Archive for the ‘She Marches To The Beat Of Her Own Drummer.’ Category

Lies slip from her lips

like water down a mountainside.

Slick rock face.

Summer thunder storm.

Slippery slope

to doom.

 

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Nightclub?

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

No, thank you,

for your insincere offer

of degradation,

wasted time and wasted life,

over-priced,

drugged,

pack-mentality

squalor.

All dressed up to fall into a gutter.

Superficial meat-market horror.

I know, you work hard and live for the weekend,

it gives your life what you think of as meaning.

Public spectacle, mass receptacle.

Regression and death on a stick.

Your masters smile behind cupped hands.

I don’t get it.

I don’t want to.

Thank you,

no.

 

She lay down,

on the floor,

in a darkened room.

She asked herself, repeatedly:

“What is the way forward?”

Racing mind, confused and throbbing head,

by the tenth repetition

she changed the question to:

“Is there a way forward?”

She moved her left hand downwards.

Imagining herself,

something else,

she fell asleep,

boundless.

 

In between the signs, hand-made placards: “Nothing makes loneliness more beautiful than schizophrenia” and “I’m a simple Martian and attack what I see”, God smiled, pleased with His creation, made in His image, and creative in turn.

At the other end of the human spectrum, the police (always eager to please their man-made masters) arrested some of the marchers.

“Oh, the humanity!” a dog growled.

Distractions, infractions,

modern day Red Brigade splinter factions,

destroying your purpose and goal,

such as it may have been,

now just a memory,

as you gaze blindly at the blue dot,

mesmerized,

and forgetting,

your forsaken destiny.

Welcome to life AD 2016.

 

Always other people,

violations, complications, circumstances, compromises.

Everybody wants a piece of you.

Everybody wants to screw you.

 

Switch off.

Turn off.

Tune out.

Exhale and escape society.

Release.

And…

how beautiful it is to take my shoes off,

expose the soles of my feet,

coolness, breathing fresh air, peace

and Godliness.

 

 

Your life is testing,

like free-verse haiku quandries,

rarely understood.

She wore a beach hat, Panamka-style, Abkhazia printed in Cyrillic.

Happy holidays.

Happy memories.

Life.

She wore a Cross on a long chain.

Identity and faith.

And

sunglasses, to keep out the glare and contaminants of this world.

She wore nothing else today.

It was a good day.

The day that the Lord has made.

Rejoice, and be glad in it.

Living epistle.

Her hat made a statement.

Her Cross made a statement.

Her sunglasses made a statement.

She made a statement.

Life is a statement,

every silent expression,

seen or unseen,

sends a message.

Living epistle.

 

Yes, I know it could be said that I’m “spinning my wheels”, so as to say. I feel it too, and it is most frustrating. Confusing fragments, life, death, memories, and strands of in/sanity. Soon though, I’ve got to believe, something will click, in a good way, and things will come together. Yes, believe.

You hear the people in the street,

they never run out of things to say,

no matter how banal,

they seem to derive pleasure from the act of putting out, communicating.

You hate that.

You hate the sound of your own voice (words are so much better when they’re within your head, right?); you hate the sound of clanging cymbals, honking horns, barking dogs and people working before 8am. Cacophonies of despondency, myriad confusions. People blocking your way, dementing, as they talk yet more bullshit.

You have run out of things to say. Except, perhaps, thank you for listening.

… 

 

Hand on railing, the starlet looks meaningfully into the camera. She’s (literally) in touch with her past.

Why should we care that her long-dead relative once also touched this railing, climbed and descended these stairs?

Apparently we do, we’re watching the TV show: yes, we’re watching what the powers-that-be think we want to watch … (actually, we’re just waiting for this program to finish, so we can watch the next one…)

Starlet has the present and future in her hands, why does she want the past? (That burden’s too heavy even for Stakhanov!)

Move the fuck on!