solitary soldier in a social battle. lost behind enemy lines and forgetting why i volunteered. home destroyed - a casualty of war i 'm skipping from spot to spot. you cant go home to a crater. self confidence shot to hell by wrong decisions and im not finding much inspiration in the battlefield anymore.
[lost behind enemy lines/and forgetting why i volunteered.] [you cant go home to a crater.] These are amazingly powerful lines of the whole poem!! I just love them. Had to re-read them....
too lost in the present to write any poems these days, but i always wanted to put this one up that i like. its near the end of a book called the life of insects by victor pelevin (russian guy). Quite a cool book - its an allegory/satire about some of the different types of people in russian culture. this was written by the young mystic intellectual guy.. in memory of marcus aurelius ( i dont get the title) a strictly balanced meter and rhythm is never produced by an attitude of sober calm. verse should be written in a burst of great enthusiasm like a peoples artist hacking out some crude triangular charm. anguish cleanses and vile autumnal happiness is for fools, in any case, its clear that any failure or sucess is like a dream of yourself and three firemen comparing tools, in which you find you have a little bit more or less. sometimes you wake up at night at about ten to three, at the light of what they call the moon, recall the world is a hallucination of police informer nickelby, who in turn is the hallucination of some drunken loon. its a good thing, too, to have your run-ins with the madmen as they pursue you, waving their razors and drinking beer. you run away from one, then another, then a third one, and dont have a moment to feel your lonliness and fear. it would be good to just lie low until the summer, and keep your head well down out of sight, making sure the kgb doesnt catch the slightest glimmer of your bright circle of the universes all-pervading light. any way, there it is. I has more meaning within the book than standing alone.
heres a paragraph of mcCarthy. the boy is taking a wolf he trapped (possibly the last one in texas) back to mexico. He woke all night with the cold. He'd rise and mend back the fire and she was always watching him. When the flames came up her eyes burned out there like the gatelamps to another world. A world burning on the shore of an unknowable void. A world construed out of blood and bloods alcahest and blood in its core and in its integument because it was that nothing save blood had power to resonate against that void which threatened hourly to devour it. He wrapped himself in the blanket and watched her. When those eyes and the nation to which they stood witness were gone at last with their dignity back into their origins there would perhaps be other fires and other witnesses and other worlds otherwise beheld. But they would not be this one.
i think about change sometimes i've seen it in myself i think about the things i used to care about that i've put up on the shelf it's like we walk around with hammers and put in everyone a chip or maybe that one shatters for a careless slip cause some are made of stone and some are made of glass some are made of crystal and just not meant to last me im made of clay that dried just a bit too soon tossed out the artists window staring at the moon. off the cuff.
a young woman and i are doing opposing circuits of the grocery store. she is drifting beside her grandparents. They are speaking in german, all mildly impatient with each other. when she catches me looking - her back straightens. i get a pointed stare, and a toss of the head, as she looks away. but she is smiling, in the glass doors reflection.
crank up the portal and sit in the chair pull back your hair and assume the stare find out your not as cool as you are pull out your head and go to the bar
ahh pitch me in the bin im no good anymore didnt release the pent up energy store now its turned to cement in my chest and all i get from ignorant success is pity.
