Veiry Cool!

as the @ suggests (they/she, 24, sag, ephemeral) A collection of musings informal and structured - a dream journal for unconscious minds

[blandbutfunny]

worlds getting warmer, we're going the other way!!

In another life I am the zeightgeist

This worlds mind resting comfortably in the plains of able

Utopia is just a cruel past

Platonic forms warping around my fingers like Play-Doh

The contemporary fashion are boots of clay with diamond heel counters

Short lives celebrated for unbridled ambition for the deep beyond

Shapes are but snacks in the vending machine

Cardinal unlimited the layman is the virtuoso

Subversion a cheap joke

Tears in the rain Dust in the air Smoke in the lungs Life being lived

In this age of architecture the sky is but bedrock for the betterment of all matter.

The age of dream has become the era of nightmare. Optimism has been bled like a stuck pig and we house ourselves in its corpse clinging to bones sucked dry by our ancestors children. We have become accustomed to live on nothing, to starve, to remember instead of reclaim. Our prerogative should be violence, revolution, the heads of our masquerading beneficiaries. With our remaining strength we are obligated to fashion shivs from the ribs until weapons are naught but spikes decorated with heads. Yet, our god-given right to choose has blessed us the ability to be passive, to stall, to drain out until our corpses too feed our children. Our primal instincts are the only tool left to preserve us, but instead we lay our heads restless and pontificate about other worlds. The human condition has become longing. When others die, we celebrate that we were chosen to exist another day.

Life, it is still.

Our only respite are the stories we have conjured from the arid soil about better times, better people, and better lives. Every day I wish my body less organ was afforded an appendage, a thrall, a voice. Anything to move me from unflinching helplessness.

In another life I am the zeightgeist

[blandbutfunny]

Reckless references

Intersections of influences obfuscate the message

Mirror signals on split souls and in memoriam ideological portals The hot takes became tepid

Hell froze over and you drowned in the sediment When cement scapes your lungs its hard to appreciate the sentiment At last an end to empty sentences

Hell or High Walls, It Bears No Weight on the Scientist

In the empty expanse of space I observe the galaxy from a cliff-edge I peer into the abyss of nothingness and beg for an answer in the black hole’s inverse Shedding all self I prepare to plunge An arrow through the heart of every reason to wake up to the sun's warm palm on my cheek embrace the cold as I pierce the calamity In the brief moments before I am torn apart, I find comfort in the solace of unique experience See you later space cadet I wonder if we will see on the other side

[blandbutfunny]

Untethered

I was deemed a necessary casualty, Evicted cargo from the crashing plane, You kept your arms in exchange for munitions

For they were always closer to your chest Empty spaces, Vacant motifs The marble was clinical white and the bust contained a smile that cleansed me of comfort I am untethered When people refer to me as she I feel the child playing dress up Maybe I am? Who wouldn’t seek five more minutes of play before bed?

In hindsight, it was quite clear she didn’t love me

Frigid with my kisses and reluctant with my hugs, my body ached for reciprocation I couldn’t conjure from thin air Tension was Thick Stone-clad in my certainty I afforded benefit after benefit, no doubt they would be put to good use. I can’t tell you who has them now?

[blandbutfunny]

And What Transpired?

The shallow ambience was all-consuming, swallowing them whole and spitting them out for an audience of inattentive spectaculars.

Practice became purpose far more often than preparation did, as uniform social anxieties penetrated paper with keen precision. It was a skill to be this scared so consistently, to engage fight or flight so often that the switch stuck on.

And for What?

Nothing new grasped them, no creative beacon shot skyward. They had exhausted the usual meta-textual pattern of rumination and reflection on thought and plucked each petal from the assorted bouquet of existentialism that smelt oh so ripe in this current climate. Once again, it was a brain, body, boredom and a pen.

They assumed no one would find these musings quite as delightful as they did themself. Assumption felt too unsure a term.

