Often a reel is played out much like a dream
That constitutes a fizzing remembrance,
Of evenings and nights of jaw-grinding forgetfulness
Running parallel with philosophical chit-chat that never made sense
And melodic chaos that would later fade as the peak crashes down
And the Sun starts to rise.
In the beginning hedonism had full reign
But in the midst of it all, poor troopers got lost.
A dystopia mistook for an equilibrium
A utopia of nosebleeds and receding funds.
Possessions lost, tolerance building,
And left to simmer in filth.
Well now pace has gathered,
No longer slumped unless given the craved jolt.
No longer sal
Destined to be what?
Answer that, because at the end of the day,
(And you know what's coming next, don't you?
Well before I say it, don't picture me eyeliner adorned,
Bondage-wear and teary eyed,
More bespectacled and atop a podium in a lecture hall)
We all die.
Oh yes, moan and mope but that
Is not my intention. My intention is a choice
Pleasure or success?
One may derive pleasure from success,
But success rarely comes from pleasure alone,
And what, then, outdoes the other?
For a man is not worth a wealth in smiles and blue-sky memories,
But a man is worth a wealth in shares and statistics.
Would one want to pass with a
A solid metal plate was nailed to my lips
So all profane truths I had to say were dismissed,
But my decision to do this has now backfired,
It's too late now for me to call you a bitch and a liar.
But better late than never, so tonight I'm being a child,
Tonight I'm throwing a tantrum. Oh, yes, I'm being wild.
You fucked me over, royally, and now you're in the clear,
And perhaps they let it pass; perhaps it slipped their ears,
But they're starting to discover what festers behind the blue:
A junkie for cascades of tears that masquerades as you.
I've held my tongue all this time, pretending that I'm fine,
But I think about it every da
A sentiment that quivers under the thumb of thick skin,
Whilst remaining units stretch and try to give in,
To toss the neuro-plague in the memory bin,
And disregard misty moments as worthwhile sins,
We may say we suffer a blow to the chin,
And tremor unstable with a cold song to sing,
Each whisper in halflight becomes an earful of ring,
And when asked of the mindframe, you respond: Nothing.
Children spew sweet verse from generations before,
And we know that when our time has come, it'll be them who sweep the floor
Mopping up the same shit that we force out ourselves now,
Whilst we mopped up the same shit that our predecessors spat out.
A cycle, a vicious one, and it didn't have to be,
But evolution in the wrong direction caused logic to cease
A dawn of reliance on liars and deceivers, we're leaning on them now,
Some of us have open eyes, but still continue to bow.
The hypocrisy that we accommodate, we never take for gospel,
Yet we continue to put our weight on the force we know is hostile.
As technology prospers
You were screwed up and thrown in a waste-paper bin,
And in time my mindset began to mimic yours.
Using the powers that we had in our fingertips and voices
We raised each other up on more than one occasion,
But I could never make your lips stretch and twitch
The way that another could.
This storm disguised as true love tore its way
Through the shaky foundations you built for others like me,
The people interconnected in your social nervous system.
This breakdown disguised as enlightenment.
Because not once inch of his grin appeared to be sly.
And in a flourish when I most needed that electric
Zing of hope that you inject into me, y
I had a dream last night,
That slapped me in the face like a leather-bound adversary.
It was a glorious dream where values
Were upheld to the right thing
And a beautiful soul triumphed
Over a stunning set of tits.
In this dream, notice arose
For those who spoke, not words,
But poetry, and who thought
Not in trains, but in rivers.
The nice guys didn't finish last
And the bad ones never started.
In my dream, more grace was given
To an arm rested on a quivering shoulder,
Than a hand slipped down the boxer shorts
Or a more-than-willing stranger.
In my dream, hands were held
Regardless of colour or creed,
And smiles where exchang
Dwindling to a cloud of delayed spontaneity,
Hands clasped in prayer, pondering the impulsive.
A chattering of teeth amongst a murmuring whirlwind
Of empty promises and senseless declaratives.
No wire clenches the jaw such as this,
A process so clogged with indecision
That it endeavours too much to ache.
