< 7/16/2011 spin cycle >

all these thoughts are just water droplets
in the washing machine of this ideological world
tossing, tumbling in a furious swirl
trying to eek each other out of existence, in some cases
trying to brighten the mood or soften the pain
while dancing between frays and articles of dirt
and all the while turning and twisting and bunching
spun endlessly against the walls of existence
but still there, still there
as existent as the laws of nature state
the importance of water
and the vivid color of ideas.

and we, vessels that could be
are just like the newest of shirts
tossed without warning into this brew
resistant to the first drops
as they gather on us and weigh on our threads
but eventually they soak into us
make us heavy and moist with inspiration
(one could say soggy with enlightenment)
and we are burdened.

but these clothes never seem to soak forever
as the tide runs out for a time or two
and we are pulled headfirst out of the soup
no longer straight and flat and squared away
but, hopefully, brighter than ever before
softened and
ready for more tossing and turning.

two bodies on a dark bed

Words from the mind of
Hurshel 'todolos' Dunn
A redditor

Two bodies on a dark bed
appear singular.
Fused.
She astride he.
Her head, his chest.
Her legs curled under ribs.
She, slumbering, sinks
into his metronomic breathing.
His breast rises and falls;
she dreams of the ocean.
He lies awake
looking.
His arms a circlet around his world.
Sweat on their skin has dried,
lightly bonding one to one.
They breathe.

intristic experience (one of many)

:: the clash of ideologies/regardless of what they would have you think/can be as beautiful as it is violent/and as revolutionary as it is regulated ::

:: right when the chaos will surely overtake the establishment/surely crush your creative complex/surely turn your dreams to dust/calmly draw your spirit over again/for refreshment is coming ::

:: perhaps wisdom comes/not from the assurance of one's own knowledge/but a recognition of life's infinite complexities :

(untitled)

Words from the mind of:
Sophie Creutz, Evanston, Illinois


grey shadows slipping, slide

along movement following the

endless motion of my tangled thoughts, taut muscles flexing

ceaselessly leaving nothing but ruthless apprehension,

judgment, distance, and disdain.

——————————-

refrain, rephrase….

the distinction between perception and reality clears slightly,

allowing for patience

————————————

if the location between reason and wisdom is as far from perception

as dreams are from waking….

then what is the shape of that space?

—————————-

If I could wait

any length of time

for repetition:

——————————–

restraint restraint restraint restraint restraint < freedom > restraint restraint restraint < expression > restraint restraint

INSURGENCY III. Mechanizations of Destruction

Fiendish and fearless, harken and blaze!
Our wheels of fury shall usher the haze!
What creature or mystic shall befall our storm,
Of endless percussion and limitless form!

We brothers of murder and deceit and of spite,
Live ceaselessly chasing the call of the fight!
Our mission to invoke the fury and rage,
Shall burn every building and cleanse every page!

What purpose have calmness and nature and peace?
Such weakness shall crumble under fire and grease!
Their scholars and children and women and homes,
Shall shatter in body and suffer in bones!

INSURGENCY II. The Earth Cries in Warning

Peace, peace shall not prevail!
We are the trees and the grass.
Our souls are not used to the noise.

A beast of artificial design,
The most unnatural and murderous,
Crawls across our lonely plain.

The shades of panic grow within us.
They sprint for the great city!
The most unnatural pulses spurn.

An anthem of destruction beckons.
Syncopation and articulation growl.
Our peace starts to mutate and bend.

The people of the Gothic city!
What untold crime shall they bear!
What shame the grass cannot forewarn!

INSURGENCY I. The Winged One Awakes

I am the spirit of nature.
Carefree and complacent,
I sleep in my earthly domicile.

The branches of my tree stir.
The aura of the night is disturbed.
Surely a nightmare flitters by.

But the pulsations of the earth
And the demon in the distance
Will not bid me my usual silence.

The wings of my unspoken fear,
At first drunken with sleepiness,
Begin to shift like a heartbeat.

