Some Writings, Poems. . .

A collection of my works, over the past few years. Randomized and for the most part not given titles, as labels detract from meaning. . .


First, an essay I had written without having been required to do so,. . .









Apathetic Ignorance of Youth



There are a significantly growing number of younger people who do not know essential historical facts, and who refuse to be concerned. These youths are the future of our nation, the future leaders, educators, parents and commoners that define who we are as a people, but these youths are so lost in their selfishness and apathetic ignorance that they are as culturally and socially beneficial as automatons.

"Like God, who cares? A bunch of guys shot at each other sixty years ago. What's that matter to me?"
-A fourteen year old girl, after being informed as to the import of D-Day.


Such thoughts and emotions as the ones harbored by this teen, who essentially represents the upper echelons of her age categories' intellectual and physical capabilities, are monstrous insults and spell doom to the future of our society. These teenagers simply do not care about our national and global histories, and would lead our future into the same grotesque and horrible mistakes of our collective past. Just passing their lack of knowledge off with well executed apathetic gestures and reasoning proves that these masses of students do not understand or appreciate their place in the world, as well as the sweat and blood and human costs that it took to win them the freedoms that they so openly abuse.

These misguiding methods of thought breed freely in our society where, once challenged, these ignoramuses retort with "Respect my opinion" or "You can't tell me what to think" and the like. This is frightening, as they refuse to acknowledge the thousands of souls lost so that they can not be told what to think.

Surrounded by this sea of indifference and apathy, I feel distressed by the likely outcomes. While my contemporaries contemplate the trustworthiness of information bearing to the existence of the Holocaust, and some choosing to stoically denying its existence entirely; while my contemporaries believe that The Underground Railway was just that, a subterranean way of rail; while my contemporaries refuse to be bothered with such trivial things as the Second World War; while my contemporaries think such absurdities, I can only imagine the wave of politicians to wash ashore from this sea, each tide bringing more who do not have the vaguest ideas of the stark, stinking horrors of war, of persecution, of genocide.

This reality shakes me to the core. Individuals need to not only know their histories but care about them. My contemporaries should know and be concerned of the millions who face death in their daily lives, about the millions who have lost their lives and loves for the sake of our great ideals and our great individualities. Quite simply, there is absolutely no excuse for collective ignorance by the masses, and this issue needs to be addressed with decisive action.











Next, poetry.

the humans line up at the wall,
white,
tall,
old,
pure,
their backs to me,
their heads an arrangement,
a beautiful assortment of shapes and sizes,
colors,
and heights,
and their beauty not only increases,
but amplifies,
again,
and again,
as the most wonderful paintings of red,
and white,
and black,
are created on that glorifiable wall,
tall,
and white,
on this cloudless day,
the sun's path blocked by momentous stone,
as I release my finger from the trigger.


-----


There is nothing;
There are sights,
And yet no focus;
There are sounds,
And yet I listen not;
There are people;
But these are nobodies.
Nobody:
To be mind without body,
This is me, I, my legacy:
None, nothing.
I am merely an observer,
caught in a world for subjects.
My body is simply too mortal,
My life simply too short.
My experiences are hardly mine;
I am not.
I am not here,
nor am I the one whose senses I sense,
whose thoughts I think,
whose clothes I wear.
Confused; I stumble.
Me, myself, yet not and true.
Lost; forever.

--------


Men of Earth are inconsistently kind,
they seek to give,
and need only thanks from smiling faces in return,
but,
save for these few days a year,
they are greedy,
malicious bastards out only to save their own neck,
and to have it bath in gold at the same time,
They'll do anything,
Save, for most, killing, or breaking their own family names,
just to be better,
just to be warmer,
and fatter,
and altogether richer.
Men of Earth are evil.
Evil runs their souls,
as those who are not driven with greed are unhealthy;
those who are not consumed with hate are crazed,
those who are not the norm are shunned and spat upon;
evil has been consuming each man of greed since the day of his birth,
and the day of his death?
His children will be quite happy with their share of it, you can be
certain.
There are too many people in the world as is,
and it pains me,
simply,
and completely,
to see such children in poverty,
or those in perverted situations with their families,
and friends,
those who cannot be happy,
and those who've been denied their mothers,
fathers,
siblings,
those who go day to day worrying about their lives,
their food,
and their water,
is it not possible to help them?
is it not possible to help ourselves, and our world?
Can we stop the greed,
stop the drive for capital,
and stop the torture?
why must so many suffer?
Why are these children dying?
Why must a mother wake to her child's' breathless body,
and cry her inevitable tears?
Why must she seek refuge in alchohol?
Or drugs?
Or by death itself?
Why is the world choking in the grasp of capitalism?
why is nothing to be done?
Why?
Are we afraid?
Can you imagine,
just imagine?
You're just as much to blame as the king of Jordan,
as the president of the United States,
as the policeman who beats the bloody pulp out of an innocent black,
and doesn't do his time,
you're just as much to blame as the ones who cause the wars,
as the fathers who run away,
and as the mothers who have children they can't support,
you're as much to blame as the one who passes by her,
the one who looks upon her devastated figure with distaste,
him or her who sees only the dirt on her skin,
the age and experience of her clothing,
and one who fails to see past her crude manners,
you're just as much to blame as the dealers,
and their customers,
as the terrorists,
and as the ones who claim their souls for your 'freedom'...
You're just as much to blame,
for you,
too,
aren't doing your part.


