paradoxcycle
Bluelight Crew
the sun is low, ok, can you picture it?
standing in the shower. back to the steam. palms pressed against cool tiles, top of my head resting on the wall. i watched water vanish below me and spat blood into the drain.
i made another deal with God.
"dear God... if you take this Javelin out of my head... and i really mean it this time... i promise i will try not to be an asshole"
i will change
no more this
no more that
i will change
i can not become saintly, but if that's what it takes, i will say a personal rosary every day before i drink clear water and eat my bagels of regret, all before sunrise, wearing white, whipping myself. i was excommunicated by the brotherhood of drug. and the Javelin i now hold in my hand knows where to strike all on its own accord. it wants to speed one way. it's jumpy. i use all my strength to hold it firm. i strain. it drags me forward. the fight demanded to keep it in my hand assaults my body.
it's not love but grief that makes the world go round.
here, let me spout a little sonnet. should i compare thee to a summer's day? / thou are more lovely and more temperate: / rough winds do shake the darling buds of may / and summers lease hath all too short a stay: / blah blah blah blah blah blah.
no, i will compare thee to all that i know. i will measure you by my own insecurities and with my own contradictions. the temperate among us have been bred out by evolution. and rough winds? hell, now it's more like a typhoon we get. so excuse me Shakespeare, if i blow a little "wind" in your direction.
but back to the flood, yeah flood like the stanzas of a waterfall, needless to point out the human race does not speak in verse but i, all powerful, like to tell it that way. perhaps it's some small irony that now, i should be at a loss to write my beloved words. i converse in rhythm and occasional rhyme. a little stilted to be sure and at times contrived, even inconsistent but i reject the insistence of editors and other types of dictate, that consistency is essential. i am God of these pages and I will shape them to my will. i am free to use anything that passes through my mind to tell my story. consistency i discard unless it pleases me. i will accept no limits, except what I decree. whatever seems to fit i will use at any given time i feel no inclination to take anything from the tale. after all, take a look around, is there order there to see? the world is full of conflict contrast reigns free. contrast rains it fucking floods. people talk in so many tongues. for each language the dialect changes when influenced by hate or love or fear or happiness, we have languages inside of language. like me when i get high and speak of postmodern epistemology.
the first time i saw life i thought i'd hit rock bottom. i thought after years of endless falling in a black bottomless pit that i was finally on the floor. then, as now, i just didn't care. i didn't care to the degree that it didn't matter if i ran around naked, murdering, or being murdered or if i sat in my chair doing nothing, like I'm doing now. so since i am here and comfortable, i will tell you what happened.
life walked over and smiled at me. i knew I had a chance, so, uncaring, (i felt no nerves) went for it. i was calm and casual. the higher narrator cursed me but i laughed. it was at that very moment i felt myself hit the bottom of the pit and emerge out into second rate bliss, i was prepared to settle for whatever i got. it was fantastic. life smiled at me like a sunrise, hair like threads of gold, i asked:
"do you want to talk with me alone?" and I felt no shame in asking.
i smiled for the first time in a long bloody time. coyly kissed it. life liked me like i liked life. we went home together that night and never in my years have i had anyone like that. life responded so well to my caresses, the movements of my body. on that first night we did not have sex. we fucked with delicate words. i told life of my misery, the pains of my kind of starvation, torture, various deaths, the pain of drugs which, true to human nature, i use to make an easy life hard. i told it about the core of darkness in myself and the sadness i see everywhere. about the impossibility of happiness. and life was not repulsed like an ordinary lover at the sorry state of my mind and sanity. life agreed with me. it was also fraught with agony. we swapped each others horror stories.
life told me that people will listen to despair because they want it to be bound up neat and ordered between the pages of a book, not something that gets dropped on them and leaves a nasty stain but something entertaining. they want the reality shows of grief to be there at will, flicked on and off at convenient times.
and life was right.
the world hears but the world doesn't listen.
everything from systems of galaxies to the parts of an atom is like a word or a letter and the order out of chaos that science or religion speaks of, is arranging these letters into words and these words into sentences and sentences into stories. a tree is a story of many cells just like you and you are both sentences in the story of the earth. do you see a rhythm?
the cars going past, the waves upon the shore and tides, the cycle of birth and death, changing seasons, ellipses of the planets, the revolution of galaxies. the literature of life. and there is not only rhythm in living things because the stars are born and die too. everything is created and destroyed and formed again in an endless cycle of repetition.
it is the poetry of existence.
standing in the shower. back to the steam. palms pressed against cool tiles, top of my head resting on the wall. i watched water vanish below me and spat blood into the drain.
i made another deal with God.
