The great machine
That makes this world turn so
Built of shape-shifting beings
An impossible engine
Changing so many times in a day
Unrecognizable from one moment to the next
It is made of dirt, of earth, of soil
Motionless, life moves about it
Secure in the fact that it will never change
The simplest form
Remains the same
Unrecognizable from one moment to the next
These are the lies we tell
These are the truths we hide
These are the dreams we remember
These are the realities we forget
Step behind the curtain a moment
Here they change their costumes
To one day throw away
Here they paint expression
To wipe from them, blank faces
Here they practice the lines they'll speak
To stumble when it means the most
At no point do they turn to the audience for praise
Nor smile and wink to the camera
Laugh it off
It's not a joke
Because the moment's passed
And it goes ever on
This is the truth
This is the dream
A point of view
A lost hope
All scattered images
In a sea of shadows
***
if it's worth telling
and if it's told well
it will last
it will grow
and its shape will shift
become something anew
to each that tell it
to each that it's told to
heroes fall
become villains
redeem themselves
and fall again for good
now watch them rise
now we rejoice
so we begin the dance anew
the machine makes another revolution
its shape contorts
as the engine shifts gear
the impossible becomes possible
the form intangible
and some of them
become the dust, the earth, the soil
they live on
beyond what they were before
and the others
a wisp of smoke
lost on the breeze
that we'd never know were there
it is the harsh logic of the machine
to judge what life be worth remembering
what soul worth being separate
or become a part of it.
"What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire"
- Stanley Kunitz
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
He knew it was dangerous when he walked through those automatic doors, but dammit, he felt as if he'd been jibbed these last few weeks. The words that screamed out at him from the glass door confirmed as much. You've been paying too much, it derided him, you've been getting less for more. But look here, it suggests, nay, demands, we'll give you more for less. And weak as he is, he concedes, he makes the deal.
It's his standard study kit, a 4 pack of energy drink and a soft pack of smokes. Turbo cans of battery acid and those slim little soldiers of death. He takes solace in these simple pleasures, the bare honesty of them. This will keep you up, and this will kill you. Somehow seductive in their ugliness, the yellow-green liquid a radioactive pallor that washes over a tongue that tastes of ash and tar. Surely, he believes, this is what it must have been like to live at Pompeii when the mountain erupted, when the water turned to acid and the sky was full of foulness that belched forth from that arse-hole of the earth.
He rests his chin on his hands, lit in the pale-blue glow of the computer screen, and silently curses his subject, the cold outside, and himself. He sniffs the lingering scent of cigarette smoke about his fingers, and the nicotine that flows through his veins nags at the back of his mind for more. It won't hurt, it whispers seductively, there'll be plenty left afterwards. And he feels ashamed for a second.
There will be plenty left, he chides, because you just bought another pack.
Couldn't last a night, not an hour, because damned if he'll sit here the whole time, and damned if he'll venture outside without a decent reason. But, fool that he was, he decided to leave his existing pack at home, trudging over to the 24 hour lab with all the noble intention that he wouldn't have another this night, savoring each drag of the roadie that rested delicately between index and middle finger, and missed his usual detour. The servo shone like a beacon to his right, and he passed it by without a second thought. So it was that an hour passed, reading words that soon seemed to blur into one another, random jumbles of letters in groups and patterns, and none making sense. His mind began to shut down, even beneath the blare of fluorescent lights, and as he scrambles for his bag, he realises his mistake, for it is empty, and he is without not only his smokes, but his energy. So he packs up, rugs up, and journeys out into that intolerable cold. Melbourne in late April, he thinks, should not be so cold, even at 1 in the morning. But then, after the Summer they've just had, he'd forgotten what 5 degrees felt like, and without a doubt he was getting re-aquainted now.
So in he walks, the servo warm and inviting, the slightly pleasurable stink of petroleum to his back, and he sees it. He feels cheap after he grabs them, the Mother only $2 less than the Red Bull, but then, it is also twice the size. More for less vs. less for more, who would you think would win? And as he approaches the counter, before he can check himself, he makes the standard order, "a soft pack of stuyvy classics". Now that it's been said, he won't go back on it (a stupid rule if there ever was one, but a man's got to stick to his word, or what does anything mean?) and here he is, stuck with another pack. To think he'd planned on quitting come Sunday morning.