He/She/They considered adopting an era's tour etiquette writing dribble for people who knew as little as they did but concluded that for that much labour, one would be happier with a small farm than a factory.

Currently, Zionist agitators live up to their opportunistic, scabbing reputation as they assault a group of peaceful Palestinian protestors at UAC. They hoped that if fate permitted they would have joined them, but recognised the lack of strength held compared to even a single of those students.

I'm not trying to make this about me - commentators are not placed on the field of play. I don't play NRL, but I do play basketball and because of that, I also share a passion for player safety.

And on the other side of that mirror...

Bile spews at the centrifuge of hell-hot gears; crushing machines whose input is viscera and output turmoil and all could have been left abandoned had inquisitive nature been resisted.

References, references, references echo echo over airways, walk and talk and shush and fight and here is a mirror to your manner in language, in artistic manifest in the breath you left in the casket at your mothers funeral, at the first tear of joy and the last tear of despair you are all collections of references, assemblages moderated and codified by the cliff your predisposition kicked you off and you don't stop referencing, even when it all seems for naught and when it all becomes redundant you keep referencing, being referenced as you morph into other's process of referencing and referencing becomes thanksgiving in all its virtue and vitriol referencing itself becomes the function and definition and we all lie naked covered in fecal decay referencing until the skin off our backs grafts itself to the walls and floors and we reference the cells of bacteria that eat away at our precious minutes and I ask myself

Do I love this city, despite the burden of referencing?

Comets Have I been here before?

Spilt water and the page is made translucent, the words obfuscated.

Have I destroyed meaning or created it and is it one or the other?

I cope with the question by constructing my own cannon and co-linking chapters with cheap thematics in the hope that forgotten tongues are rich enough to fill the blanks.

What are we to do but reference?

What quantity or maybe quality of references can paint me a beautiful sunset that blazes with pre-processed gems and glitter?

How do I spell my name in references?

[blandbutfunny]

Procession/Ritual of Desiring-Production

I have convinced myself through approximate inaccuracy that I am indeed a de-realised social body I am acknowledged and processed empirically by the social machines around me but like my cognition I am split, fractured, effervescent - unanchored and set adrift to be ravaged by the wind. Strangers know my hidden alleys in a way only shadows should. And yet, I feel more visible in the cloaked corners than I ever could in sunlight One-night stands have read deeper into my character through a kiss than coworkers have enduring years of pontificated personal trauma I do not resist the process of decoding, but it seems my speech is malignant data for the machine; readable, but yielding highly sub-normative results. I have climbed the mountain, but the flag on it's summit remains a murky amethyst.

Soaring through foggy skies, I seek to roost and rest my wings, but find no nest hospitable to birds of my ilk. Maybe I will find a lover in flight with the same penchant for relentless kinesthetics and our crashing will force us down to earth. Where are my hidden souls that hide in the clouds? In meditation, I have interrogated the transparency of my ocular duplicity. Through my left eye, I glimpse fountains and water features flowing into each other, cycle after beautiful cycle, a multiplicity of aquatic pathing breeds envy in me - jealous of such seamless direction Through my other, a cyclone throws violent tantrums amongst arid plains, tossing toy cars into the air at will and uprooting trees that have stood as pillars of their locale for eons. I am mesmerised by the beauty of its heretic confidence. Each eye is quick to inform me of the other's deception. I feel neither wet not windy

We are the meaning makers. We make life consist of anything but living

[blandbutfunny]

Ruminations 21/4/24

I think amongst an intense desire to be understood I keep trying to find communities that I give the benefit of the doubt that I will fit into and be a part of. Ultimately be it anxiety or autism or a general lack of personable articulation I find myself constantly feeling left out or uninformed on the matter of my character and how people view me. It's something that I can't control and honestly not something that should worry me either, yet I'm borderline obsessed with it.

I have tried to turn myself into an object of desire. Having felt the pangs of desiring machines and their insatiability I have sought revenge by placing myself at the core of other people's desiring machines. I don't want this without transactional benefit - I feel I offer in exchange a love and realisation of said desire with intensity that is borderline unachievable for the general population. Again though, I am leveraging my own dysfunctions and insatiable needs in an attempt to barter some temporary relief.

