Jayyy
12-26-2003, 02:22 AM
This is a tribute to a strategy of poetry that concentrates on logic, thought formation, and the technological future (in a sort of sci-fi orgy). It is built upon metaphore and imagination, but in a blurry, restraining way. Sorry to the romantics, for the emotion is deeply muffled by the idea.
However, on the plus side it does have a lot of structure and the principle of the poem is transferred by the content of the text and the range of the visual.
Also, let me apologize in advance if the verbosity seems either pretentious or confusing; I promise that the concept is there, just poorly expressed. Oh, and the last sentence is a part of the poem (an ironic tribute to the preceding text).
Cheers, and happy holidays.
----------
Timechambers of motion in unmarked trajectories
Furnish the universe
Matter dancing to the Feng Shui of expanding and contracting waves
Pockets of nothingness saturate
The astral lube of God's middle finger
Giving movement a chance to claim it truly even exists at all
Wondering, does it truly even exist at all?
Dear Astrolabe,
Dear Abacus,
If these rudimentary tools of conquest
Could truly map the stars
An army of self-replicating nano-children could never truly
map the stars
As they age and find themselves to be tools
of conquest
Sincerely,
Atomic Blast Compression Unit
Larvae are icky looking things, you know?
You know.
Once upon a time, we all gazed upon the night
To watch a satellite give rise only to fall
As it burns through the atmosphere
Eventually vanishing
Forever
In a brilliant flash, a sonic boom ruptures the landscape of the human entity
Seconds later, dreams are born and dreams have died
In the faces of these children, staring defiantly to the sky.
We think to ourselves, where has it come and where has it gone?
Some day soon, then,
A flaming citadel crashes to the ground
A collection to end all libraries
The Alexandria of 7960
Dynasties come to an end in the fierce stretch of vocabularies
Sentences can be slow
Sentences can be
as infuriatingly, intricately, delicately
costing only a penny in 1920
inflation is a simple pragma
The division of spacetime
Would be to expand and contract
In between the delays of motion
Like God's version of Miramax for the angels
Begging to bring a stop to the
constant bull****ting of our beautiful monosyllabic nations.
That wasn't really so bad, now was it?
However, on the plus side it does have a lot of structure and the principle of the poem is transferred by the content of the text and the range of the visual.
Also, let me apologize in advance if the verbosity seems either pretentious or confusing; I promise that the concept is there, just poorly expressed. Oh, and the last sentence is a part of the poem (an ironic tribute to the preceding text).
Cheers, and happy holidays.
----------
Timechambers of motion in unmarked trajectories
Furnish the universe
Matter dancing to the Feng Shui of expanding and contracting waves
Pockets of nothingness saturate
The astral lube of God's middle finger
Giving movement a chance to claim it truly even exists at all
Wondering, does it truly even exist at all?
Dear Astrolabe,
Dear Abacus,
If these rudimentary tools of conquest
Could truly map the stars
An army of self-replicating nano-children could never truly
map the stars
As they age and find themselves to be tools
of conquest
Sincerely,
Atomic Blast Compression Unit
Larvae are icky looking things, you know?
You know.
Once upon a time, we all gazed upon the night
To watch a satellite give rise only to fall
As it burns through the atmosphere
Eventually vanishing
Forever
In a brilliant flash, a sonic boom ruptures the landscape of the human entity
Seconds later, dreams are born and dreams have died
In the faces of these children, staring defiantly to the sky.
We think to ourselves, where has it come and where has it gone?
Some day soon, then,
A flaming citadel crashes to the ground
A collection to end all libraries
The Alexandria of 7960
Dynasties come to an end in the fierce stretch of vocabularies
Sentences can be slow
Sentences can be
as infuriatingly, intricately, delicately
costing only a penny in 1920
inflation is a simple pragma
The division of spacetime
Would be to expand and contract
In between the delays of motion
Like God's version of Miramax for the angels
Begging to bring a stop to the
constant bull****ting of our beautiful monosyllabic nations.
That wasn't really so bad, now was it?