----------------


The birds seem to lose their joyous songs on my passing,
their notes fall to a sorrowful harmony,
which bends,
and breaks,
in the mere whistling of the thankless wind.
I see everything in their moment of death,
or destruction,
or massacre,
the trees are constantly aflame,
or rotting,
broken in the middle,
newborns are crippled,
crying,
and fatless,
their bones jutting off at awkward and strikingly wrong angles,
their mothers are old,
withered,
wretched beings,
skinned to the bone,
I see men walking armless,
and falling,
legless,
they crawl through their lives,
hopelessly wandering,
the buildings are torn,
and shattered,
their floors are covered in a bloody much,
I can feel the death that hangs clear around me,
as the birds,
and their cursed anthems,
fall from the trees,
and lay,
severed,
on the ground below.

---------------



Speak not,
for I am Lucifer,
Yes I am devil;
Yes, I am Morningstar.
Yes, I am evil;
Yes, I am not.
For I am all and am nothing,
I am the God from whence this universe flies;
I am a God of forgotten times,
and fidget not,
for I forget not the atrocities committed against me by the human race,
I forget not the evils Men commit for the name of progress,
for their own name in selfishness;
I am all and know all, therein nobody spares themselves through
treachery;
I feel no remorse.
Be warned:
Your species is dead, and gone;
Your time has ended with my awakening.




-----------






The shards of eternity lay dispersed amidst her hair:
beautiful, eternal, and immortal;
the breadth of Jupiter and the glory of Mars are her lips:
They command attention, they command the skies;
yet the planets are merely twinkles in the night,
and the whole of time and space cannot compare:
Her, my love, is far more to me;
and our love: far more than abstract thought.







-------------------



I sit in the darkness of off-stage drama,
sit and draw; my hand moves nearly without bidding.
I imagine existence, and a cold, riveting scene comes to the fore;

First: colorless, emotionless; a floating diamond and his accompanying
shadow.
Next: his left wing, large, omniscient; Wing dwarfing host, and
accompanying
shadow.
Right wing is not to be found; a mere stump, crumpled feathers and
bloody
mess;
Diamond's head: downturned, fedora-obscured; his thoughts are unknown,
his
emotions hidden.
He is the essence of uselessness, broken and torn.
He is the embodiment of sad.
And yet incomplete; to him I add a floor, and yet a room;
shapes that match not, walls built on curves of vision and loss of sight.
One window, one door; Mantel's inscription runs:

"Freedom, like everything else, is relative"

Freedom. Such an odd theme for our downtrodden diamond; to him I add his
strings.
Diamond into mannequin, his strings making him doll and leading to the
contortionists' tool, surveying the scene:
Dark, large, and obscene, this tool of wood, and overshadowing it a
double-stroked 'S'.
Two inscriptions lay scrawled on the floor; these the mannequin reads
continuously for all time while in solemn retreat:

Broken Doll of Futile Hope?

You are merely a copy of an imitation.

What the mannequin sees is truth, his room is life; one window: love,
one
door: death.
And yet his wing; large, dark, forked with sinistry; and money his
puppeteer,
responsible for the right wing;
truly this diamond is sad. If only he could see the window behind him;
if
only he had the will to reach the door.
Black and white. Pencil and paper. These are my thoughts, yet thoughts
are
fickle;
these thoughts that flow from me will seem different to you, for you are
another;

Different.