I write "open verse" poetry in an attempt to a. Get better at a craft I have genuine affection and appreciation for, and

B. Attempt to articulate details and intensities within myself that I think are needed for people to comprehend whatever I am in a socially normative manner.

There are police on the other platform. I assume someone has jumped into the tracks.

I keep getting older. I am coming to terms with distant friendships, and acknowledge that as time goes on, I do not have access to the emotional fulfillment that comes with reciprocated love and understanding. I do not believe that our sentience is retained when we die - whatever happens I will forget everyone I love and the work I have put into becoming the best version of myself I can be is of little consequence. As years go on and people far younger than me achieve my aspirations, I wonder if I am spending my time in vain.

I am at a loss in my life. I do not know what I want to do with myself. I don't know how to start putting myself on track for where I want to go, where I want to be. Ultimately, none of it will matter. That said, failing to do anything seems like such a waste, and my heart burns with an injustice that, for whatever irrationality life is, I could have helped someone like me not go through what I have.

I roll my eyes at my faux martyrdom. In turn, I scoff at how dismissive I am at making genuine attempts to define my values and ethics. Much like my social character, I have created meaning from scratch and whilst influenced, I abstained from indulging social normative in my brushstroke.

Prose plagues these very not empty platitudes. Some more talented than I would make this high art. Instead, it remains regular art, if by art we mean a reflection of human experience.

If capital consumes all, it's critiques becoming reinforcement, and every deviation from normativity reinforces what is considered normal, and if life is so extreme that satirical exaggeration seems banal, why can art not be a journal entry, a written passage, a stream of conscious? Why must we call it art? Why must it only hold value if it is art?

This is a journal entry for the unconscious mind. My daydreaming is leaking into the starry night. These intensities grasp physicality with a hand of whisps, but even at the precipice of the real world, they remain theoretical.

There is no clever word play. There is only words, and a multiplicity of combinations of such. Artistic integrity is assigned by convention, not merit.

Some day these words will die. The intensity will live on. I should not be so arrogant as to assume it dies with me.

I hope someone finds a better use for them.

[blandbutfunny]

Sophie's Respite - On Her Birthday, Two Years On.

I have traced my thoughts and felt the gaps in my synapse

Cognition resting in plutonic ideals, and only now can I grasp their incomprehension

Titans of macro-micro culture have passed, jobs have been killed and family pets put down

Life chugs on in relational deficit, and I have arrived at "not-quite-there-yet"

Trapped in the moment, fleeting anxieties become eternal

We inhabit forever every moment we have lived in

There are no roses to stop and smell.

Local council have uprooted them all.

But I possess faint recollections of their beauty,

And a tongue to pass on stories about my first kiss beneath them.

In a couple of years, culture's children will find seeds of their own to plant,

And fashion bouquets of flowers from the microplastics.

Their petals are as definitional to them

As team-speak séances were to us.

[blandbutfunny]

Forever, Again

Again, I am stuck.

Looping perpetually

Until it cuts the power

I'm not sure how many more jolts

It'll take

To keep me awake.

Begging for mercy, peace and dreams.

So I can almost remember the patterns of her skin,

And the way the current echoed through me as she stole my gaze.

One day, I'll sing a song for that six-letter someone.

Tomorrow, when you are old, I'll sing another.

I'll burn odes to your good health just above my ankle

In the hopes that I remember the value of clean wounds

I'll spend another evening at the beach,

Reading, bleeding and screening my stupid tweets

And I'll retreat from the present into the glimpse of a picnic underneath the sunset.

As night falls we'd trace shapes in the stars.

You'd embark on your quest to sketch some regal composition,

Paint the sky a magnificent bright with quick wit and quips that lept with precision from your tongue.

We'd pen a guide to the universe dedicated to its oddity and observe the minutia both in awkward and elegance.

