Friday, November 23, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
Lyric
On soundcloud
I believe there has come to be
an elementary figment in the family tree
a solid figure boasts, painting waves,
"I threw the child out with the mediterranean sea."
Bring me water, bring me luck,
I've tamed the lion, serenely stuck
without a common ancestor, they cease to agree
Forgive the mess, derive the duck.
Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, ever after, and decisive contact resolves the matter.
Scheduled meetings begin the week,
Tempests toss the bird-shaped leek.
I've had it up to approximately here,
such befits the earl of tongue-in-cheek.
Merging livid similar faces,
alive today, yet cloaked in graces,
redraw the world in disarray,
swimming water, dancing grasses.
Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, ever after, and decisive contact resolves the matter.
Beings crushed beneath the film,
Esther bought a brand new kiln
I'm certain that this sadness jokes and stresses
the certainty of standing still NO
No one wants to hear why I do
the things that I do, the way that I do,
But that's one reason why I'm forced to
forget that I'm doing anything at all.
Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, never after, and derisive conflict dissolves the matter.
I believe there has come to be
an elementary figment in the family tree
a solid figure boasts, painting waves,
"I threw the child out with the mediterranean sea."
Bring me water, bring me luck,
I've tamed the lion, serenely stuck
without a common ancestor, they cease to agree
Forgive the mess, derive the duck.
Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, ever after, and decisive contact resolves the matter.
Scheduled meetings begin the week,
Tempests toss the bird-shaped leek.
I've had it up to approximately here,
such befits the earl of tongue-in-cheek.
Merging livid similar faces,
alive today, yet cloaked in graces,
redraw the world in disarray,
swimming water, dancing grasses.
Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, ever after, and decisive contact resolves the matter.
Beings crushed beneath the film,
Esther bought a brand new kiln
I'm certain that this sadness jokes and stresses
the certainty of standing still NO
No one wants to hear why I do
the things that I do, the way that I do,
But that's one reason why I'm forced to
forget that I'm doing anything at all.
Buy me things, blow me thither, damn the eloquent salamander to old South Africa.
Fifteen years, never after, and derisive conflict dissolves the matter.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Titleous Maximus
It's a good thing I don't have more readers. Oh wait, scratch that, it's actually a terrible thing. It's not NOT a good thing, though, so I guess unscratch that. It's a good and terrible thing that I don't have more readers.
Fucking bloody hell, and bloody Mary. Who first wrote bloody? It aught to be bluddy. Bloody looks like what it looks like. Bloody. Blood. From the root word "bloo", which is clearly a misspelling of the word "blue".
The point of getting on here today was to get myself into a relaxing state. Therapeutic saying things. I love yet don't love at all how, practically, I'm unintelligible. Note. Note. Two-note chord. Three-note chord. Is that music? Is it music yet? I can't tell, but I'm leaning toward it isn't music. Put down the guitar. Pick up the guitar. Consider what I've just done, decide that putting it back down could be the next logical step, and then I could pick it up again. Then, to show my understanding of and lack of appreciation for what's happening, I could swing the guitar full-force against the wall or the bedpost. Those who smoke marijuana do not have this trouble. They do not notice that they are not playing music; they continue to play two- and three-note chords, happily. But then, in their happiness, by their happiness, is sound made music. Of course marijuana isn't the solution.
Open a jar. No, open a can. Open a can of green beans. Take out one green bean. Open one green bean. Take out one seed. Show the seed to the camera. Put the seed back into the green bean, put the green bean back into the can, lower the lid. You are now wondering what is to come of this can of green beans. It is opened, you cannot reseal it. Perhaps you will throw it away, or rubber band some cling-wrap on it. Either one is fine, but you must consider why it was necessary to open the can to begin with.
Mountainous, gliding over the scenery. Nothing matters that matters now. Perhaps into infancy, or into the period when you didn't have so many things to worry about. Before you cared what people thought of you. You once professed flagrant disregard for others' opinion of you. You once picked your nose truly, effortlessly. You wore a lunchbag on your head, marched about singing "We are the soldiers of the world!" You were still criticised for caring too much, though. You didn't struggle with anything. Everything was easy. You were once free. You followed your desires, and although you didn't always get what you wanted, you never had cause for suicide. Now you follow desires, you follow them once again. You chase them. You set your motive, you give it a name. There is no greater achievement than to win the one you want. But there are other great achievements: science, philosophy, learning. Yet again, more than these, to win the one you want. But what are the means to this end? You must pursue lesser goals, and find them found. A shift, though. Contemplation of what you've seen. The greatest aid to a dream fulfilled is the isolation of its driving force. Smith a sword, then make the sword work for you.
Fucking bloody hell, and bloody Mary. Who first wrote bloody? It aught to be bluddy. Bloody looks like what it looks like. Bloody. Blood. From the root word "bloo", which is clearly a misspelling of the word "blue".
