Countess
11-14-2005, 10:49 AM
I'm feeling morbidly depressed and imagining what I would look like hanging from a ceiling fan, so with that in mind here is my uplifting poem of the day: :bawling:
The first fifteen minutes of fame
was what you were searching for all along,
slamming down two Bud tall boys
while listening to a Big and Rich song
Still feeling the chill of the thrill
are you?
with mind-numbing insensitivity
as the tingles rage through
the rubbery intertubes of
yesterdays dysphoric, Pandoric mood
Cradled in the light of retrospect and
hindsight
above pools of afterthought
- or is it regret? -
memory soaks up or dilutes
according to vacuous need.
Vacuous is, of course, empty.
Empty, hollowed-out, anti-space
looking for substance or sentiment
to replace its pathetic non-existence,
not unlike that hole in the head
from my bullet's unrecognized aim.
Imaginary bullets from my
imaginary gun inside my
imaginary sanity of the brain.
But still we look to reveal the truth,
the truth of love and hate
spewed from the mouth of apathy's kiss,
You cannot love
what you do not know
and what you do not know
you cannot miss.
Those first fifteen flights of fancy
caught up in delirium's bliss,
those delightful thoughts under
denial's shallow pretense
while the comedian hurls jokes
one after the other
that actually seem funny!
And I laugh!
And I laugh!
And I laugh with willful
forgetfulness,
the bittersweet root of
Paradise still clutched
gently between my teeth.
Do I dare to taste?
Do I dare to chew?
Do I dare to swallow
its frothy ooze to my death?
Or shall I steel myself
in ideal's blunt armor
and with infirm's firm resolve
protect this strange innocence
and shelter this Paradise Lost?
We shall see…we shall see….we shall see again tomorrow.
The first fifteen minutes of fame
was what you were searching for all along,
slamming down two Bud tall boys
while listening to a Big and Rich song
Still feeling the chill of the thrill
are you?
with mind-numbing insensitivity
as the tingles rage through
the rubbery intertubes of
yesterdays dysphoric, Pandoric mood
Cradled in the light of retrospect and
hindsight
above pools of afterthought
- or is it regret? -
memory soaks up or dilutes
according to vacuous need.
Vacuous is, of course, empty.
Empty, hollowed-out, anti-space
looking for substance or sentiment
to replace its pathetic non-existence,
not unlike that hole in the head
from my bullet's unrecognized aim.
Imaginary bullets from my
imaginary gun inside my
imaginary sanity of the brain.
But still we look to reveal the truth,
the truth of love and hate
spewed from the mouth of apathy's kiss,
You cannot love
what you do not know
and what you do not know
you cannot miss.
Those first fifteen flights of fancy
caught up in delirium's bliss,
those delightful thoughts under
denial's shallow pretense
while the comedian hurls jokes
one after the other
that actually seem funny!
And I laugh!
And I laugh!
And I laugh with willful
forgetfulness,
the bittersweet root of
Paradise still clutched
gently between my teeth.
Do I dare to taste?
Do I dare to chew?
Do I dare to swallow
its frothy ooze to my death?
Or shall I steel myself
in ideal's blunt armor
and with infirm's firm resolve
protect this strange innocence
and shelter this Paradise Lost?
We shall see…we shall see….we shall see again tomorrow.