And as we lose ourselves in the back and forth,

You weave ribbons through your trail of history

Your sidesteps sharply dissecting the concrete pathing and each eon would be adorned with mementos to your business-suit humility

I would revel in the intimate architecture each time you drew breath,

And admire how gracefully your whispers would glide through the air, sailing above the walls you rarely lowered.

I'd lie smothered in the warmth of your glow as we spoke ceaseless to morning,

But it'd been sunny for me since the moon broke through the shoreline,

Since the moment I felt you.

One day, I'll re-write this again with the skill and precision of an auter, and embellish it with references and in-jokes to our brief escapades, grand small adventures of speech and other winks you would have laughed at.

But it will never be enough to do you justice, to show them just how much you mean to me.

For that, they would need to see us together, and they would marvel at how naturally grandeur emanated through your skin like drowning intoxication,

And they would see how gracefully I swam through the effervesce, synchronising as our interplay of silent smirks and ribbing remained unimpeded by expectancy and etiquette.

When Isaac spoke of Concord, we shared the same eyes.

I had managed but a glimpse as you took off

But I photographed the smile that you left me with, and read the letter that hid between your teeth.

It rests on my mantle with an urn of some ashes

Some years, I donate a glance,

Other nights I turn my living room into a shrine and recite odes to your memory.

In ritual I shed the skin of a boy who loved at the wrong time, and I fashion a small feature with his tears.

With my pen I attempt to distil your essence and by page ten I realise that I have barely indented the paper

I realise I still love you

I realise that I probably always will

Forever, again.

I don't believe in an afterlife, but I might start to; in the hopes we can share those comfortable words once more.

[blandbutfunny]

It's Monday

Bins are Tuesday

Someday soon Ill learn to finish my business the right way

Looking to the moon for answers but it's not in tune with my fung shway

My living space littered with decay, used plates

And some pills I ain't taken since may

Experiment in the bedroom to keep my head straight

Substances and technology attempts made but it all stays the same

I'm patient but there's no say on how long I'll wait

Rotting corpse fumbling towards my expiry date

No shame in my best but with nothing on tape it just seems like a waste

Nasal spray to breath easy and some diazapan for the pain

Some more bed rest and we back at Monday

Forgot the bins again

[blandbutfunny]

Poetry is:

Late-Capitalism, Post-Modernism, The Current Day etc is defined by clear truths so emotionally potent that decadent language ceases to heighten the senses; in fact it hides the blunt force trauma that is the process of feeling. We dress it up anyway - be it to prove something to ourselves, angle the object on a different axis and thus recontextualize the form, but we ultimately stare at the static, overwhelming, busy, bustling void that we have been mechanized to navigate. Sentience has ceased to be a miracle.

[blandbutfunny]

In the middle space where Black Country meets Post-Modern

Scenes are dated by unnecessary facades and temperature

I take time to ponder the merits of the social conscious and it's cognition architecture

The cities of consensus built to establish the name of "what is right"

Millennia bleed as dogs chase tails

In the commotion children leap from bridges to escape captivity and captors alike

Where do they go in the jaw of the deep blue?

Do the bodies remain in tact?

Do they evolve through generations growing gills and attaining sea speeds envied by boat and land farer?

Or do they disintegrate, eaten away at by the algae joining the microbiotic hive mind aquatic?

Do they speak in a thousand voices or one?

Do they remember how their lungs felt to breathe deep the ash and tar,

How their skin felt rough from toil for plastic greens that could never sustain them?

If they don't, why shouldn't we join them?