The point of getting on here today was to get myself into a relaxing state. Therapeutic saying things. I love yet don't love at all how, practically, I'm unintelligible. Note. Note. Two-note chord. Three-note chord. Is that music? Is it music yet? I can't tell, but I'm leaning toward it isn't music. Put down the guitar. Pick up the guitar. Consider what I've just done, decide that putting it back down could be the next logical step, and then I could pick it up again. Then, to show my understanding of and lack of appreciation for what's happening, I could swing the guitar full-force against the wall or the bedpost. Those who smoke marijuana do not have this trouble. They do not notice that they are not playing music; they continue to play two- and three-note chords, happily. But then, in their happiness, by their happiness, is sound made music. Of course marijuana isn't the solution.
Open a jar. No, open a can. Open a can of green beans. Take out one green bean. Open one green bean. Take out one seed. Show the seed to the camera. Put the seed back into the green bean, put the green bean back into the can, lower the lid. You are now wondering what is to come of this can of green beans. It is opened, you cannot reseal it. Perhaps you will throw it away, or rubber band some cling-wrap on it. Either one is fine, but you must consider why it was necessary to open the can to begin with.
Mountainous, gliding over the scenery. Nothing matters that matters now. Perhaps into infancy, or into the period when you didn't have so many things to worry about. Before you cared what people thought of you. You once professed flagrant disregard for others' opinion of you. You once picked your nose truly, effortlessly. You wore a lunchbag on your head, marched about singing "We are the soldiers of the world!" You were still criticised for caring too much, though. You didn't struggle with anything. Everything was easy. You were once free. You followed your desires, and although you didn't always get what you wanted, you never had cause for suicide. Now you follow desires, you follow them once again. You chase them. You set your motive, you give it a name. There is no greater achievement than to win the one you want. But there are other great achievements: science, philosophy, learning. Yet again, more than these, to win the one you want. But what are the means to this end? You must pursue lesser goals, and find them found. A shift, though. Contemplation of what you've seen. The greatest aid to a dream fulfilled is the isolation of its driving force. Smith a sword, then make the sword work for you.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Organised Thoughts
- That which causes war is the same that creates internal stability.
- I refuse to choose sides, thus forfeiting a chance at stability.
- I am regularly trying to identify myself as a good man, but have considerable trouble doing so.
- I have no difficulty conceiving innovative ideas, but have no skill whatsoever in applying them to my fingers or tongue, to express and utilise my individuality for the common good.
- I may need to switch modes, to a simpler form of writing, in order to pursue lengthy and beneficially productive goals; but I'm not sure how to go about this.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
If
Do I have a responsibility to make some kind of sense?
Or, if I am to expect to be treated as a person, am I required to think like a person?
I am in left-field. Unequivocally. I am an equivocator.
Persons start with a thesis; persons make points. Persons wade in and out of water, for pleasure; persons don't arbitrarily come up with the idea to wade in and out of water, where there is clearly no water to wade in and out of. Persons don't smoke cigarettes, as cigarettes are deathly. Persons say deadly when they mean deadly, and deathly when they mean deathly. Persons do not wish to die, persons do not think of death; persons may think of death, but will certainly never allow an inconsistency of thought to play out in the public eye, as I have done here.
As for the definition of equivocate, google says that it is to "use ambiguous language so as to conceal the truth or avoid committing oneself." Well, I'd say I'm more of the second type of equivocator. Not that I'm essentially non-committal, though, really; rather, although I'm sure I'm very committed to at least one thing, that thing is ambiguous. At least, it is ambiguous to most schools of thought. But then, what if you, too, are a like-minded equivocator? It may be that only the lazy know what the drive behind their laziness is. It may be that this is all nonsense; I'm a very unrecognised author, so I could see how it might be true that this is all nonsense. I'm not an author at all, so now I'm almost certain that this is nonsense; but, for the sake of self-preservation, I'm going to assume that there is some truth to the nonsense.
Or, if I am to expect to be treated as a person, am I required to think like a person?
I am in left-field. Unequivocally. I am an equivocator.
Persons start with a thesis; persons make points. Persons wade in and out of water, for pleasure; persons don't arbitrarily come up with the idea to wade in and out of water, where there is clearly no water to wade in and out of. Persons don't smoke cigarettes, as cigarettes are deathly. Persons say deadly when they mean deadly, and deathly when they mean deathly. Persons do not wish to die, persons do not think of death; persons may think of death, but will certainly never allow an inconsistency of thought to play out in the public eye, as I have done here.
As for the definition of equivocate, google says that it is to "use ambiguous language so as to conceal the truth or avoid committing oneself." Well, I'd say I'm more of the second type of equivocator. Not that I'm essentially non-committal, though, really; rather, although I'm sure I'm very committed to at least one thing, that thing is ambiguous. At least, it is ambiguous to most schools of thought. But then, what if you, too, are a like-minded equivocator? It may be that only the lazy know what the drive behind their laziness is. It may be that this is all nonsense; I'm a very unrecognised author, so I could see how it might be true that this is all nonsense. I'm not an author at all, so now I'm almost certain that this is nonsense; but, for the sake of self-preservation, I'm going to assume that there is some truth to the nonsense.
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