Thursday, November 30, 2006

The anthropology of ants

(Ahh the anthropology of ants.
Or is that the wrong science.)

Didn't Raphael paint well?
Ahh but he did, bravo, the strokes, look, the strokes, the strokes.

(and the colours fade into one another)

How about the military?
Oh but the suffering of society-state relations , tsk tsk.

(the coups of night and day)

Doesn't that sound nice?
It's the Midnight Sonata, but of course, it does.

(and silence in their empty chests disagree)

Let me enunciate a sonnet.
Please.

(the little men scamper under the shadow of the descending foot)

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Doubt One

He gave up wanting
to be god today. He
had decided it was
time to find out why
in the corner where
his verses dwelled,
his body was littered.

The tomfoolery of the gullible

I knew a man who
told me all there was
to know. How life
would begin, where
I would go, who I
will meet. What
my heart would
go through. What
I will feel, what
i will not. What I
will see, what I
will not. Who
I will lose, who
I will cling on to.
What will be the
ending of bad
things. What will
be the ending of
good things. What
will be my end.

I knew all, and yet
i still persevered.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Utopian

useful thoughts
grazed off the
tiny, hirsute tendrils
of skin, eager in
anticipation. Light
twinkled in
the distance.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Dot

Color dotted vision
deafened itself to
emotion. Indifferently
surveying soothsaying.
There is silence in
the human pixel,
despairing nothingness
clinging to everywhere.
The skin tightened
to his eyes, grows
tauter still, squeezing
colors tighter; this
embrace, this
desperate embrace
trying to soothe
inevitability. How
appropriate then;
color visioned dots
devoid of feeling
as grayscale
finally went blind.

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Itching thumb
clinging to plastic,
growling
discontentedly
at the bland
beating of
circuits and screws.
Writhing
machine coughing
up liquid
coagulating on
the rims of
crattered humans.
Its the struggling
stifling of
itches that
phantoms
untreaded streets;
hangs around
the cigar shop;
wolf-whistles
at papered winds
and falls down
drunk, tired,
in that lonely
corner and sleeps.
Unitched.

Proselytizing the Civilized

Leaves with their skeletal veins
jut out against the
morning window;
trademarked human
figurines. Which,
orphaned in
whispered clingy dew
pose as novel
revolutionaries;forever itching
to change
the world.

The barbarians
have been left
behind, their
gifted toys
stranded wearing
decent leaves.