Try to open a lidless block of lead.
These pupils stay stagnant, these pools do not quiver.
A stroke occurs when purporting the act
Of one foot acting in front of the other.
The thought of lips brushing and a stranger's breath
Creeping its way down the spine,
Is alien.
The tongue clicks too solemn,
And these words are mumbles.
You do nothing for this moment, this frame in time,
And your battles are not what you insist
Eyes won't turn toward you in awe, knowing not what hesitates
To be made known. That hissing black ooze you call blood,
That institutionalised frame of ice you call bone,
The factory-made insulation you call skin,
- So well made we will never scratch the surface,
But a battering ram of self-deprivation of rights
For your peace, may cause this to tear,
For the ooze to mix with the sweat you extracted
From the pits of people you saw yourself above.
It's not flammable, it's just ugly.
No one carries your throne,
Delusional, you contin
Often a reel is played out much like a dream
That constitutes a fizzing remembrance,
Of evenings and nights of jaw-grinding forgetfulness
Running parallel with philosophical chit-chat that never made sense
And melodic chaos that would later fade as the peak crashes down
And the Sun starts to rise.
In the beginning hedonism had full reign
But in the midst of it all, poor troopers got lost.
A dystopia mistook for an equilibrium
A utopia of nosebleeds and receding funds.
Possessions lost, tolerance building,
And left to simmer in filth.
Well now pace has gathered,
No longer slumped unless given the craved jolt.
No longer sal
Destined to be what?
Answer that, because at the end of the day,
(And you know what's coming next, don't you?
Well before I say it, don't picture me eyeliner adorned,
Bondage-wear and teary eyed,
More bespectacled and atop a podium in a lecture hall)
We all die.
Oh yes, moan and mope but that
Is not my intention. My intention is a choice
Pleasure or success?
One may derive pleasure from success,
But success rarely comes from pleasure alone,
And what, then, outdoes the other?
For a man is not worth a wealth in smiles and blue-sky memories,
But a man is worth a wealth in shares and statistics.
Would one want to pass with a
A solid metal plate was nailed to my lips
So all profane truths I had to say were dismissed,
But my decision to do this has now backfired,
It's too late now for me to call you a bitch and a liar.
But better late than never, so tonight I'm being a child,
Tonight I'm throwing a tantrum. Oh, yes, I'm being wild.
You fucked me over, royally, and now you're in the clear,
And perhaps they let it pass; perhaps it slipped their ears,
But they're starting to discover what festers behind the blue:
A junkie for cascades of tears that masquerades as you.
I've held my tongue all this time, pretending that I'm fine,
But I think about it every da
A sentiment that quivers under the thumb of thick skin,
Whilst remaining units stretch and try to give in,
To toss the neuro-plague in the memory bin,
And disregard misty moments as worthwhile sins,
We may say we suffer a blow to the chin,
And tremor unstable with a cold song to sing,
Each whisper in halflight becomes an earful of ring,
And when asked of the mindframe, you respond: Nothing.
Children spew sweet verse from generations before,
And we know that when our time has come, it'll be them who sweep the floor
Mopping up the same shit that we force out ourselves now,
Whilst we mopped up the same shit that our predecessors spat out.
A cycle, a vicious one, and it didn't have to be,
But evolution in the wrong direction caused logic to cease
A dawn of reliance on liars and deceivers, we're leaning on them now,
Some of us have open eyes, but still continue to bow.
The hypocrisy that we accommodate, we never take for gospel,
Yet we continue to put our weight on the force we know is hostile.
As technology prospers
You were screwed up and thrown in a waste-paper bin,
And in time my mindset began to mimic yours.
Using the powers that we had in our fingertips and voices
We raised each other up on more than one occasion,
But I could never make your lips stretch and twitch
The way that another could.
This storm disguised as true love tore its way
Through the shaky foundations you built for others like me,
The people interconnected in your social nervous system.
This breakdown disguised as enlightenment.
Because not once inch of his grin appeared to be sly.
