I like it, Chirpy.
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I like it, Chirpy.
There's a field where everyone goes to die
and they all clasp hands
as they lie in the tall grass.
The sun is warm and bright and not one feels
as though this is soon
to go into the empty.
Pain has never been given to pain here,
nor is there a care
about this false weigh station anymore.
Brilliant Varenne!
Thank you, Tony! :)
I almost never like things I write, but I liked this. I'm glad you read it.
Meaningful outcome Var! http://smiles.kolobok.us/artists/jus...C_goodpost.gif
take pleasure
in what you do
because without it
you don't do
you grow
new into old
such weed
is told
smile is sold
When you realize most things you write are like most things you might say.
That's not good.
You have not thought, even though it is just thought, and not you.
Or perhaps you have thought too much and you should give that up.
Oh My
sweet talk me
but that is all you're getting
after that it's letting
either you go
or I so:
honey leaks low
hardens by the mo.
I want to cherry-light cigarettes with you
And drink Jack Daniels and honey
Until we can no longer taste the sweetness
I want to look up at the smoke you’ve exhaled
To watch it create cloudy wisps that make
The sky look like a Van Gogh Painting
I want you to notice the way my eyes
Seem to change colour as the night falls darker
And I want to tell you not to get up
So we can stay here a little longer
And pretend that everything we do
Matters
Love it.
Please note I meant to quote that wonderful piece of writing.
Her fingers hurt from too much care.
You saw her, at the train station.
She was buying tickets with her last 40 dollars.
Love devoured all of her face.
The child was close behind, restless.
Lovely child, without a care.
Superman is real, and kangaroos can fly.
I saw that woman and wondered how she did what she did.
But love devoured all of my face.
Do we notice beauty?
It's a real question.
It's in the leaf that falls.
It falls and takes shape.
And there you are, all self-important.
More important than the leaf, which falls.
Where the man fails to notice another he fails to notice himself.
The other is talking of his woes and cares, how quickly they envelop him.
He's drowning while the other man is looking at his watch.
Sound intermission
cigarette in the turnstile
stationary since
Habits mine to feign
passport stamps for arranging
the mind entertained
I'll know something soon
distant elasticity
an epiphany
Loosened like a thread
undoing just a little
but now more needs more
luckily we move
slaving to a timetable
saving from ourselves
Fretting? Don't bother
it's your provocative mind
philosophising
While the other is talking words inhabit your mind and it's selfish.
But you can't help that, it's what you've always done.
Rarely have you listened without your self-involvement.
You were taught all this.
Self-centeredness is the formation of society with envy as the sideshow.
Rarely can you put yourself aside, the all important you.
If ever you can, it's wonderful. How rare those moments are when the me is not the thing.
Contraindications:
Don't you ever suppose you are not the put together.
Don't you ever think it came from another.
Don't you ever cry it was not me.
Don't you ever say you are not free.
And then we look at the facts, the what is going on.
You're operating on influence.
You're crying from the herd.
You're an offside of genetics.
You're not original or intelligent.
There must be a reason you are what you are.
You say hey, not so deep.
This is not deep.
This is the same old leash a dog strangles on.
There's so much more than this. I don't know how much. So much more.
But we need a quiet untroubled mind.
Not one tethered to habit and routine and stupidity.
Not one bound to words.
No beliefs, those silly things.
The foundation is hard to put on the ground.
I liked the part about the leash the dog strangles on, jajdude.
YesNo, I won't take credit for that. I'd give a bit of this to J. that is Jiddhu Krishnamurti, an influence.
A lot of this is weak poetry or weak philosophy, but these are just words.
The analogy was that the mind is like a dog on a leash, or it could be a record playing over and over, as you can see in yourself, the routine, and how dull it is.
Creatures of habit, and where we like our routines and the security that brings us.
The fact is, and this never stops amazing me, how insecure the human being is, no matter how rich or attractive.
When you spoke of yourself as belonging
to a group, your community, your region,
your nationality, your whatever,
was that a longing to be a somebody,
anybody, a whoever,
and when you died for that belonging
did you suppose it had a meaning
beyond the nonsense the tribe had told you?
Follow up: The tribe has told you nonsense, imagine that.
Anyone who cannot stand alone is lost.
What has the tribe told you, and who are they?
Imagine in the woods a tree who tells the other trees to be still, or blow when the wind comes.
So the wind comes, as it must, and it is strong.
You follow that wind and the dust.
It's fun and let's go with that.
I like this wind and I like this dust.
I'm caught.
What can I do?
I see this wind and I see this dust.
There's nothing I can do.
I watch this wind, and I watch this dust.
I'm not part of it.
To Dylan:
Writer of many a great song.
I fear your time may not be long.
Most people don't meet the image of success or happy because few people are, and those who are don't the meet the image.
The happy people are burdened with work and family and too busy to think of the images.
I'm not sure how happy most of them are either. I think they are happier than the images though, who look miserable to me.
Isn't it a shame we need invocations and salutations to meet a semblance of harmony?
Songs call to racial harmony and commercials divide the sexes.
Was there a division to begin with, without the intervention of idea?
The interruption of idea has corrupted our unity.
There was unity to begin with, then we got clever and stupid.
It's tiresome.
Now we're trying to patch stuff together with rainbows and farts.
Not the still mind. That which knows it was all nonsense to start with.
