Newton-amino-glycan pyramids
The sign ran cold
Red fountain
On a pillar
Out of time.
Running from engagements
Keep the flanks protected
We never knew that study
Would keep you in the clear
Would teach how to tell everyone
That you aren't really there.
But the car's running cold
Magnesium flares
And a bicycle pump
Out of time.
Doctorate won't compensate
So go the stories they keep telling us
And the taxi-stand news
Is really old in disguise
Surely it's not the same
Day after day
Surely it's some kind of scam.
But the driver won't cooperate
So you shoot him in the head
How did you think this would end?
And you're burning, burning
Like a falling star
Like a falling angel
Coming over the horison
And you light me up
Like a crimson flare.
Its all in the bag
Atomic warheads on ice
Tempting and fearless
In the hair-rippling breeze
Sun's out for the weekend
And leather's great seating.
Care for a laugh
In the unfolding light?
But nobody can see you
The way that I do.
Coast down the slipstream
Is this translucent daydream
Only feeding delusions,
Or am I crazy-jumping
To unwarrented conclusions?
Tell me you're not burning
Like a falling star
Like a falling angel
You scorch the air
With a velvet kiss
And I'm stuck in the distance.
Paper-mache' humans
Civilization runs
Gently on around us
Speeding slowly by
Out of every window
The faces blurring past
They never would ask
Or understand at all
Just feeling the silent pull
Of the screaming sirens
Are we drifting?
Have we lost our place?
Did we forget to save us
From the hostile bank?
And it's tears now
As the future bends
Just out in front.
And in the mirror
We only see our past
Reaching out to grab us.
The sign ran cold
like a blood red fountain
On a pillar of flame
Future collided present
Like a ray of sunlight
We are blown away
To a symphony of squealing
And applause of broken glass.
And you are gone
Like a falling star
Like a falling angel
You held me there
You took the fall
And we are worlds apart
In a sea of blood
And silent sirens.
Friday, February 27, 2004
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Friday, February 20, 2004
THEMES OF A ROSE
Modern Mania
Andrew is an ant. He is kind of shy, but hardworking, good-natured and determined. Sometimes the girls laugh at him when he tries to sound intellegent. He is, however, a pristine example of the social problems faced by the 'modern ant'.
He never knew his father, as his mother slept around the whole colony. His mother has always neglected him, barely even acknowledging his existance. He was raised in a sort of foster home environment organised by many of his relatives on his mother's side. Every day he is up before dawn, trudging down the pebbly paths of the colony on his six toeless feet, on the way to his dead end job as a hauler. All day long he hauls things into and around the colony without any pieces of machinery to make things easier, till atlast at the end of a long working day he collapses into his little bed inside the big dormitory. He owns nothing, he has no private space. He will work his job day after day after day for the rest of his life, without holidays or tea breaks. In fact, if you mention the word 'break' to him in a casual way he would either stare blankly at you for several moments or collapse on the ground in a fit of hysterical laughter before heading off back to work. His job is repetative and dull and there is absolutely no chance of promotion. Is it any wonder that he has trouble making complex social adjustments in adverse circumstances, or that he is unable to cheat when playing a game of poker, let alone know how to play poker, or that he has such a great tendancy to follow the leader and not break out of the herd (figuratively speaking of course, more literally he would be breaking out of the colony, but that has a fellonistic ring to it). Yet if you asked him, "Are you happy with your life?", he would give you that strange, concidering look poeple (and ants) give you when they are trying to figure out whether you or not you are insane, and if so, if now is a good time to start running, and shrug his shoulders and say "I spose so." before heading back to work.
