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The length of my passing
Contributed by
iodinelove
on
Thursday, 24th March 2005 @ 11:20:57 PM in AEST
Topic:
EmotionalPoetry
|
It all falls apart. It all ends.
I wake up every morning and go to work. You do the same. That's the way it's supposed to happen, right? That's the gist of it all. Work. Earn money. Buy. That's the point. And when you buy something, anything, you expect a certain quality. An alleged account of the quality of the potato chips rotting your stomach, brought to you by, published by, and written in crisp, formal lettering by such and such a company, individual, or manufacturer selling you the product, or a magazine article, a newspaper clipping, an athlete's single handed testimony of such product and why you should buy that product. That's what you want.
You don't want generically processed t-shirts, potato chips, orange juice. No, you want a good name, high quality; you want to spend absorbent prices to pay for advertising freely, otherwise it's no good, it's nothing, it's *****. Isn't that what we all want? Something to claim meaning for, something that seems to matter.
What if it doesn't matter? What do you do then? Do you sit in your house in your bed in your bathroom taking a *****, afraid to go out, afraid to see the hundreds upon hundreds of logos surrounding you? Do you turn yourself inside out, just to cope with a world that you don't understand?
Reading this, you might expect a witty beginning, or something that draws you, that grips your ever shortening attention span and drags you through each page, each word, each imagined life and leaves you somewhere alone in a mass of excitement and adventure. But you can't have that, reading this. You can't have a moment to breathe, a second to turn the page. You can't have thoughtless drivel; end after end of pointless suicides spewing from the sheets, from the letters themselves. You can't have a tragedy, a love story, an end to end all ends. You don't have the time.
And I tell myself this over and over and over again. But all the world is full of drama. All the world is a meaningless pit crammed with meaning and heartfelt words and inspiration and beauty. The sun always shines on me. I am loved greatly. I am loved. I am loved. I am loved and I do not love. And so the world is an empty nest to me that slowly rises and falls and it sleeps in blue and gray and gold, and it evaporates when I'm cold and hungry or need a cigarette and then it's full of rage and pain.
I wonder if there's a point, even though I know there is. I wonder if any of this makes sense, even though I know it doesn't. It's just one persons thought. One person to think and act and write and create nothing over nothing. To spew empty words and put a title on top to make sing true to empty, dying people.
I am dying too. I look in my shadow and I see all of my bones. I look in the mirror and I see pale flesh and brown hair. I walk down alleyways and see whores, and they are dying too. A green eyed, red haired, voluptuous woman sitting on a milk crate smoking a cigarette with a black eyed crow tattooed on her shoulder, she is dying, dead, alive for the length of my passing; the black eyed crow surrounds me, my dreams. Cawing, cawing, cawing, craving my demand, my impending doom.
Copyright ©
iodinelove
... [
2005-03-24 23:20:57]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: The length of my passing
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Friday, 25th March 2005 @ 12:39:31 AM AEST
(User
Info | Send
a Message)
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Rather rapid in pace.
An interesting piece
Abrupt and transitional like a dream....
Extraordinarily precise in regards to consumerism...
This piece reminds me of someone with psychosis... very clinical and intriguing. |
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