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.

the quietest revolution

What does it mean to be human?
To step away from the safety of the room,
The channels of art, of intellect,
Toward a unity with the next link in the chain,
An exchange, a fulfillment!

How? How does this increased distance help us?
How can a tornado of zeroes and ones
Replace an invitation to love-making?
Replace a quiet laugh, a gentle whisper,
A genuine apology or a insurrectous cry?

Why?

Should I feel sheltered by the security of this room?
Or trapped?
Fooled into complacency?
Skin against skin!
Paint on a wall!
Words surround me in the air like incessant music!
I shall never again deny what I consider to be human!

The quietest revolution is waged in every act of noncompliance,
in every unknown effort of spontaneous fulfillment.
Every cry of pleasure, brush stroke, smile and song- a victory.

we were thieves

to steal, to appropriate!
this was the charge of our artistic minds
but no sooner did our excursion commence
then realize we of this old building’s designs.

and sought quickly us the treaurous find,
of symbolic color and antiquate shine,
the fear of the winds of authority there,
set then aside bravely in pursuit of the dare.

but not all is as seen in the shadow of the past,
and our dissident deed had become but a flash,
in the life of this building, we soon ascertained,
framed in her windows, generations of pain!

so here we are, we, the children of the form,
held closely now within the arms of the storm,
dirtying our souls in the name of the art,
in reverent view of this shelter’s warm heart.

were we thieves now? or did she thieve from us?
stealing a sense of accomplishment and fee?
sending with conviction a cry and a plea,
“listen to my story of betrayal and lust!”

and throughout the evening and thereon and thus,
did live in our memory this old building a tale,
known to know only in the souls of the blue-
a tragedy reserved to the unfortunate few.

Stream of Consciousness

Words from the mind of
Cheyney Allen, Texas A&M University - Commerce


//4AMelusivesleepbeautyintheworlddancesmilemusicjoylaughtersadnessleaveblowingwindwhisperingbrutalityhowlingbellsstainedglasswindowshallelujahlovemusiccrylovesleepeludes...
9 hours ago via Blackberry

the artistic martyr

whether he wants to die or not
is irrelevant.

his office, the scene of the crime,
tells a tale of all intellectuals,
the shelves piled high with treason,
the computer washed over with sin,
the speakers literally dripping with blasphemy.

it is not like he underestimated the risk.

their dark suits embody
the arm of a shadow
hell-bent on growing
into darkness itself:
scratching out every lightbulb
disgracing even the sun
with no intended stop
until even the idea of a photon
-dissidence, compassion!-
ceases to stir a single soul.

the gentleman stirs in his seat.
home, perhaps he expected
or the cold bare grind of the streets.

but most ironic that they kill him
in the very chair
that sewn into the cushions
lies hidden the secret
to eternal enlightenment:
what we would have known about it
burnt with the building.