The bassonet and the baritone bought a snack
Bertha is a bee. She is a natural optimist who always tries to see past the bad things in life to some good thing further off in the distance (probably with the hope that it is heading her way). She has no confidence when talking to men, collapsing into a pile of giggling nerves at the site of them. She will never mate. She will never know the joys of motherhood or be able to pass on her hard earned wisdom to the next generation. She also has a dead end job that only ends when she is too old to work (i.e. no longer on the fire-evacuation list). She was also neglected as a child, not knowing her father and being all but ignored by her mother (yet another career woman in the modern world), and being raised by a foster care service. "Ahh," you can hear a vocal minority (sitting in the back out of white-board marker range) exclaim, "Atleast Bertha has wings, so that she can soar through the air and absorb the scenery from a level that is not the maddeningly familiar 'grass roots vista' (seaside view not included). She can fly free, at one with nature, not traipsing around following a whole line of other ants all hoping that the first ant has directions." Is Bertha's life to Andrew's, like the cool ocean breeze is to the waftings of a manure pile? It may seem that way at first, but let's look a little closer. Bertha bee may be able to shed some light on the subject. "See these wings?," she says, gesturing to the glossy little back extensions tucked away behind her, "They may look like pure and unadulerated freedom (size: small), but there is a catch, you always fly for the hive." What she is getting at, I feel, can be more aptly concidered by looking at her vocation and what the future holds. Currently she is at the top tier of the ladder, she feeds the babies and cleans the hive, with the occasional bout of construction work thrown in for good measure, this has been her job since birth. In a little while she will be demoted to respiratory medium circulation facilitator (i.e. the ventillation system) for the hive, where she sits at the entrance of the hive and fans her wings all day in order to gennerate something of a current (a current large enough to cause a small strip of paper about a millimeter thick to bend slightly) which will theoretically travel round the hive and prevent everyone inside from suffocating. She will do this all day (and twice on hot days) till she is exhausted and flops down into her little borrowed bed in the dormitories for a couple of milliseconds of shuteye (figuratively speaking, bees cannot blink). From there she will be demoted to honey gatherer, where she will fly around all day (again till she is exhausted) visiting flower upon flower for a few drops of nectar. She will be lucky if she survives the day, what with all the predators, freak gusts of wind, people, dogs (not really predators, but due to the fact that they run around all day with their mouths hanging open leaking druel, it is invevitable that the occasional bee takes a deture down the pipe-of-no-return. The same could be said for some people actually.), and false suns (alright, I admit that false suns may be very few and far between, but you never know when one will show up, and maybe oneday one will, then, I am sure, the bees will suffer) that are lurking about just waiting to snaffle up a passing bee. And every day will be the same mixture of self-sacrificial adrenalin pumping boredom until she flaps her last (either due to the paralysis caused by dying or the cruelty of 5-year-old children).
All of a sudden wings aren't seeming such a blessing, all of a sudden being a lowly ant looking up at the big old sky through a towering forest of grass seems like a walk in the park (and sometime it literally is). But if you asked Bertha if she was happy, you'd get yet another of those strange, concidering looks, and another shrug of the shoulders, and another half-hearted answer, "It's what I do.", before she to hitches up her (figurative) trousers and bustles off again to work.
Sometimes bees and ants are wise in the ways of the life.
Modern Mania
Andrew is an ant. He is kind of shy, but hardworking, good-natured and determined. Sometimes the girls laugh at him when he tries to sound intellegent. He is, however, a pristine example of the social problems faced by the 'modern ant'.
He never knew his father, as his mother slept around the whole colony. His mother has always neglected him, barely even acknowledging his existance. He was raised in a sort of foster home environment organised by many of his relatives on his mother's side. Every day he is up before dawn, trudging down the pebbly paths of the colony on his six toeless feet, on the way to his dead end job as a hauler. All day long he hauls things into and around the colony without any pieces of machinery to make things easier, till atlast at the end of a long working day he collapses into his little bed inside the big dormitory. He owns nothing, he has no private space. He will work his job day after day after day for the rest of his life, without holidays or tea breaks. In fact, if you mention the word 'break' to him in a casual way he would either stare blankly at you for several moments or collapse on the ground in a fit of hysterical laughter before heading off back to work. His job is repetative and dull and there is absolutely no chance of promotion. Is it any wonder that he has trouble making complex social adjustments in adverse circumstances, or that he is unable to cheat when playing a game of poker, let alone know how to play poker, or that he has such a great tendancy to follow the leader and not break out of the herd (figuratively speaking of course, more literally he would be breaking out of the colony, but that has a fellonistic ring to it). Yet if you asked him, "Are you happy with your life?", he would give you that strange, concidering look poeple (and ants) give you when they are trying to figure out whether you or not you are insane, and if so, if now is a good time to start running, and shrug his shoulders and say "I spose so." before heading back to work.