[blandbutfunny]

I really wanna make this a proper verse

Spending time out in the shire isolation was prescribed

Low head meant mindful rest but instead I felt more tired

Anxiety kneeding dough in my head, still hotwired

Broke on bakers dozen still more smoke than empty fires

Only sit for meals where you stand fed

Crumb in the stomach means content lies in the banquet in your head

Just getting by just ain't enough friend

Try and smile you can't hide the dread

Empty wine bottle spilt on a made bed

Glass skin shines still wink at snipers

Open arms to greet the lead

Aimed too high, they shot the legs

Watch you scream as they breath the mood in

[blandbutfunny]

Meaningful meaningless

Post sex cigarette

The love was great, skin touch electric

Intimate body and mind

The sparks stood the test of time and passed with extra cred

One night stand hope we do it again

Hate to think I was led on

For something more

Signed the contact knew the terms

But hope kept for that extension

Two week passed now alone in my bed

Thinking of the narratives we could have penned

The grand tales traveled, inspired songs, hymns

High hopes when we met

Still a shame but the game is the game

Light a lonely yearning friend

It's like sweatshirt said

The wind get the ashes in the end

[blandbutfunny]

Overambition

Building spacecrafts was an affront to God

The skies were built as his heavenly guard against the unseen world, 

The eons we can’t teach and won’t reach. 

Adrift in that endless sky should be the dreams of children and the souls of parents

Not rocks and suns and nothing.

Why must we insist on ripping off the band-aid

The gruseome infection bares us no comfort.

Let us sleep, and swim with the birds

Watching over this miserly world we built.

Even as it crumbles, we can say that it was ours. 

[blandbutfunny]

Reckoning with the End

Being alive is watching helpless as you die slowly

[blandbutfunny]

Expiry

Have you felt the sheer disconnect of lying naked in the woods, waiting for nature to ravage you, to shred your flesh from bone in every direction, only to be left unsullied by the sunrise?

To strap yourself to the burning building as tears from clouds that don’t cry for you extinguish the flame?

To try and inhale the smoke as it flees, not even greeting you with an ashy kiss?

Served up on clean platter, prime rib on sale practically begging for the worst among us to have their way with me.

Yet I have been left on the counter so long even the flies have better pickings.

Even pity parades march polar opposite.

Sincerity sanitizer to clean their hands.

The dying aren’t left to burn.

They are left to watch.

[blandbutfunny]

Crow's Wrath

She carries a bird with her everywhere she goes. Bequeathed upon him at age six after a fight with his parents He simply felt they would argue less if he were gone. A stuffed toy, black as the beautiful night sky, began nesting on his head The bird gave him comfort and kept him at bay.

As he grew, he took solace in knowing that this bird would be there to turn to in tough times. An escape into a world of plausible fiction. As the years grew they found themself surrounded by strife, malice and conflict, this mound of feathers was the companion most dependable. Solitude ceased to be lonely They did not sleep without it pressed on their chest. As constant as the misery was, it was a friend during high spirits too Elation in both directions of the pendulum swing, the blackbird carried them into life with plush claws. They slept peacefully with the knowledge that at any moment they could embrace the bird, who would fly them away from everything. How they were tempted to wish upon that avian star. As she blossomed into a fierce warrior, fashioned armour and weapons most devastating. Yet it sat still watching A safety net. One day, she dreamed the bird had dug its beak into the tender flesh of her neck, grafting itself to her like a tumor. Her vision was silent. She awoke in hysterics, breath out of sync, heartbroken. Just a dream, just a dream. As her senses dressed themself in spacial lucidity she stared out into the night, looking for calm. But she saw only monstrous feathers, ruffled with plauge and pestilence, Eyes gaudy in their apathy, lustrous void pearls. Talons with blood dried black. The raven was perched on the window frame, stare piercing through the pupil’s right to the top of her mind. It would not fly away. She knew there was no use, its feathered wings now grafted to her shoulder blades Its beak is a tourniquet fused into the spine, Beady eyes pressed upon the back of her head, always watching. She cannot overlook it, she cannot simply pretend it is not there. It was always a part of her. She needn't wish for it to take her for she was always at its whim. One day it will take her to that implausible reality where the blind governs sight and the deaf are ultimate sonic authority. What could she do?

She carries a bird with her wherever she goes. The nightingales sing as they pass each other in the street.