war drums

bip, bop.
bippity-bitty pop.
war drums clock, clock. clock.

ad-hoc, black bloc.
anarchy rules, walk. walk. walk.

two dogs bark.
the world watches, some in awe. others in shock.
“feed em’ to the croc! feed em’ to the croc!”
the chants get louder
a radio full of propaganda, or a censored browser?
take your pick, white wolf or black schnauzer

flip, flop.
new rules, news rule.
loose runes, loons rule.
war drums bop, bop. bop.

noose lune is here, time to sharpen the crop!
we shall march! light the torch and fire the glock!
nobody gets away, build the walls and seal the docks
once and for all, burn the commies and massacre the ox
tear up all the pretty frocks, feed em’ to the fox
tomorrow they will come for you too, knock knock knock
all that’ll be left will be roaches and rocks

nuke them, duke them. puke them, spook them.
it’s time for a war, the band marches through Anaheim.
flares shoot up in the sky, all hands up for hate crime
a collective suicide at an uncertain time
it used to be viva la revolución across the rhine
but it all simmered out somewhere down the line
all sense of moral abandoned, hanging atop an amazon ravine

and yet we have the audacity of questioning whats divine
it’s all past saving. the water is saline
drink and dine, shrink and die
it’s not a revolution, if it’s just one last whimpering cry

and the day we disappear
maybe we could start again all over and try

naye, delusions and the collective mind all too high
to remember we’re all just living one collective lie

trip, drop.
a riveting mop.
war drums chop, chop. chop.

flip, flop.
new rules, news rule.
loose runes, loons rule.
war drums bop, bop. bop.

ad-hoc, black bloc.
anarchy rules, walk. walk. walk.

war drums clock, clock.

click.

Failure, The Creator

Success once asked failure ‘I give a man everything he wants – fame, money, a good life, high esteem in society. what do you give? nothing but pain,misery and sorrow.’

Failure replied – ‘I give those men a road full of stones, pebbles and potholes to walk on. they bleed, scream and curse their fortunes. I am their worst nightmare. I crush all hope. I’m a monster. It’s true. but know that without my existence, their life would be hollow. Without me, there would be no you. I am the creator.’

Unpin. Remap.

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For a good part of the past 5-7 years, I have been at this board. Pinning
things on. Tickets, journals. Scribblings. Faint reminiscing of places and people left behind. New things discovered. Every single thing that has driven me. Was on this board. At the outset of 2016, I made a resolution to let go of things that just didn’t drive me anymore. The truth is, to some people it might just seem like a simple board. But to me, it has been so much more. A device I could lay myself open on. I could like holes through my own creations. Travel the universe to anywhere I wanted to, all with the power of imagination. An outlet when I felt like I had fell on hard times, situations where I could see nothing but despair and pointlessness on the horizon. I’ve gone through a lot since 2012, and I’m glad the universe listened. And yes, it does. Sometimes you feel like you’re screaming your lungs out on the inside but its not listening. But it does. Some people give up, some go on to greener pastures, get married, move to a different continent or become someone else. But this board was all of me and then much more. It has been me, my struggle and everything it brought with it. Tears of happiness, of times I felt misunderstood, a lone voice in the giant dark void of space. It was always there. Slowly whispering in my ear – you just need to work your problems out. One more pin, one more one more flight ticket, concert pass or artifact. Today half of it is empty as I finally let go of things I collected and kept before the weight finally had started taking over and it’s all out. No more bullshit, 2016. This year imma be real and reset everything. Didn’t someone say that to truly find yourself you must first truly lose yourself? Well, this is probably the finding out part. Time for a real change.

 

A little riddle.

I hide in plain sight and shift between what’s black and what’s white.

I give you a reason to fight, yet  I will make you question why.

I close at the open and open at the close what am I?

summer, blue.

Another empty hallway echoes the freedom of youth

another window speaks in tongues of lark and gibberish

speaking only in languages I have barely ever known

It’s a windy path ahead, and all I got is a rope and a way

but the winds, they blow colder as time trickles down

An uphill task, an unglorified tale

spare me the detail

when all you strive for is left weak, frail.

all you’re looking for, a quieter sail

alas, only sea and the breeze to whisper sweet nothings.

summer, blue.

and you wish the music were lighter

the rain, quieter

the storm rages on outside the window now

but the shadows lurk beneath the bed

what might you say, to strike down the wondrous mellow bed of death

that calms you to the lull of sleep day after day

offering you a slight embrace and an understanding of all that’s dealt

of you and your fate, a shifting pack of cards

you play some, you lose some

would you play again? take a bet with the gods of chance?

or maybe worse, you dodge and dance and prance

avoiding the unescapable decay

you will find your way, oh you will some day

summer, blue

why would it be this way?

you ask, the universe in play

nay, there are no answers mate

behind a silver spoon and a rusted plate

one must walk.

further, to keep walking is the hardest part

a stop here, and maybe oh there! a start!

not quite

not as black and white

or so it may appear

for lose sight too soon, and the oasis disappears

there is truth in your fears

know that fate only throws winds

but it is you, my friend who has to steer

there is truth in art

summer, blue.