The bassonet and the baritone bought a snack
Bertha is a bee. She is a natural optimist who always tries to see past the bad things in life to some good thing further off in the distance (probably with the hope that it is heading her way). She has no confidence when talking to men, collapsing into a pile of giggling nerves at the site of them. She will never mate. She will never know the joys of motherhood or be able to pass on her hard earned wisdom to the next generation. She also has a dead end job that only ends when she is too old to work (i.e. no longer on the fire-evacuation list). She was also neglected as a child, not knowing her father and being all but ignored by her mother (yet another career woman in the modern world), and being raised by a foster care service. "Ahh," you can hear a vocal minority (sitting in the back out of white-board marker range) exclaim, "Atleast Bertha has wings, so that she can soar through the air and absorb the scenery from a level that is not the maddeningly familiar 'grass roots vista' (seaside view not included). She can fly free, at one with nature, not traipsing around following a whole line of other ants all hoping that the first ant has directions." Is Bertha's life to Andrew's, like the cool ocean breeze is to the waftings of a manure pile? It may seem that way at first, but let's look a little closer. Bertha bee may be able to shed some light on the subject. "See these wings?," she says, gesturing to the glossy little back extensions tucked away behind her, "They may look like pure and unadulerated freedom (size: small), but there is a catch, you always fly for the hive." What she is getting at, I feel, can be more aptly concidered by looking at her vocation and what the future holds. Currently she is at the top tier of the ladder, she feeds the babies and cleans the hive, with the occasional bout of construction work thrown in for good measure, this has been her job since birth. In a little while she will be demoted to respiratory medium circulation facilitator (i.e. the ventillation system) for the hive, where she sits at the entrance of the hive and fans her wings all day in order to gennerate something of a current (a current large enough to cause a small strip of paper about a millimeter thick to bend slightly) which will theoretically travel round the hive and prevent everyone inside from suffocating. She will do this all day (and twice on hot days) till she is exhausted and flops down into her little borrowed bed in the dormitories for a couple of milliseconds of shuteye (figuratively speaking, bees cannot blink). From there she will be demoted to honey gatherer, where she will fly around all day (again till she is exhausted) visiting flower upon flower for a few drops of nectar. She will be lucky if she survives the day, what with all the predators, freak gusts of wind, people, dogs (not really predators, but due to the fact that they run around all day with their mouths hanging open leaking druel, it is invevitable that the occasional bee takes a deture down the pipe-of-no-return. The same could be said for some people actually.), and false suns (alright, I admit that false suns may be very few and far between, but you never know when one will show up, and maybe oneday one will, then, I am sure, the bees will suffer) that are lurking about just waiting to snaffle up a passing bee. And every day will be the same mixture of self-sacrificial adrenalin pumping boredom until she flaps her last (either due to the paralysis caused by dying or the cruelty of 5-year-old children).
All of a sudden wings aren't seeming such a blessing, all of a sudden being a lowly ant looking up at the big old sky through a towering forest of grass seems like a walk in the park (and sometime it literally is). But if you asked Bertha if she was happy, you'd get yet another of those strange, concidering looks, and another shrug of the shoulders, and another half-hearted answer, "It's what I do.", before she to hitches up her (figurative) trousers and bustles off again to work.
Sometimes bees and ants are wise in the ways of the life.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Friday, February 13, 2004
I am exceedingly proud of my fatherly relatives.
For the trip down south my father managed to pack an unimaginably huge amount of luggage into the back of the van.
He has such a talent for that.
And my ailing grandfather who seems to get more and more fragile every year (he is nearly 92 years of age) and his mind sometimes does wonder, but still he has an sharp mind about him, why as we left from visiting him to head further south, he said "Be good, and if you cannot be good, be clever."
I couldnt agree more.
For the trip down south my father managed to pack an unimaginably huge amount of luggage into the back of the van.