A copy, of an imitation. Hopelessness. These are the truths of society;
this creative picture: my own testament.
Here, these words; Hear, my thoughts.



-------------------




Tide after unrelenting tide,
in, and out, a never-ending tale:
useless modern drivel forced upon the impressionable,
for this is the epoch of information,
the age of apathetic life.
Pointless, empty love:
guise for sex, intrigue and greed.
The climax of human evolution,
the sentiment of global affairs:
greed, greed, greed,
the heart of us all.
Fine by the limits of human existence,
scarcely a century and the world is reduced to less than memory.
And yet one continues with rhyme and verse,
hoping for an audience to port One's experience;
Collective human condition is infinite,
yet infinitely bound by the limits of expression.

-----------------

Life is a variation of individual perspective;
from the literal to the remote, abstract;
from concrete to ash;
dust to life to invariable dust;
we are merely players upon a stage,
living the lie of time and life,
living as though thought and love would change the course of time;
Dust of the universe,
life of the Earth and species Man,
dust of the Void:
Society.

(incomplete. Would complete with society suppressing human condition to preserve itself through the lies of time and life.)



------------



Orbs of flowing light,
some glazed,
some not;
some powerful, illuminating by thought alone:
Some not, dimming for lack of electrifying light.
The ever-clear artificial light,
this is the gift of the lightbulb.


-----

Unfatigueable elixir of life;
this is the blackness from which my creativity springs.
Lateness and deeper thoughts,
darker and more foreboding than the veiled night's sky. . .
Verse after rhyme my thoughts take shape,
cow and lamb,
tree and dirt;
life on Earth,
the presence of nothingness. . . .
All the while the Devil hisself stares me down,
eye to eye,
equal to equal,
and yet who am I to fool?
Essentially useless,
I am one,
ambitions; goals; plans;
all useless in the face of objective reality.
And so subjective my role must become.
Next to the Devil is the self-portrait of my mother;
such an apt coincidence.
And how can I,
being objective,
blame anyone for anything out of their inherent power?
Does one have the power to make conscious, influential decision?
Contemplations,
ponderings,
do consider:
all is for naught.
Nevertheless all has purpose;
The universe is nothing and everything at the same time,
as the religious philosophers have prompted:
"I am Alpha and Omega,
The Beginning (in which there was nothing, made into everything)
And the ending (in which all is made to nothing);"
Such is the form of the Christian God.
So much depth;
yet no need . . .
therein my limits:
No need,
no purpose,
no reason;
Indecision bred likely of hormones;
yet another factor in my collective:
I am not an individual.
Everyone else faces the same trials,
magnitudes varying but amounting to the same;
comparatively.
So what use in complaining?

---------------

Misguided emotion leads me to my present;
Succulent lips,
beauty of the thigh;
invitingly vivid sights .. .
such is the quality of my infidelity;
For I, infidel, have not a consience as the conscientious know it:
Rationalizing, greedy, selective in process;
What I find natural is to others Oh So Wrong.
And yet sex;
Such an awesome escape in and of itself,
the love and focus of my maturing years,
the base of my sanity,
though the limit of my endless reflection.

------------------

Capital;
Ah, the tireless struggle for capital.
Strike down your competition, Capitalist!
Strike down the objectors!
strike down all who oppose your profits!
Organized, profitable propaganda:
The Medias.
Organized, profitable Social Conditioning of the Masses:
The systematic manipulation of History, Language and Culture.
All for the Collective!
For the Collective!
For the Collective profit!
Profit above the collective, above the individual;
Agreeably disposable,
Insistently witless,
Agreeably helpless;
This is the definition of you,
your neighbour,
your politician;
Economics drown thought.
Economics benefit the few,
at the price of many;
endorsed and forced consummation of goods.
We are consumers.

-----------------------------------

When you are suffering,
Know that,
I,
Have betrayed you.

-Marylin Manson


------------------------

Alone in the middle of the night;
these thoughts surge to the fore:
Insurrection!
Violence!
...indecision...
Doubt; worry; uselessness;
English is insufficient.
I am one and yet none;
I believe in my existence and loathe;
I believe in my nonexistence, and loathe.
Abomination.
Misfit.
Someone please force my conformity;
some substance, help me forget . . . .