He stands outside, ignoring the cold that pierces through his jeans, and takes pleasure in the billowing cloud that follows each exhalation, all the more impressive with the fog that accompanies it in the cold night air, trying, and failing, to make rings with the smoke. The ground, he notices, is littered with used butts, as he spits like a camel between drags and bobs his head in time to the music. Ah yes, the final ingredient to a sleepless night: speed metal. Hyped up on caffeine and guarana, his arms would flail about in time to the frantic drumbeats, but for the prescence of the other smokers on the boardwalk. Other lost souls determined to complete assignments in the dead of night, free of daytime distractions, secluded from procrastination that so hounds them at home or with friends, or facebook. For this late, even the networking sites remain quiet, their frequenters, for the most part, soundly asleep at these late hours.
He passes more of them on their way out, cigarettes already in hand with anticipation, and he thinks that before it became habit and addiction, they began simply to break up the long hours, just as he, a reason to walk away from the mind-numbing process that waited patiently on their computer screens. And when he cracks open another can of Mother, the snap-hiss reminding him of cigarette lighter, he wonders if similarly he's developing an addiction to the energy drink, begun out of necessity, until he can't function without it in these, the only hours he finds himself able to work. Midnight to 6am are his hours. The only time he can find the motivation, because here he only wants to leave, but wont allow himself, instead pinned to his seat, thrashing at keys to bring himself up to date. More and more he's found himself here on weeknights, into the wee hours and more, returning home in time for a shower, a coffee, and toast, and enough time that he may safely watch a film before class begins, but not enough that he feels comfortable taking a powernap, sure of the fact that he won't awaken till long after his class has come and gone. So the days roll by, so he wonders when it was he last had a full and satisfying nights sleep, so he wonders when he'll next find the time for one. For the weekend appraoches, and that brings with it its own challenges.
The weekend is what he most looks forward to, when he'll abandon sleepless nights to complete work in exchange for sleepless nights to go out. To socialise. To drink and watch the rest of the world and its problems fade into the background before a swirl of music and colour and women.
Sleep can wait, he thinks then, caught up as he is in this reckless abandon.
When the cigarettes rot his lungs.
When the caffeine wears out his heart.
When the liquor finally causes his liver to fail.
When the drugs reduce his once potent mind to a pulp.
I'll sleep when i'm dead.
It's his standard study kit, a 4 pack of energy drink and a soft pack of smokes. Turbo cans of battery acid and those slim little soldiers of death. He takes solace in these simple pleasures, the bare honesty of them. This will keep you up, and this will kill you. Somehow seductive in their ugliness, the yellow-green liquid a radioactive pallor that washes over a tongue that tastes of ash and tar. Surely, he believes, this is what it must have been like to live at Pompeii when the mountain erupted, when the water turned to acid and the sky was full of foulness that belched forth from that arse-hole of the earth.
He rests his chin on his hands, lit in the pale-blue glow of the computer screen, and silently curses his subject, the cold outside, and himself. He sniffs the lingering scent of cigarette smoke about his fingers, and the nicotine that flows through his veins nags at the back of his mind for more. It won't hurt, it whispers seductively, there'll be plenty left afterwards. And he feels ashamed for a second.
There will be plenty left, he chides, because you just bought another pack.
Couldn't last a night, not an hour, because damned if he'll sit here the whole time, and damned if he'll venture outside without a decent reason. But, fool that he was, he decided to leave his existing pack at home, trudging over to the 24 hour lab with all the noble intention that he wouldn't have another this night, savoring each drag of the roadie that rested delicately between index and middle finger, and missed his usual detour. The servo shone like a beacon to his right, and he passed it by without a second thought. So it was that an hour passed, reading words that soon seemed to blur into one another, random jumbles of letters in groups and patterns, and none making sense. His mind began to shut down, even beneath the blare of fluorescent lights, and as he scrambles for his bag, he realises his mistake, for it is empty, and he is without not only his smokes, but his energy. So he packs up, rugs up, and journeys out into that intolerable cold. Melbourne in late April, he thinks, should not be so cold, even at 1 in the morning. But then, after the Summer they've just had, he'd forgotten what 5 degrees felt like, and without a doubt he was getting re-aquainted now.