He has such a talent for that.
And my ailing grandfather who seems to get more and more fragile every year (he is nearly 92 years of age) and his mind sometimes does wonder, but still he has an sharp mind about him, why as we left from visiting him to head further south, he said "Be good, and if you cannot be good, be clever."
I couldnt agree more.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
neglectful crowdpleaser
(in a world of his own)
Today is moving day
ANd the clouds are overhead
And we are flattout.
And if i saw people this holimdays
And didnot say them farewell
My sincerest and deepest appologies
But as for me
I'm off to take down the volley ball net
And dry some dishes
And then
Who can say....?
(in a world of his own)
Today is moving day
ANd the clouds are overhead
And we are flattout.
And if i saw people this holimdays
And didnot say them farewell
My sincerest and deepest appologies
But as for me
I'm off to take down the volley ball net
And dry some dishes
And then
Who can say....?
Monday, February 09, 2004
nurse betty on the jetty
Smile to the mirror at yourself
And nod politely to the smiling figure
In the wall beyond
A small sparrow waits
Alarmed by the neighbours cat
With the agility of an iceberg.
Silence greets the waiting ear
But for the low hum
Of the neighbours mower
A mover and a shaker
Up-on-the-town.
An economy maker.
Basket case
On a rainy day?
Care for some chocolates
Fashioned generously
By the homeless.
The trolley wheels sqeal
And the doorknockers are turned away.
In the distance
A baby cries
And the dying grass
Utters a silent moan
Beneath the whirr of blades
And the scorching sun.
Lolly-pops
The children scatter
Giggles and dances
But the shade is cool
And so is lemonade
So smile generously
It's the least you can do.
Smile to the mirror at yourself
And nod politely to the smiling figure
In the wall beyond
A small sparrow waits
Alarmed by the neighbours cat
With the agility of an iceberg.
Silence greets the waiting ear
But for the low hum
Of the neighbours mower
A mover and a shaker
Up-on-the-town.
An economy maker.
Basket case
On a rainy day?
Care for some chocolates
Fashioned generously
By the homeless.
The trolley wheels sqeal
And the doorknockers are turned away.
In the distance
A baby cries
And the dying grass
Utters a silent moan
Beneath the whirr of blades
And the scorching sun.
Lolly-pops
The children scatter
Giggles and dances
But the shade is cool
And so is lemonade
So smile generously
It's the least you can do.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
slurred lines in a commemorative speech
I am thinking I need a new edge to the 'blog', and so i am mentally setting meself up to do a bit of a makeover of the old girl over the next wee while.
Also, my head feels to be floating free from my neck, a sensation that is more commonly experienced by myself after 5 hours of sleep or after about 2:30 AM, odd.
Also, today I woke up feeling on the crappy side of down. Having read the verbose witticisms (spellign unknown) and sagely knowledge of others my age, and pondered such writings over the course of a relatively sleepless night, I arrived at the feeling of a sort of disjointed helpessness in the morning.
I am neither the wit that I often try to convince myself that I am (and others too), nor do I feel I have any mentor advice to offer ( my over-competitive spirit has taken a bit of a pummelling). Still, I got down and did a bit of work about the house, and soothed myself by muddling through a small portion of 'Still Fighting It' which did help sumwhat.
Sometimes I just feel that I am left behind in some indescribable way.
As the saying goes, " Too much introversion is not a good thing "
Or something.
I am thinking I need a new edge to the 'blog', and so i am mentally setting meself up to do a bit of a makeover of the old girl over the next wee while.
Also, my head feels to be floating free from my neck, a sensation that is more commonly experienced by myself after 5 hours of sleep or after about 2:30 AM, odd.
Also, today I woke up feeling on the crappy side of down. Having read the verbose witticisms (spellign unknown) and sagely knowledge of others my age, and pondered such writings over the course of a relatively sleepless night, I arrived at the feeling of a sort of disjointed helpessness in the morning.