--------------------

Nature.
For nature is natural;
chaotic in tendency,
beautiful by default.
We rationalize.
We define Nature's Laws;
We give it limits.
This is the Legacy of Humankind:
Abstract thought.
This is the doom of Humankind:
Abstract, ordered thought applied to human surroundings.
The rolling green hills and valleys,
the sound of wind through the trees;
Imagine if you will a fine spring day,
the sun is above and shining with an agreeable warmth.
YOu're walking.
You're walking and approaching a gate with a small lock:
Beyond this gate you see a smooth, green meadow;
This meadow runs for awhile until it reaches the treeline.
Inviting; peaceful; loving:
You use your key to open the lock,
careful to lock your paradise back up after entering.
You walk along a narrow, obviously neglected dirt path,
Coming to the first few trees you notice a squirrel watching you, eating a nut.
You examine him:
Small; fluffy; cute; skittery.
The squirrel starts and climbs up his tree with gusto as you resume your broken march on your path.
You move deeper into the forest until the trees become unbearably thick and packed;
You begin to weave your way around in an advantageous manner.
Your walks take you across prints of deer, fox, and many other unnameable critter;
A smile has started upon your face.
this, you believe, is true peace:
You exit the tight treeline into a small grove surrounding a pond.
The animal tracks here are extensive, as this is the only water hole in paradise:
you walk up to the edge of the calm waters and look downward,
only to be greeted by your own smiling face,
which compounds itself and causes you to smile brighter and brighter.
You glance across to the other side of the pond,
looking past the few Oaks that have entrenched themselves for all time to the vast valley stretched beyond,
and you catch glimpses of the great horses,
unshoed, never having been taken custody and broken in;
and yet completely tame to the gentle touch.
You see them playing lightly with each other:
Animals simply being at loving peace.
Excited, you break into an easy jog;
Only to emerge startled from your slumber,
startled by your alarm clock;
Or by a classmate, perhaps:
your daydream ending by a harsh snap of reality.
your paradise,
of course,
exists only in dreams;
In our age of information,
industrialization,
and nationalism;
no Nature is left truly untouched,
as mere Nature is unprofitable;
your bed, surrounded by your industrial necessities,
in your house built of sweat and toil;
nonetheless built of the Earth.
Your vehicles, your streets; buildings.
The Industrial Revolution spelt the end of Paradise;
The type of paradise that one can now only dream of.
A pity that our comforts take priority over everything Evolution has done to make the world beautiful.
Tell me the Beauty in a factory?
Cheap labour?
Forced and conditioned consumption of inflated prices?
Where is the beauty?
Where is your dream, the dream of so many others?
Nowheres to be found; blocked out of viable memory forever.

---------------------------

Witness, my friends, the masque of death:
Witness, as we modify the Ape;
The Hairless, upright, super-Ape will walk the planet once these genes are finally correct;
Ahh, my friends; the experiment appears to perform admirably.
Upon our return we should find a race of completely self-destructive ignoramuses.
This will be an excellent example of the Species Superiority Complex Theorem proposed by our own XT323.443:443.22.
Onwards, then; we have much more to do this day.

--------------------------------

Sleep;
the act of forfeit,
admittance of defeat:
Sleep entails a new day,
a sacrifice I am as of yet unwilling to make.
a new day, a new dollar, a new hope, a new resurrection:
Every day compounds on my hatred and contempt;
each new day forces me to face,
yet again and again,
every single part of life that disgusts me:
I feel fit to rot;
and yet my health is startlingly outstanding.
Sleep.
No; not yet.
First, there's you;
Next, there's me;
I need no rest, no relaxation;
Tomorrow is more responsibility,
more annoyance,
more intolerable insolence to tolerate;
and yet tomorrow, I suppose,
is a day closer to you.


-------------------------------

Beauty;
Beautiful as the most delicate of flora,
as the single most majestic of animalia,
Beauty.
Such an odd word to surface amid my thoughts, usually arcane and dark,
such an odd concept for my mind to focus upon;
and yet unparraleled beauty, I see in you . . .
Your beauty, of rose and lion,
runs deeper than mere folds of skin;
My dear, my attraction to you runs course through your soul;
gathering itself amidst your mirth, joy, and happiness,
reveling in your understanding, your kind words;
this inexpressible bliss I feel has wrought my content,
forging in me the will to please,
the means by which I mean to do you good,
and only good;
never shall I harm,
never fall short of your moral expectations;
Your beauty,
true beauty,
runs it's own course through my veins;
This is my world as I would have it:
You, me, time to spare;
not three cares in the world, . . .
My thanks dear, for your beauty,
of morning bloom and midsummer's prowl,
unparalelled.