pagansrule!
03-26-2006, 05:31 AM
Avant-garde
Like shards of gleaming glass they stand,
Eyes and brains glistening with ideation
Every one thinking Platonically or Socratic.
They fell to Earth, but quickly brushed
Aside their disappointment.
Though most were swept up in a maelstrom
Of normalcy, a few remained.
They sought the places that made
Brains split and souls churn.
They bathed in the dark palette of the night,
Or drenched themselves in the
Incalculably white coatings of the day.
But they always hid.
They were veiled in plain sight of
Those casualties of the tempest.
They reached out to the others,
But were beaten back like lepers.
They lamented the blunted
Swords of human awareness.
Swords that once pierced the thick haze
Of the status quo could now barely provide a scratch.
Such little specks of pulsing irregularity,
They slid proudly around, avoiding
The threat of being melted
Into monochromatic goo.
They were farmers,
Sowing seeds on land long fallow.
They rotated their harvests,
Disseminating new works and inspirations.
They were nomads,
Hotly pursuing their quarry of knowledge
As it leapt across continents
And dressed in myriad disguises.
They were gods, each an Atlas
Upholding the shifting pillars of man’s knowledge.
Yet this was all hidden,
Cloaked in the buzzing noise of street side cafes
And blotted out by white puffs of manmade fog,
Issuing from men’s lips.
They are still hidden today,
Still leaping across continents
Still harvesting ideas,
Still pressing upward
Against the staggering foundation of human ingenuity.
Like shards of gleaming glass they stand,
Eyes and brains glistening with ideation
Every one thinking Platonically or Socratic.
They fell to Earth, but quickly brushed
Aside their disappointment.
Though most were swept up in a maelstrom
Of normalcy, a few remained.
They sought the places that made
Brains split and souls churn.
They bathed in the dark palette of the night,
Or drenched themselves in the
Incalculably white coatings of the day.
But they always hid.
They were veiled in plain sight of
Those casualties of the tempest.
They reached out to the others,
But were beaten back like lepers.
They lamented the blunted
Swords of human awareness.
Swords that once pierced the thick haze
Of the status quo could now barely provide a scratch.
Such little specks of pulsing irregularity,
They slid proudly around, avoiding
The threat of being melted
Into monochromatic goo.
They were farmers,
Sowing seeds on land long fallow.
They rotated their harvests,
Disseminating new works and inspirations.
They were nomads,
Hotly pursuing their quarry of knowledge
As it leapt across continents
And dressed in myriad disguises.
They were gods, each an Atlas
Upholding the shifting pillars of man’s knowledge.
Yet this was all hidden,
Cloaked in the buzzing noise of street side cafes
And blotted out by white puffs of manmade fog,
Issuing from men’s lips.
They are still hidden today,
Still leaping across continents
Still harvesting ideas,
Still pressing upward
Against the staggering foundation of human ingenuity.