I am neither the wit that I often try to convince myself that I am (and others too), nor do I feel I have any mentor advice to offer ( my over-competitive spirit has taken a bit of a pummelling). Still, I got down and did a bit of work about the house, and soothed myself by muddling through a small portion of 'Still Fighting It' which did help sumwhat.
Sometimes I just feel that I am left behind in some indescribable way.
As the saying goes, " Too much introversion is not a good thing "
Or something.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
If I am made so much alive
Why am I dying?
If the water is so warm
Why am I cold?
If I want it so much
Why am I not trying?
And if I am obedient
Why can I not do just as I am told?
If the sky is blue today
Why is it raining?
And why is all the thunder
So very loud?
Why am I off track
When I should be training
To join another kingdom
That is way above the clouds?
If surrender's not an option
Why is the flag out?
If I'm guarenteed to win
Why do I run?
If I'm better off inside
Why do I want out?
And why does doing
The wrong thing seem so very fun?
If the devil always lies
Why do I listen?
And if the Torch shines forth the way
Why put it out?
Why am I certain that it's gold
When it only glistens?
And if I am needing
Some assistance why do I not shout?
If I should always talk to God
Why am I silent?
If I want to know what He says
Why do I not read?
Why do I participate
In acts of violence,
When for every single act
He had to bleed for me.
(And if I want to live for Him
Why does hippocracy
Seem to be the very foundation
Of existance
On the earth I am a pilgrim
But I'm on my way
To a much greater station
And despite self-imposed friction
And worldly degradation
And the deceit of Satan
It's gonna be a greater, better day
For God is there beside me
And whatever betide me
God is more powerful than all
And I'm living for Him
And I'm living by Him
And He's giving me the strength
For me to fight off sin
Cause I'm a Christian locomotive
Heading throught mountains
Next stop- Heaven.)
Why am I dying?
If the water is so warm
Why am I cold?
If I want it so much
Why am I not trying?
And if I am obedient
Why can I not do just as I am told?
If the sky is blue today
Why is it raining?
And why is all the thunder
So very loud?
Why am I off track
When I should be training
To join another kingdom
That is way above the clouds?
If surrender's not an option
Why is the flag out?
If I'm guarenteed to win
Why do I run?
If I'm better off inside
Why do I want out?
And why does doing
The wrong thing seem so very fun?
If the devil always lies
Why do I listen?
And if the Torch shines forth the way
Why put it out?
Why am I certain that it's gold
When it only glistens?
And if I am needing
Some assistance why do I not shout?
If I should always talk to God
Why am I silent?
If I want to know what He says
Why do I not read?
Why do I participate
In acts of violence,
When for every single act
He had to bleed for me.
(And if I want to live for Him
Why does hippocracy
Seem to be the very foundation
Of existance
On the earth I am a pilgrim
But I'm on my way
To a much greater station
And despite self-imposed friction
And worldly degradation
And the deceit of Satan
It's gonna be a greater, better day
For God is there beside me
And whatever betide me
God is more powerful than all
And I'm living for Him
And I'm living by Him
And He's giving me the strength
For me to fight off sin
Cause I'm a Christian locomotive
Heading throught mountains
Next stop- Heaven.)
She's just a picture
That's blue-tacked to my wall
Just a figment
In the shadows of the hall
A skulking cobweb
Sucking at my head
Somedays we would stroll
Together, alone
And say our silent words
Till we reached home.
Only we never did
I only dreamed it.
If I ever uttered a word
To her, the mirror would shatter
And only a matter
Of moments turned days
I'd fly to the Andes
You must understand that she's
Irrevocably
Driven me insane.
The light switch is broken
And the bulb's flickered illuminance
Shines down on her face
Smiling with ill-fated permanence
Of that time
That we fled to the beach
Away from the crowds
For our ocean retreat,
Alone beneath the clouds
Only we never did
It seems that it's
Realer than real
And sometimes I think that the
World in my head,
Is where I'd rather be.
A verbal state of dyslexia
Moth-man in the alleyways
The criminals are flaring
Their yellowed teeth in protest
The government
Talks of war and peace
A treatise for dissection
Beneath the looking glass.
And the tides are falling
Down like rain upon the tarmac.