And in a flourish when I most needed that electric
Zing of hope that you inject into me, y
I had a dream last night,
That slapped me in the face like a leather-bound adversary.
It was a glorious dream where values
Were upheld to the right thing
And a beautiful soul triumphed
Over a stunning set of tits.
In this dream, notice arose
For those who spoke, not words,
But poetry, and who thought
Not in trains, but in rivers.
The nice guys didn't finish last
And the bad ones never started.
In my dream, more grace was given
To an arm rested on a quivering shoulder,
Than a hand slipped down the boxer shorts
Or a more-than-willing stranger.
In my dream, hands were held
Regardless of colour or creed,
And smiles where exchang
Dwindling to a cloud of delayed spontaneity,
Hands clasped in prayer, pondering the impulsive.
A chattering of teeth amongst a murmuring whirlwind
Of empty promises and senseless declaratives.
No wire clenches the jaw such as this,
A process so clogged with indecision
That it endeavours too much to ache.
Try to open a lidless block of lead.
These pupils stay stagnant, these pools do not quiver.
A stroke occurs when purporting the act
Of one foot acting in front of the other.
The thought of lips brushing and a stranger's breath
Creeping its way down the spine,
Is alien.
The tongue clicks too solemn,
And these words are mumbles.
Knights of the Burning Sun by degeneratemerman, literature
Literature
Knights of the Burning Sun
We are the knights of the burning sun
It is tonight the war was won
In minds of kinds that fought against
We remain with no defence
To what we have become
Blind to storms that flood this place
In clouds of grey lucidity
Bathing in serene disgrace
It's us that shakes the sea
Now time is dead, it peeled away
For us it's just another day
With bags of dreams
The end it seems...
But my soul has more to say,
As it looks for light inside a hole of serpentine decay...
I'm drowning in your eyes
More perfect than a daysworth of words;
A moment's silence between us
Waiting to be shattered
By some double decker bus
If this was our film
The credits would roll
When I kiss you in the rain
But that chance's been missed
And I'll not easily forget
I bet its raining where you are
And for once
I don't mind getting wet
It's rush hour on the M25
and forty-two years ago I'd want to be a cowboy
that, or a policeman.
Then came those evenings with the tobacco strewn desk
with that flexi-lamp placed
a spotlight on that little green lump.
Igniting and billowing over the sound of comfort
stinking plumes out my bedroom window.
I had plans. Plans don't work
remember the VW campervan
that we never did get hold of?
Or that pet snake named Poncho
that only existed behind cerebral framework.
Cultivating.
Now it's Terry Wogan, aging
Hi, if anyone still follows me on this, I've made a blog now for all my best poems. Some of the stuff I've written here is far too embarrassing in retrospect so here's my new blog for all who are interested.
http://entheogenetic.blogspot.co.uk/
I doubt there's any point posting this as my audience has withered down to a few people but, guess what, I'M GONNA DO IT ANYWAY! Take that.
As of a few Wednesday's ago, I am no longer a member of Collyer's Eternal Cess Pit Sixth Form. Well, perhaps that was too harsh - sixth form is the place to go if you're an academic person with a vague idea of what you want to do in your future and Collyer's is great for that. But, if you have a clear and set out idea of where you want to be in two year's time and how you want to go about it, it's not the right place. Where there should be creativity, there is over-analysis. Where there should be freedom
I so rarely frequent this site now and I feel like a bit of a traitor. I've looked at barely any deviations... got 651 I have to eventually filter through. I'm put off by the whole "stack" thing. Ah well. New shit, for those who are interested.
Tony Tuesley, my granddad, is in a vegetative state and will die soon. That's been a huge blow to our family so that's been hard lately. But shitty things happen and we're all here for eachother. He was a lovely chap and will be missed very much.
Good news is college is nearly over and its easter holidays now so the transition to Brighton is getting closer. Which means the transition to my 18th birth
I stumbled across your page by searching "mephedrone" so that has to mean something, right?
Anyway, the poem I read was fucking ace, so I'll watch you and come back to your page on another day where it doesn't feel like my skull is collapsing inward.