Friday, October 28, 2005

A Moment of Clarity

Behold, the defining moment that instills fear into the supercilious mind-frame of the emotionless deadman. He who directed his actions to best suit the desired image that he was led to believe would define his character. Everything he was, and the life he called his own was fathomed by an overbearing self-gratifying consumer industry that’s currency traded on a malnourished sense of self-belonging and perpetual worth.
In a market driven civilization where nothing ever has value until it is sold or stolen, our anti-hero was the epitome of self-proclaimed definition.

He knew his place in society and anchored himself onto identities whose profiles were of more value than his own. His complacency came from the marketed masses that would anchor themselves to his own fatuous image. As long as he was emulated, he was adulated. This value of self-importance is the fading memory that keeps the cold truth at bay. Because of this day, and for every new day to come, there is no sense of value or importance, only a decrepit shell of Metropolis to remind him why. The city streets that were once the epicenter of life are now the decaying tombs of the deadmen. Happiness is no longer a commodity bought through single subscriptions and ready to wear tailored power suits. It is forgotten, buried long ago with the conceited advertising giants and the insipid visions they set about in place.

The deadman is entombed within the memory of an existence that gave him purpose and laboured by an expanse montage of decay (his ‘paradise lost’), to which he chooses only to see whatever best suits the life he now holds. It is when he is alone with his prolonged sense of doubt that he endures a sad and pathetic moment of clarity. It is not until everything has been taken away that he realizes there was never anything in the first place. The magazines told him what to wear, what to eat, who to talk to and what to say.
He had studied their demoralized ideals and often sought to become the seasonal whored identity.

He sits alone in a cold and lifeless room and opens his eyes to the pitiful mess he helped create. It is now that he succumbs to the reality that things may never go back to the way they were. Control has been sold. The memories fade gently into his mind as yet another missing person on a wall full of broken dreams. Amidst all the ruins of history, hope has taken many forms. All that is left now is to prey to the grey lifeless image of that perfect moment when everything they said would happen; didn’t.

With a tunnel view of what he has become, he looks for strength within himself and a defining character that exists without the marketing dream. He still chooses to relate himself to his surroundings for some sense of worth. He feels he is nothing without his accessories and begs a question that he dare not answer himself. He realizes he must almost start from scratch and put aside his memories of who he was and find significance in just being alive. He has invested too much in his memories and more often the not, closes his eyes again and again to chance an impossible dream.

He has always been truly amazing at everything he has ever done. This day though, it seems would evolve into a moment of pure terror that does little to quell the decisiveness of disappointment, the self-preserving educator dictating the motive for change.

This man, enduring this moment of clarity, stands with the poise and stature of accomplishment, bearing the physical scars of his limitless potential. His clothes sit lifeless, tattered and torn on his broken body, yet to look indirectly, one would suspect that this man wears this blood and urine soaked suit like a scar and it is tailored to fit like chain reaction. To the well-trained eye, this unrehearsed moment appears to almost paint a still life portrait that warms to the marriage of suffering and adversity.

This apocalypse is the genesis that only mankind could conceive.

This man truly is a broken vehicle, siphoned clean of all identity, and serving absolutely no purpose whatsoever. His open arms float like weather beaten doors, flailing helplessly on its rigid joints and only serve to highlight this immediate sense of incident (that feeling deep inside when you just know that something bad happened here). His arms serve to shake the fevered chill of abandonment that courses through his veins feeding the insecurities of innocence. To be born again into a new foreign sense of independence is ever so frightening the second time round with a full catalogue of what now appear to be irrelevant memories. The people, the cities, the countless human tragedies, the history of a the society that recognized identity, those that were loved and those who dine alone, and the cultural significance that lost all meaning; if at all there is any relevance at all in meaning.

This moment feels like an emotional collage of all those heart-breaking and terrible things that can happen to children when they are left alone. Oh what it must feel like to be aware of all that has happened, what is to become and even amidst all the prowess of human understanding, bearing the overwhelming emotional weight of a single isolated child, alone and vulnerable, with no reason whatsoever to believe that hope should exist at all. The physical suffering takes little course in relation to the infant puppet master pulling the casualty strings of the meta-physical being.

This will be a moment indeed.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005


What sacrifice, to conceive a dream? When all you leave behind, is all you'll ever be.

A Filter for a Frail Horizon

I lose a breath while I'm thinking
Misplace a second as it passes out of time
A splice of memories now missing
I think a moment passed where I forgot to die

And so this day is becoming

High in tide that will take me home
Conceals a current running straight through hell
It caught me drifting from the world I know
A broken crest on a rising swell

And surely hope is resigning

I think I'm waking from another dream
I won't remember how I made it out alive
The focus centres on uncertainty
The null and voids have become a way of life

And so my self is descending

Am I nearly dying yet?

As I sat down to eat my toasted cheese thing that cost me $5 I stared aorund the mass opf bodies swarming around me trying to find their place. I was listening to Radiohead - OK Computer so was already entrenched in some suicidal stuphor. It occurred to me oddly in between "dreaming about a funeral where I am sitting in the back pew that is completely empty and the person in the casket has no name" that all these people around me, these corporate executives, these ambitous whores, all look like they are dead. They are all walking around in their death suit. And I kind of looked down at myself and thought, 'yeah, this is probably how i will be dressed when i am dead".

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Z = z2 + C

I am to minds both resvolving
Both fearful of presence evolving
One part equating to trouble the sleuth
Consumed by division the other half knew

This universe
This starry lie
What path shall affect us?
What fate begets I?

A shift and turn towards necessity
A recollection of old memories
See it go and then let it be
Try losing focus on another dream

This man
This occupant of life
What tears will he show us
Which one of us will cry?


Above the blue oceans
And beyond desolate dawns
Through mists of life enchanting
The sadness I adorn

Solemn days approaching
As laughter takes its guise
My beautiful earth holds me here
And waits for my demise


Take me from where I am
and guide me closer to you
Give me the scars that tear out your heart
so I can be closer to you
Kiss me again and feed me your pain
Then haunt me when I am alone
Nestled in mind I hold you inside
And make your sorrow my own
As death closes in I burn deep within
To taste your breath and caress your face
Before I should die please take me aside
For one last eternal embrace

Monday, October 24, 2005

Silent Existence

Wherin I find the truth so stale
A stark remembrance of innocence failed
A sheltered dream
An empty wound
A decipher less vision
My impetuous doom
An unspoken word to fall on deaf ears
Speaking in silence to comfort my fears
I revel in loss and the comfort of pain
To scar my realities again and again

What will you remember when nothing is left?

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