My voice shall not silence.
The Mechanizations are coming.
I know not but to shriek in confusion.

Creatures of the city and the earth!
Creatures of the night and the sky!
Gather in my panic and in my pain!

The denizens of the great city
Lie asleep in their gentle beds,
With I the sole messenger to tell.

The Organic Elegy

to CA

The warm whispers
of the fingertips:

Their cultivated form lay
forever and now silent,
So the song would seem.

Betrayal is wrapped up
In the leaves of the damned
And the careless.

An inconceivable wilt
In the flower of her soul-
Visible to all who see.

Yet, unfurling from
This tangled nest of organics
Lies a remarkable seed.

What remains to be seen
Is the tempo of the weather
And the fervor of the germ.

Ideal conditions for a bloom-
No such season known before,
Hearkens to the soil underneath.

Believe it or not,
The Sun will rise again.

Five Postcards

1.
Listen.
NOW THAT COMMUNISM IS DEAD
MY LIFE FEELS EMPTY!
(on a continuous basis)
Art for art's sake. at some point
All of those things became so
Strange. My desire was always to
Contaminate
Because it got to the point where
You could not represent
Anything. 
Nationalist references,
HOW YOU CAN HELP:
never try to judge things.

II.
Politics and the Arts!
Unlock the mysteries of
Counter-revolutionary
Adulteration, 
PROGRESS,
and skullduggery
(classes are in session 24/7)

III.
SEVEN NEW DEADLY SINS:
conservatism
Publicity
Debates
Tribalism
Democratic consultation
Poetic truth
Parody

Government's response to it:
a free society.

IV.
Intolerant Tolerance!
"You can't be serious."
wisdom required a protagonist
That attempts to bridge the
Gulf between

The desire for autonomy

And the reality of LAW

And the promises of empathy.

V.
Personal identification (of America)
Get Connected.
We are pleased to announce that
Emotional Reactivity
Summarizes the demographic
And physical health-related
Characteristics of 
THE RESPONSE TO DEATH AND DYING
among student neuroticism

Denton County, Texas

pedal down through suburbia
sunlight peeking between every tree
the minister's impeccable voice
through the static of the radio
(the music was much better)
good morning, officer
you'd be right to ask
if I had a late night
speeding home to bed just a little bit
why aren't you at church? I want to ask
as he decides to find bigger fish
return my plastic card of 'under 21 until'
(you literally don't exist without it)
beckon me back onto the pilgrimage
of that roadway between city and nature
and head home to his nuclear wife and kids
while some computer server somewhere
decides my escapade home is a ruse
and a bible somewhere else sits unopened
on the shelf of that poor, poor policeman
that gave his life to the devil
that same evening before.

My suicide is meaningless:

My entirety is divided.
My nation is diluted
among the forces that be:
the blasé capture
of an entire generation.

I have the formula
for total intellectual destruction
HELD IN MY HANDS,
waiting patiently, like a gasoline phoenix,
to flitter into the sky and light them all ablaze.

WILL THIS REVOLUTION EVER COME?
We’ve sat and waited for an eternity.
We can taste the variance on our tongues,
The glorious overthrow,
The insurgence of reason,
Our manifest manifestation,
Shushed like the underagers
Among the concrete and the bedsheets
And the capitalistic seesaws and battlegrounds
That separate the artistic from the mundane.

I am having a hell of a time
Keeping in line with the flame.
I need this universal theme
Of progression and pain
To bury and bloom
Into a love of our opportunity-
For the mutual welfare and brotherhood
Of progress.

My suicide may be meaningless, but yours would change everything.

sidewalks of ice

The coarse swirl
of the world’s complacency
stills the eager mind.

Footprints of the vagabonds,
drunk in their dreams of escape,
Hint at the authenticity of the journey.

Heaven must surely reign
outside of this storm,
a god merely waiting to exist for it.

The darkness of the sunset
against an endless purity
calls every lover’s fair name.

The chills of the soul,
those tried and true pessimisms,
will bury us forever.

ignore the flag

A thousand willing ears
were bent to the occasion.

