We're all products of our experiences, he can't help who he is. Shouldn't he be at school, or work? Where's his girlfriend? Why is he laughing?
You need to start when you're a kid. He's 21, maybe 22; too old to become one of them. It's a brain development thing.
After the show, on his cellphone.
He spoke with a steady, prevailing rhythm, laughing again, colloquialisms easily conjured.
He smiled as he stopped to gaze at some paintings on the wall before he left
Alone.
So it's not just music. Outsider.
Thursday, 15 November 2012
Oil Sands
Pointless plethora o' penny; preparation for party political passion; plagiarous people Plying poor pence.
Poisonous plastic people plotting pointless pastures, replacing the penniless and the Perturbed.
Slurping slobbering tongues of serpants obscured in slithered surmise;
Falsely contributing to headless morrows without regretful demise.
Powerful plugs pillaged by peoples pliers;
Plying and plying weary wires.
Dare I drive the drenched slurping serpant starway?
Shall I arise, to revel in rogue realities awry?
In the tumultuous urban trenches, grand gluttonous termites ravage the delicious "sandy Freedom".
Poisonous plastic people plotting pointless pastures, replacing the penniless and the Perturbed.
Slurping slobbering tongues of serpants obscured in slithered surmise;
Falsely contributing to headless morrows without regretful demise.
Powerful plugs pillaged by peoples pliers;
Plying and plying weary wires.
Dare I drive the drenched slurping serpant starway?
Shall I arise, to revel in rogue realities awry?
In the tumultuous urban trenches, grand gluttonous termites ravage the delicious "sandy Freedom".
Sitting In A Yellow and Red Room
Sitting in a yellow and red room, the ceiling is white with stubble. Floor frayed gray. This room has been assigned to the front corner of the house, slanted walls. Littering the floor lays the various and the precarious, but without haste, I continue to examine. The rubbish eclipses the bed and the desk. There is a sturdy wooden stool standing with me sitting ontop, erect, enacting a lighthouse scan of it all. The floor is close, but not close enough; my feet barely graze the carpet hairs. A spot on the floor, free of it all. I reestablish my gaze upon my perch as I allow for all distal projections to escape me, refusing to let them slither through my jugular. The thinking mind vacations with the heart as I stumble about the remainder of the room, I glance through the square metre window. Holes in the screen.
I stand easily to my feet, free of it all; but encircled by the petulent scrawls, I grow weary of what's to come. Jagged corners and confusing scraps, I wish for the end of it all. The tumors of thought trickle through, unfleeting anxiety. I step a harsh step, soaring bloated blood to my blinded head; carpet hairs rise a brazen. She exudes the silhouette so familiar, there's no question of her intent; but I ask anyway. I return to my perch in a yellow and red room, ceiling white with stubble; waiting for something different.
I stand easily to my feet, free of it all; but encircled by the petulent scrawls, I grow weary of what's to come. Jagged corners and confusing scraps, I wish for the end of it all. The tumors of thought trickle through, unfleeting anxiety. I step a harsh step, soaring bloated blood to my blinded head; carpet hairs rise a brazen. She exudes the silhouette so familiar, there's no question of her intent; but I ask anyway. I return to my perch in a yellow and red room, ceiling white with stubble; waiting for something different.
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