Funny how easily the train of thought is derailed.
It was threadbare to begin with, and it was best left unclothed.
What a boring creature, this detailer of thought is.
You grow sick of it, so we all do.
It outlines your inadequacies and brags about your hurts.
Then it comes right on back, brand new, full of beans.
Hey there, thought again, got something new and special for ya!
Go away, thought!
Only, thought is what you are.
When you think of love you imagine a kiss,
Or some long lost person you dearly miss,
And the heart holds time and goes like this:
A stranger in the rain holds a note and it's for you.
The words are muddled, and the truth is true.
Then you fall on tracks and hurt your back.
You curse the rain, the train, and the love you lack.
That's what happens when you love and they don't love back.
The person you are thinking of is not quite the person you are thinking of, but close.
Thoughts arrive and they fail to meet the image.
That person is as vibrant and as changing as you are.
Are you a set thing?
Habit gives way to summaries. It's easy that way.
So into your outlook the other is an easy piece of time.
And into yourself a load of confusion.
Outside its cold,
My bones feel old
This bed is fine
But its time...:(
I'm not all that stunned nor astounded by the crazy antics of others.
I see them in myself.
Oh, I see them. The people and the antics.
I see a world of ignorance, and self-absorption.
Contained in this is a sad lack of awareness.
Intelligence is so rare but we have it.
Mostly though we are chasing a fantasy.
Each passing thought has its place I suppose, in this unread diary of self.
How dull it is.
It lacks acuity, sharpness.
You will pass from one frivolity to another, daily, hourly, within minutes.
This just happens, though we pay little heed. It's not poetry, it lacks beauty.
It's life, the daily encumbrances, the withdrawal and the satisfaction.
You will fade, and habit will have its way.
With this, you and I will commingle. There need not be separation.
The seething consciousness will see that there is no division.
Whatever you are, I will never know, as sure as I have no awareness
Of all the stuff that goes on in the restless outlook.
Everything is ordinary.
Everything is blessed.
Everything sings out for joy
When through the heart it's pressed.
Winter leaves like a bad roommate. Takes its sweet time.
Pick up your stuff, and go, you jerk.
Nah, I was here for months, what's another month?
The crows are there, noisy, stupid, and hungry.
The crow of winter will not go just because you want it to.
It will take its time, you know what crows are like.
Not feeling fine and I haven't seen dandy,
people walking on the colder side of the window,
and I'm here sipping on coffee and over-worked
hands which touched the beans I'm digesting.
What team do I belong to, and why is it so hard
to puzzle this world together? We don't need politics,
but three steps ahead, and one roll of a dice,
we'll pick it up again to start carving up what we can never
let go.
We love chalk boards and blue papers filled with promising
numbers, lines, and shape. We will want them
when we are older.
We don't need clothes, we don't need paper, and we don't
need morals. We don't need peace, we don't need war,
we need to be told what we need and what we don't.
We can learn to draw and learn to piece,
but in the end, haha, it does not mean a dick,
even if you want to invert the sand clock,
stop faking - you still learned to draw from someone else.
Even if you learned to draw all by yourself, you would not
learn to love your art, but simply see it as a need.
I don't know what to make of all this greed
but I feel guilty for enjoying my coffee
and looking out the coffee shop window.
My meaning and feeling is not pushing boulders
up hills or making rocks, no,
it is to look out of coffee shops.
What are simple lines dispensed
in mellow stanzas? yeatsian beauty.
and those pessimism that whitens
every poem like clay?
larkin's shining head with a hollow stare.
more than that,we have laureates who
summarized that the night is wide
despite lingering on a narrow bed
for either cave or snake.
what if,all of them died of famine(the living ones)
because the poetry industry is giving way
to lyrics and songs;
will some one write a poem as sad,as narrow
as though straight from the womb;
fresh baby
coming to birth to witness the dead?
- Majesty
All you got you deserved
All the roadways down
and the fickle light you fell for
When the butcher came down hard and slashed
You cried but you asked for it
And when you forgot that in the pocket of thought
all the things you imagined and forgot
wherein you yourself was the observer and the observed
You ended up all chopped
Cut in slices and back into the butcher shop
A hungry slab of meat
He spoke of possibility and for that little flash that happens, was it even a full second?
When there was nothing going on, that great emptiness that has no word.
Until the funnel of thought returned and bastardized the whole thing.
Then he made an idea of it. And that ruined it.
He wanted to keep it. That was the problem.
You don't keep these things. They come and go.
So you return to the old and the known.
These are what you are.
Except, occasionally, you will disappear.
When you're aware, the other will fade.
That's beauty.
The contest for who had the hardest time was not well attended.
The winner couldn't make it.
The ones who showed up to brag about how rotten things were and had been got tomatoes thrown at them.
The audience was sure they belonged on the stage.
Ultimately the event was cancelled. The host was not feeling well.
humble makes me think about
life
I realise an action has a reason
and a reason has a heart
so I treat it
and it gives back
time
spend less
and I get the rest
I guess it is for the best.
what remains impress.
I think I'm on the spot.
So whatever I write is
To the point or on point,
Or is that only on radio?
I think I finally found the spot
Upon which I can write.
I'll sit and sit and sit and sit
And then I'll think a lot
And when I'm finally sick of it
I'll write what I have got.