Double X (w/ PodCast)

Double X

Few are eager to step forward and be counted among we inexistent

Though the matter be exigent, most prefer to stay safely distant.

In an instant—fight or flight instincts kick in—fear of extinction

Ionized molecules adhere to laws writ on extemporaneous atoms like imprints.

Voulez vous visitez Provence dans printemps?  Mais nous sommes exeunt!

Can't comprehend this accent?  It is but an accident, that you must exempt

Even if nobody said, "Accept life on its own terms, stunted yet excellent."

These ramblings represent an extracurricular experiment

For when Theuth offered us scripture as Pharmakon, Amoun did explicitly comment:

"'tis a double-edged blade; expanding one's intellect while exalting the arrogant..."

Heart It Read Aloud by the Author:

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Vanitas Vanitatum Et Omnia Vanitas!

Vanitas Vanitatum Et Omnia Vanitas! 

This was etched here for the few, never ever for the many;

It is meet to start a feud, against those whose words are empty.

Without proper Anti-Thesis, there can be no Synthesis

Else stagnation settles in and there is little more than this — 

{ Sardonic inscription, spray-painted on walls

Shot out from reactionary hips

Stray bullet urging bystander:

Plug your ears and seal your lips

Except if you've something worth saying

That hasn't already been said

Recreation is an act of playing

Inside somebody else's poor head }

Who dares to defy their own impulses?  Who can rebuff the current's flow?
A dowse among sand dunes proves shallow, unless water surges below.

Bring forth your sublime inner essence — dodging naysayers and sycophants
Absence of Ego is presence, for those possessed by pure providence!

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Insomniac Rounds (Special Edition w/ PodCast)

Insomniac Rounds

A silken fog descends upon the prairies of your mind

A long-lost feeling reconnects your body to your soul

Some damned cannibal took your pills and bit your naked flesh
So still the sleep eludes you while it taunts your haunted eyes

Smoke some dreams and live your lives
No one notices the lies

Drink this down with all your crimes:

We are wicked like the gods

So very wicked like our gods

A cloud of unknowing ascends the mountain of your doubt

A well-known secret represents what you have gone about

An avenging angel broke your will without sparing the rod

And now you shake your fist at heaven and curse the name of God

Why don’t you . . .

Smoke some dreams then live your life?

No one notices the lies

Drink this down along with your crimes:

We are wicked just like gods

So wicked like our gods

In the valley of remorse

We suspect a common source

But forgetful on these shores

The wicked get no rest

No they won’t get any rest

Pray the wicked receive no rest

May the wicked have no rest!

Hear It Sung Aloud by the Author:

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Eyes of The Soulless

Eyes of The Soulless

And then you saw
That the beam of light hailing from the sky
Was a memory revealed, here in the twilight of our sleep

A memory you had, before you ever lived it
But as it unfolded to become an experienced reality
You felt so strange
Your wary gut boded ill

Who is this man that you've drawn?
His eyes are frightening to fellow travelers
Because he is not what he seems
He is unaware of his senses
And yet he is alive

A vacant shell

Corpse sans fantôme
Under a spell

Adrift, forlorn.

Cognitive powers: under-developed
Conception of time: materially enveloped 
// pragmatic at best but far too cumbersome to set sail on the gales of infinitude //

Now this system has become infected
Thy vessel contaminated

Thou shouldst take flight till dusk descends
Tonight healthy spirits shall find thee again —

Spurn wanton grief for 'tis a trifle when

Folly permits yon splendor dimmed

And one ought to bask in the evening's glory

Instead of indulging finite whims

Or retracing another tired step in such an undying mortal story.

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Anti-Poets Arise

Anti-Poets Arise!

Aujourd'hui, il y a poètes partout — mais la poésie a disparu.
Ainsi, voici la poésie, sans poète:


In this day and age, to maintain their integrity
Poets should assume anonymity
Everything else is mere vanity

Why?

Because poets are invariably deluded, to varying degrees
via the very nature of their art form.
For whosoever works with words runs a risk of relating much too deeply
with meanings put forth by purely symbolic syllables.

It is one thing to call yourself a poet, while it is quite another to be regarded as a poet by your peers.
Ergo, validation and accolades have become the primary preoccupations of many would-be bards.

Yet the state of poetry declines with each moment that these pundits dominate our airwaves. Reciting stereotypical inanities is fundamentally profane!
How is it we fall so easily into the all-embracing arms of such cliché? 

Exteriors may call for neat description but interiors require nuanced expression. 

Even so, creative use of language is no longer what folks crave.
Any challenge to lazy intellects was not ever well-received.
Publishers pressure writers to dumb down their manuscripts
for a public weaned on viral-videos and web logs.

Thus, actual terms fall from usage as slang in speech prevails
and true artistry is sacrificed for the sake of commercial viability.
There was a time when poets stood on equal footing with philosophers and mathematicians;
when poetry was more than an outlet for adolescent angst or some narcissistic charade.

Now although the status-quo might continue being the same
Anti-Poets shall arise, to rewrite rules in this game!

Listen to accompanying audio (composed and performed by the Author):

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