"dear God... if you take this Javelin out of my head... and i really mean it this time... i promise i will try not to be an asshole"
i will change
no more this
no more that
i will change
i can not become saintly, but if that's what it takes, i will say a personal rosary every day before i drink clear water and eat my bagels of regret, all before sunrise, wearing white, whipping myself. i was excommunicated by the brotherhood of drug. and the Javelin i now hold in my hand knows where to strike all on its own accord. it wants to speed one way. it's jumpy. i use all my strength to hold it firm. i strain. it drags me forward. the fight demanded to keep it in my hand assaults my body.
it's not love but grief that makes the world go round.
here, let me spout a little sonnet. should i compare thee to a summer's day? / thou are more lovely and more temperate: / rough winds do shake the darling buds of may / and summers lease hath all too short a stay: / blah blah blah blah blah blah.
no, i will compare thee to all that i know. i will measure you by my own insecurities and with my own contradictions. the temperate among us have been bred out by evolution. and rough winds? hell, now it's more like a typhoon we get. so excuse me Shakespeare, if i blow a little "wind" in your direction.
but back to the flood, yeah flood like the stanzas of a waterfall, needless to point out the human race does not speak in verse but i, all powerful, like to tell it that way. perhaps it's some small irony that now, i should be at a loss to write my beloved words. i converse in rhythm and occasional rhyme. a little stilted to be sure and at times contrived, even inconsistent but i reject the insistence of editors and other types of dictate, that consistency is essential. i am God of these pages and I will shape them to my will. i am free to use anything that passes through my mind to tell my story. consistency i discard unless it pleases me. i will accept no limits, except what I decree. whatever seems to fit i will use at any given time i feel no inclination to take anything from the tale. after all, take a look around, is there order there to see? the world is full of conflict contrast reigns free. contrast rains it fucking floods. people talk in so many tongues. for each language the dialect changes when influenced by hate or love or fear or happiness, we have languages inside of language. like me when i get high and speak of postmodern epistemology.
the first time i saw life i thought i'd hit rock bottom. i thought after years of endless falling in a black bottomless pit that i was finally on the floor. then, as now, i just didn't care. i didn't care to the degree that it didn't matter if i ran around naked, murdering, or being murdered or if i sat in my chair doing nothing, like I'm doing now. so since i am here and comfortable, i will tell you what happened.
life walked over and smiled at me. i knew I had a chance, so, uncaring, (i felt no nerves) went for it. i was calm and casual. the higher narrator cursed me but i laughed. it was at that very moment i felt myself hit the bottom of the pit and emerge out into second rate bliss, i was prepared to settle for whatever i got. it was fantastic. life smiled at me like a sunrise, hair like threads of gold, i asked:
"do you want to talk with me alone?" and I felt no shame in asking.
i smiled for the first time in a long bloody time. coyly kissed it. life liked me like i liked life. we went home together that night and never in my years have i had anyone like that. life responded so well to my caresses, the movements of my body. on that first night we did not have sex. we fucked with delicate words. i told life of my misery, the pains of my kind of starvation, torture, various deaths, the pain of drugs which, true to human nature, i use to make an easy life hard. i told it about the core of darkness in myself and the sadness i see everywhere. about the impossibility of happiness. and life was not repulsed like an ordinary lover at the sorry state of my mind and sanity. life agreed with me. it was also fraught with agony. we swapped each others horror stories.
life told me that people will listen to despair because they want it to be bound up neat and ordered between the pages of a book, not something that gets dropped on them and leaves a nasty stain but something entertaining. they want the reality shows of grief to be there at will, flicked on and off at convenient times.
and life was right.
the world hears but the world doesn't listen.
everything from systems of galaxies to the parts of an atom is like a word or a letter and the order out of chaos that science or religion speaks of, is arranging these letters into words and these words into sentences and sentences into stories. a tree is a story of many cells just like you and you are both sentences in the story of the earth. do you see a rhythm?
the cars going past, the waves upon the shore and tides, the cycle of birth and death, changing seasons, ellipses of the planets, the revolution of galaxies. the literature of life. and there is not only rhythm in living things because the stars are born and die too. everything is created and destroyed and formed again in an endless cycle of repetition.
it is the poetry of existence.