So in he walks, the servo warm and inviting, the slightly pleasurable stink of petroleum to his back, and he sees it. He feels cheap after he grabs them, the Mother only $2 less than the Red Bull, but then, it is also twice the size. More for less vs. less for more, who would you think would win? And as he approaches the counter, before he can check himself, he makes the standard order, "a soft pack of stuyvy classics". Now that it's been said, he won't go back on it (a stupid rule if there ever was one, but a man's got to stick to his word, or what does anything mean?) and here he is, stuck with another pack. To think he'd planned on quitting come Sunday morning.
He stands outside, ignoring the cold that pierces through his jeans, and takes pleasure in the billowing cloud that follows each exhalation, all the more impressive with the fog that accompanies it in the cold night air, trying, and failing, to make rings with the smoke. The ground, he notices, is littered with used butts, as he spits like a camel between drags and bobs his head in time to the music. Ah yes, the final ingredient to a sleepless night: speed metal. Hyped up on caffeine and guarana, his arms would flail about in time to the frantic drumbeats, but for the prescence of the other smokers on the boardwalk. Other lost souls determined to complete assignments in the dead of night, free of daytime distractions, secluded from procrastination that so hounds them at home or with friends, or facebook. For this late, even the networking sites remain quiet, their frequenters, for the most part, soundly asleep at these late hours.
He passes more of them on their way out, cigarettes already in hand with anticipation, and he thinks that before it became habit and addiction, they began simply to break up the long hours, just as he, a reason to walk away from the mind-numbing process that waited patiently on their computer screens. And when he cracks open another can of Mother, the snap-hiss reminding him of cigarette lighter, he wonders if similarly he's developing an addiction to the energy drink, begun out of necessity, until he can't function without it in these, the only hours he finds himself able to work. Midnight to 6am are his hours. The only time he can find the motivation, because here he only wants to leave, but wont allow himself, instead pinned to his seat, thrashing at keys to bring himself up to date. More and more he's found himself here on weeknights, into the wee hours and more, returning home in time for a shower, a coffee, and toast, and enough time that he may safely watch a film before class begins, but not enough that he feels comfortable taking a powernap, sure of the fact that he won't awaken till long after his class has come and gone. So the days roll by, so he wonders when it was he last had a full and satisfying nights sleep, so he wonders when he'll next find the time for one. For the weekend appraoches, and that brings with it its own challenges.
The weekend is what he most looks forward to, when he'll abandon sleepless nights to complete work in exchange for sleepless nights to go out. To socialise. To drink and watch the rest of the world and its problems fade into the background before a swirl of music and colour and women.
Sleep can wait, he thinks then, caught up as he is in this reckless abandon.
When the cigarettes rot his lungs.
When the caffeine wears out his heart.
When the liquor finally causes his liver to fail.
When the drugs reduce his once potent mind to a pulp.
I'll sleep when i'm dead.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
'Somebody Else's Blues'
It's cries echo out into the night
Amidst the glow of a spotlight on station steps
His clothes unkempt as he
Picking at strings, sits
Upon all that he owns
Worn but for the body he cradles
The neck his fingers caress
With utmost respect
Spilling out wordless thoughts
Emotions lingering in the air
Halting those about in their tracks
Feet held in its power, captive
The trams that pass by, a percussion to his song
Street music by neon light
The hope the city brings, and the sorrow of dreams past
"Taking the last train home" he sings
A prophecy of youth, a promise of the night
And beside him
His shadow rests, ever watchful
In a coat of black fur, loyal guardian
Of the life inside the guitar case
Amidst the glow of a spotlight on station steps
His clothes unkempt as he
Picking at strings, sits
Upon all that he owns
Worn but for the body he cradles
The neck his fingers caress
With utmost respect
Spilling out wordless thoughts
Emotions lingering in the air
Halting those about in their tracks
Feet held in its power, captive
The trams that pass by, a percussion to his song
Street music by neon light
The hope the city brings, and the sorrow of dreams past
"Taking the last train home" he sings
A prophecy of youth, a promise of the night
And beside him
His shadow rests, ever watchful
In a coat of black fur, loyal guardian
Of the life inside the guitar case
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