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Author: Jimi James
ASL Info:    24/m/somehwere
Elite Ratio:    6.16 - 90 /78 /41
Words: 179
Class/Type: Misc /Misc
Total Views: 1232
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 1224


I stole this.


What can anybody know?
Clustered reflektions on the blurry sight,
tucking heads and feet and shirts.
The notion that nobody has to admit it hurts,
the space inbetween them, the coats, the jackets,
- all things keen fablers praise -
come across as the air we pass
compared to fairly less.

What can anybody know?
Ev'ry alternate stop, I look up to see,
there's the anxious silence in anticipation for epiphany.
The notion that nobody has to admit it hurts,
that we're too young to grasp
- never old enough to learn -
to speak of the things we desire
kept in metal boxes on thickened wire.

Ev'rybody knows
that you can't get to close,
to failures I compose
when I realize
that nobody feels any pain
if hidden from time
and no hands to strain.

How can anybody know?
I was swatted inbetween swells of sweat,
stuck in less slower means of travel.
It hurts and the comforts gone,
but amidst fellow sufferers,
turmoil is much more subtle
like notion is forgotten.

Submitted on 2013-11-13 16:26:36     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  Some of these words jeer at the very fabric of the language, their animosity bleeding down two separate trails. the first, covered in pebbles of built-up nuances, refines the covinous nature of the red refuse. the second, laden with quixotic conflagrations, hircine halitosis, and the vorpal rancour of time, pools the refuse and allows it to steep right proper. On a separate note: I can't quite wrap my head around the reason for this fact, but I truly admire this verse..

all things keen fablers praise

There's something about it that nuclear-explosions the idiosyncratic nature of poetry to the moon. The words just fall into each other, like they'd been raised off on an island somewhere lost in the polynesian isles together. To not sound like an english drunkard: they coalesce like puzzle pieces made to fit by the divine. You know what I mean? The beauty of the thing stands alone. It reminds me of certain strophes from a sufi called Hafez.

A tiny mot regarding your lack of originality: an existence which questions itself (authentically) is said to be authentic the moment it becomes aware of this questioning. Or more simply, when it becomes self-aware. But that parenthetical sort of demonstrates the circularity of the thing... Arguably there is a reflexive type of anticipation you could say is mechanically guiding the process (en effet, you could say the process is natural) but then you are robbing authenticity of its meaningful content. And authenticity sans content.. is inauthentically (god, if heidegger were alive and could speak english, he'd slap me and call me a jew).

But in a serious way: you can't resent yourself by default (read: cut your own legs, if you will) because that is no ingredient to a happy life. And whether life is novel, stolen, authentic or merely broken & misshapen apparitions bears no impact on the difficulty of self-loathing as opposed to the ease of self-adulation.


| Posted on 2013-11-19 00:00:00 | by Outlaw | [ Reply to This ]

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