Law and order
Truth and justice
Bargaining tools
For a better existance.
But who funds,
And who runs
Is all in the handshake.
The following is a load of bollocks, read at own risk:
Easier than the voices
They say it is also easier
Than becoming a mote of dust in the storm
Will you be blown or thrown to the dogs?
Disrupt the undeath of your mind
Fly to the poverties of another life
Could you drink the average-mint beverages of the masses
It could be an opportunist's nightmare,
Or a tactless decision,
Dancing in the darkness with a figure in your hand
Till at last the light shall guide you
To another universe
Where the angry peasants sigh
At the electronic discharges thundering
Down from the sky.
That's blue-tacked to my wall
Just a figment
In the shadows of the hall
A skulking cobweb
Sucking at my head
Somedays we would stroll
Together, alone
And say our silent words
Till we reached home.
Only we never did
I only dreamed it.
If I ever uttered a word
To her, the mirror would shatter
And only a matter
Of moments turned days
I'd fly to the Andes
You must understand that she's
Irrevocably
Driven me insane.
The light switch is broken
And the bulb's flickered illuminance
Shines down on her face
Smiling with ill-fated permanence
Of that time
That we fled to the beach
Away from the crowds
For our ocean retreat,
Alone beneath the clouds
Only we never did
It seems that it's
Realer than real
And sometimes I think that the
World in my head,
Is where I'd rather be.
A verbal state of dyslexia
Moth-man in the alleyways
The criminals are flaring
Their yellowed teeth in protest
The government
Talks of war and peace
A treatise for dissection
Beneath the looking glass.
And the tides are falling
Down like rain upon the tarmac.
Law and order
Truth and justice
Bargaining tools
For a better existance.
But who funds,
And who runs
Is all in the handshake.
The following is a load of bollocks, read at own risk:
Easier than the voices
They say it is also easier
Than becoming a mote of dust in the storm
Will you be blown or thrown to the dogs?
Disrupt the undeath of your mind
Fly to the poverties of another life
Could you drink the average-mint beverages of the masses
It could be an opportunist's nightmare,
Or a tactless decision,
Dancing in the darkness with a figure in your hand
Till at last the light shall guide you
To another universe
Where the angry peasants sigh
At the electronic discharges thundering
Down from the sky.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Would you care for a dairy pickup,
A winning lotto ticket,
A transitory high?
Afloat on, waves of affection
Affecting rash decisions
Living it for all of us.
You seem so much more than tangible
A wave of the inevitable.
Telephone home on weekends
Just to tell the folks you're doing fine.
As you fall apart on a daily basis
Popping the pills just to ease your mind.
Every evening you stumble home
To a happiness that is not there.
You'd cry yourself a river
If you thought anyone else would care.
You're a city kid, born and raised
If money was life, you've got it made
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king
But that's all meaningless when you can't see a thing.
Sweet slumbers to you my darling
The clouds will carry you on
Feather-tipped wings
A fairy-tale trip
To the land of dreams.
And the road wend ever on
Past a thousand rising suns
I'll see you someday
When the wind carries you
Safe to my arms.
Hah.
It appears to be bollocks for you all tonight.
Ach well.
Somedays is off days.
To much sleep-lackingness for me
A winning lotto ticket,
A transitory high?
Afloat on, waves of affection
Affecting rash decisions
Living it for all of us.
You seem so much more than tangible
A wave of the inevitable.
Telephone home on weekends
Just to tell the folks you're doing fine.
As you fall apart on a daily basis
Popping the pills just to ease your mind.
Every evening you stumble home
To a happiness that is not there.
You'd cry yourself a river
If you thought anyone else would care.
You're a city kid, born and raised
If money was life, you've got it made
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king
But that's all meaningless when you can't see a thing.
Sweet slumbers to you my darling
The clouds will carry you on
Feather-tipped wings
A fairy-tale trip
To the land of dreams.
And the road wend ever on
Past a thousand rising suns
I'll see you someday
When the wind carries you
Safe to my arms.
Hah.
It appears to be bollocks for you all tonight.
Ach well.
Somedays is off days.
To much sleep-lackingness for me