this is masochism at its finest (557 hits)
Category: NoneRating: -1.33 on 4 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Phillip Smith <coindon.at.gmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-10-21 04:37:37 EDT
yeah, this is asking to get blasted; I'm bored and trolling for insults, overly critical remarks, and a reason to take up residence on a clock tower and start picking off nurses :)
So here's a bit of poetry to be ripped to shreds by you hungry wolves. Enjoy :)
The wind blows like hands pushing; pulling me to go over the edge of reason to follow the rain down to the sea- where the water swirls against the jagged rocks of some alien sea shore. Like the clouds of a sky threatening to split and unleash the fury of god; to pour out the wrath of some angered denizen of a forgotten afterlife or heaven out onto the landscape of we; mere, fragile, weak humans.
Soaked against the deluge with arms outstretched-cruciform to repent for the sins of my existence.
Bleeding like a martyr to beg for forgiveness. Pouring out my sorrow from lacerations: vein and flesh and bone to the altar of my temple. ~My church to my own god of my own mythos, my own mythology, my own me.
Still the skies blow, angry at the earth for its steadfast refusal to yield. It gushes it anger and pelts all that stand between it and its lofty view of the object of its envious wrath and the beautiful jewel of the cradle of life.
Jealous like the man that beats the woman for the lust that can never know the power of creation. ~Futile existence: to be born, to live, to copulate. Preserve the species, love the fleeting flesh that withers with the drinking of the very life it exhausts and yearns to hold, to caress, to grapple into submission yet ultimately die- alone.
Those stormy seas call like a siren beckoning this weak, fragile god to plummet to the womb and be beaten to death against the rocks by the waters that lend life to the sand and the forest and the city.
A return to the mother: Like a cross-country trek to some vast wilderness to reconnect with the life that exists independent of money, meetings, flickering computer monitors, or screaming cars and buses and grocery stores and gas stations. ~Far, far away from the mundane life that forges zombies from bright beautiful souls. The glorious circuit of economy. *Birth to consumption; Impetus to terminus; Alpha to omega; Printing to shredding.*
So the winds urge the water to swirl and the earth urges the skies to roll and the rain marries the two like a priest-
~Consecrating the consummation of an envious matrimonial obligation.
Birth to life to death
Sea to sky to earth
Circuit of life; crushing the beauty of being here.
And yes, I know... proper punctuation was optional. >:P
User Reviews
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2005-10-21 12:50:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
This is horrible. Enjoy your killing spree.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2005-10-21 08:20:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by celine (user info) at 2005-10-21 08:05:02 (#)
Ranking: -2
Poetry is pretentious
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You're pretentious. So am I for that matter. Anyway, the point is that we cannot hold pretentiousness against people because hypocrisy is bad.
Submitted by celine (user info) at 2005-10-21 08:05:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Poetry is pretentious
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2005-10-21 06:15:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Well it was mostly awful with that whole 'pretentious, thirteen year old's, creative writing' quality and reading it was so frustrating my dick got hard but there is sign of promise.