Litkicks Message Board Archive

Just a moment with broken glass

Posted to Poetry




The truth is that I sit here’ and possibly in decay, while listening to Converge and reading Shakespeare’s sonnets and only a smirk winds around my face only it’s a cheap smile, something you’d buy at cheap discount liquor mart or a self-proclaimed “dollar” store, I don’t know, faking its’ genuine creation and not quiet every fulfilling its potential. Wow, that defines me perfectly as a high school student, a mixture of poetry and archaic verse about something that is ultimately out of reach. With some fraudulent ulterior motive, maybe I was out to drive you home; maybe I was out to destroy you and your offspring, either way you’ll never know unless you got home safely day after day.

The only truth is that once a bottle is empty the lies begin to reclaim the mind, alter its perception into once again believing that just because we wake up in a state of sober hell, it isn’t that which must be considered the true nature of the crime, but ironically the criminal is sobriety, this fuckin’ silk worm to trees, this fucking pest, this parasite to consciousness, a hindrance to true observation or shit, maybe even truth observation. And now my battery is fully fucking charged while the Jameson is poured in a stream similar to my vomit, inconsistent and usually never on any sort of predictable schedule, just when the feeling needs to be met; that urge fixed. A fucking drink junkie capable of heinous mental instability and the referee is just taking a Gatorade break as the rest of this team plots his demise and loathes him secretly on the medulla oblongata’s time out penalty area. Depression is never a one-man show, and those that claim it is are the true falsities of life. They stink of farce’s mild yet obvious odor.

Why this impending altercation, who needs this Craig, I think if we just use our eyes, adjust them to the sight that is being shed upon our cornea we can, as a team, make sense of this outside factor, this insanity. Shakespeare was a user; his words interpret his own sensibility as a madman. Why 154, what do these numbers represent to the human psyche? Absolute abab cdcd ef ef gg.
Mathematics, poetry, the circle, and the revolution of pi. I need more whiskey. Who’s voice is this, clouded by distortion and clarity yet madness lingers in overtones of foreshadowing towards some greater concept, some illusive maybe idealistic notion that just is out of focus, almost an enigma similar to the cubistic reality of painting. Art on a more scientific level, lines yet the blending of abstract simplicity. I am a fucking mess with this; I’m not sure that I can stabilize this jungle mentality this post-modern artifact of a brain. Whiskey is being replenished.

What we need to do is put on the long underwear of emotion and just fucking cry a bit, express what is going on, find our penguins and just slide. This vent up literary brilliance will only manifest itself in the weary morning hours of dusk, with our friends gone and at home, asleep jerking off or fuckin their significant others, but for the select few of us these times are for self maturation, not masturbation. We reclaim all that the world, society steals from our soul and from our fucking dignity as young male boys. We are child like in mentality yet we hurt like old men, we feel things that make us want to cry and don’t know just what to think or how to deal with this sensory overload, this temporary bi-polar manifestation, we are high, then low then fucking asleep…and now we will write about it, you and me. PUBLISH MY MAINFRAME AND THEN CRASH AND BURN WITH IT’S CONSEQUENCES. This self-proclamation of inner contemplation, t his library of words and semi-coherent meaning is long over-due, and then there is the brave-heart theme remix. “Xerox copy your soul, then you’ll have two”, he stated. He never encountered the remixed version of the copy.

“From fairest creatures, we desire increase
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die
But as the riper should by time decrease
His tender heir might bear his memory
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes
Feed’st thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel
Making a famine where abundance lies
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel
Thou art now the world’s fresh ornament
Only herald to the gaudy spring
Within thine won bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the worlds due, by the greave and thee”

William Shakespeare.




Surely, we should not imbibe this last snifter, this brain-quencher. YOU mad man, this lunacy can not be tolerated by the remaining sober membranes and units of functional and coherent cell mater. We will conquer you and make you understand that we are the fascists of the bio-system; we have voted liver-life, not pro-choice you demon. SUCK OUR WHITE ANGLO-SAXON (not protestant) CIRCUMSIZED DICK, FUCKER. AND ONE LAST THING, TURN OFF THAT MUTHA-FUCKING LONDON PUNKHARMONIC SYMPHONY, BITCH-HEAD-SMELLY-JERK.



Maybe I’ll come see you soon, and then we’ll make out in prose. OR… maybe you’ll deafen me with lecture and your preconceived kinetic energy of hate, unleashed… followed by a silent applause and laughter. Smile Craig, it only gets better after this, just remember to smile. “I can’t forget”, says he.