The copious program notes
promised a musical manifesto
of the most intricate variety:
A flourish of nationalistic decree,
The fidelity of the motherland,
Celebrated in the air around them,
An anthem of sonic proportions,
The newest in a line of compositions
by the fabled Composer Laureate
Not seen since before the Revolution
But now greater in glory than ever!

Two hands rested in their place
In front of the red-trimmed keys.
Silence beckoned- a most curious
Pause before the storm.
Finally, the fingers of the pianist
Lifted in reverence.

One thousand ears peaked,
Five hundred sharp breaths!

Surely a mistake? But no!
The pianist plays on!
Seductive and irregular rhythm,
Raging romantic sostenuto,
Tempos unknown!
What has happened?

It is approximately sixty seconds
Before the thought police
Make it onto the stage.
But they fail.
The piece is complete,
An exact dosage of dissidence!

The smirk of the performer
Could barely be seen
As they drug him offstage,
A most painful death awaiting,
The young mischievous boy
Sitting next to his general father
On the front row
The lone witness to it.
The lone seed by which chaos carries on.

eternal

to dissidence in Egypt

I am standing on an arbitrary foot of Planet Earth
WATCHING THE WORLD FUCKING IMBLAZE
Wondering about the future
Wondering about the fame
WONDERING ABOUT THE NEEDLESS, CEASELESS NEW PAIN
Wondering how to impact my comrades-at-arms
Trying hard to picture the world free of these harms
And viewing these negatives we face every day
AND TRYING TO KEEP MY OWN CORRUPTION AT BAY
And failing to admit the evidence of the truth
That this war of systematic ideology and youth
WILL COLLIDE INTO A FUCKING PATHOLOGICAL BOOTH
And short-circuit the pen and the sword and the mind
And leave my one hope as our axe now to grind
That somebody will collect my inconsolable tears
And fashion them into weapons to destroy every fear
BEND AND BREAK FREE THE REVOLUTIONARY GEAR
And spare lives worth living from the sweep of their spear.

Lee Street

I tire rarely of this walk.
I have the entirety of society
strung along my commute
like an accidental strip mall.

I’ll pick and choose
From those that deal in humanity.
Fraternity: can you sell me a soul?
My near-exclusive brand of choice
Delivers me not the substances of escape
But the immortality of snobbish decree.

How potent the high of enlightenment!
A rush beyond any I have ever seen.
I must tell my friends
To ditch their fingernail fetish,
Their green-backed sunglasses
And gossiped descends
And rush for the finest product yet!

Light, light up the flaming education of old!
You won’t just feel it in your nose.
It spreads itself warmly and loose
From the top of your head
To the shivery, orgasmic curl of your toes.

But see, this product is not meant to last.
Watch your psyche shrivel like a fucking cigarette!
Their product is the highest quality-
-of addictiveness, that is-
until finally, the escalation is too much.
You’ll fight him and fight him
Ride a fierce straddle on top of him
But never find the same reprieve.

I’m walking down this street,
Thinking about the bedrooms and the coffeeshops-
Stifling the buzz that sits inside my stomach
And begs me to implant yet another person
With yet another idea
And watch the dissidence grow-
Know in my mind
That knowledge has knowledge necessary to throw
Her on this bed of intellectual routine
Yet remember my role in this abstracted scene.

suburban bedrooms

Plush carpet lies inviting underneath
a bed of quiet disposition
and an endless vacuum of affection.

Those pajamas will fall away
To my steady and shaky hands-
Their motions familiar and true.

Does the dissonance register with you?
your body does not belong here.
my bed is the gathering place of kings.

But your presence among the white
speaks of a time before the fall-
literally begs me to abandon the ruse.

I dare not speak of it!
the God of old, young, and faithful
lies hidden in our bathroom mirrors.

What is familiar and carefree
Manifests itself in the movements of your soul-
Your suburban hips reflect my every sigh.

and I will then remember-
the quiet goodnights of geographic divide
calm the world into a million pieces.