Granite’s Lament

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I am the stone behind the image

I do not make you who you are, I break you

because I decompose

much like everything you have ever composed

Hard as a rock, but everything crumbles

tumbles and fumbles but visually humble

I do not want your trouble

I came here to warn you

The scratches are permanent

we are all sideways, bent

placate yourself in the crime

before they catch you, scarred

the old man’s stories are all but true

you’re not mine but we are all a distinct shade of blue

the lament is mine

 

I was once a distinct flavor of wine

before I was sent back inside

from the earth, to the earth

Ground, shaken and stirred

like a dry purple martini, severed

time passed by in seconds

like in hours, I incubated in thirds

oh, the worlds

that I have seen, what you might never be

but what lies inside

the work of a beautiful mind

within all of us, a wondrous land

the candle burns slowly through the night

the lament is all but mine

The Ship That Sailed Far Too North

My life has always been a kind of oxymoron.

A walking contradiction.

Mirror inversion.

 

I have seen rejection.

I have felt the sound of collapsing waves.

 

take control of wandering minds.

before I took it apart.

 

The crash is inevitable.

when you swim in murky waters.

 

you knew it all along, didn’t you?

It was.

 

It wasn’t meant to be.

you were stranded.

 

but you watched it fade.

day after day.

 

you ask why.

that ship’s already sailed.

 

they said.

with a fret and a shrug.

 

times change and so do I.

 

What’s to kill is to buy.

 

you prick and you pry

 

but we did try.

 

you and I.

 

We never.

 

Fly.

 

past differences.

 

motive and ego.

 

A disturbing childish game.

 

who is it to blame?

 

is it me, is it you?

 

is it the sky, so violently blue?

 

what sets us apart?

the paths we pursue.

 

the method and the madness.

intertwining.

Question and Clue.

 

I ask the whistling breeze.

it replies in whispers and codes.

 

The only path, after all.

is the road that stretches ahead.

 

No more sea, no more to see.

what is to be, will be.

 

My world explodes, and all that was is far past damaged.

I walk.

Chaotic Visions I

Seconds are passing me by, and it’s futile.

But I’m looking for maps yet unknown and wondering if they’ll lead me to new places.

But what is new, and old when your life is a straight line.

There are no jagged curves and violent heaves.

Without an extreme, it feels synthetic.

Like a machine all alone trying to find its purpose in the universe.

The bull without a master is the most dangerous of them all.

Do you prod it with an iron stick? Or do you make it one of your own?

How do you tell the illusion from the mistake?

Do you pull the curtain back before a flabbergasted audience?

Do you let them drown in self-ignorance and let them discover the method to the madness?

Isn’t it all just a rumbling criss-cross of jumbled-up motion and intertwining fates on top of a speck of a dust?

There are no higher purposes, what if it’s all made to just be.

A giant test.

An experiment.

Starts with self-medication.

You slowly incapacitate.

When it’s just not visible anymore, you become your own test-tube.

You toss one chemical and then the other, hoping for an even bigger illusion.

Something so synthetically cheap and poisonous to yourself, that it helps you to see, to feel.

But you’re not there yet.

More chemicals. It’s a kitchen party and we’re all inviting ourselves to this giant experiment.

Still not there yet.

The fix eludes you.

This doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.

Not until there’s pain and love and sorrow and ecstasy. Nothing feels real without it.

Was this the giant plan? Are we so fucking numb? Are we so fucking dumb?

Where’s the colour. Did it all bleed out the day we twisted and churned our world into hues of gray

Black, white and pistol-shit

Death and desire, Sin and Sex.

If the world was inherently good, we’d have to be evil to feel, to know it was real.

To see the truth behind the lies, the dumbing down, the constant conformity. Feeding the chaos.

Killing the inner eye. Working for the man. Not sticking it up to him. Slowly decapitate ourselves.

To see what matters. For patterns start to emerge everywhere. Everything connects.

Once you’re  disconnected enough. from everything.

From prying eyes, from the chip in your brain, from all the unnecessary sound, from that painful ring in your ears that screams.

Screams and screams and screams. It cries hoarse. You have to fucking hear me. Why don’t you fucking listen?!

From the big man in the sky, that kills all that lives and all that dies.

Do you see the giant TV show, it’s playing out on a chessboard.

Three. C. Pawn to King. Decapitate.

E Seven to Be Four. Replace.

A warp machine is being created. Distorting the signals in our head. Its creating a giant fucking abyss.

Tearing apart all that thrives. Making mothers shriek. Lifting children up and then throwing them back into the war, like they did before.

The endless cycle continues.

It’s Just An Idea.

first they laugh at you, then they ridicule you. when none of that works, they wave their fists at you hoping you’ll give up. when none of that works, they sit and watch in silent denial.

as time passes by and they connect the dots, they finally wake up to the idea. it’s not so bad after all.

and then it works, to the point of almost flawless near-perfection.

Wait, they knew it all along it would work of course! Who could be ridiculous enough to not get it at all? Flattery ensues and appreciation along with it. A few claps, the odd eureka followed by a few pats on the back. You did good, but its just not that good enough.

And then the slow slump into obscurity begins, More time passes away and suddenly, nobody remembers anymore.

The circle isn’t complete yet. Not before a stupid douchebag comes along, pulls off a cheap imitation, adds a few magic tricks, some snap and a little spice. The world applauds. Calls him a genius.

What a brilliant idea!

The world. Is a blueberry cheesecake. It might look all weird and soft. Almost alien. But once you dig your spoon, scoop it up and take one bite of it. You realise you’re hooked. There’s no going back. More blueberry cheesecake. Unless you dont like blueberry cheesecake in which case you take a bite anyway and try to act all ok even though its terrible. Yep. That’s life.

Blueberry Cheesecake