like wolves. like smoke. like the rest of the fucking world.

October 24, 2011

double feature.

I hate myself for not being more active about this. When I lose my desire to write permanently, I'll have no one to blame but myself.

Here's something about not wanting to be here.


like smoke,
i travel wherever the wind
decides to take me.
and those winds of change
that were once so strong:
the very ones that brought me here
have never truly left since that day.
and like the gusts they are
they don’t just creep up;
they don’t fucking let up;
and they won’t fucking shut up
until i’m all shut up.
all locked up
in my neat, little casket
nestled deep in a grave i made
one i dug and decorated
the one place i’m comfortable enough
to stay.

And one about NATO. (big surprise).
As if I'd let Gadhafi die and not bitch about it on here. Sheesh.

war machine

generator generated
three strikes on its last outing,
and without a doubt
this will be the finest doubting
we’ve ever ousted.

hand-picked pictorial,
end-all of end-all editorials.
nobody questions
requests from all to stop shouting;
at least no one did.

survivors salivating
walls red, they’re repainting,
building buildings
in hopes of rebuilding that old thing;
they built a prison.

prisoners picturing
a pillow under the mess we made
always assuming
there’s something to be doing;
it’s been done.

sprockets spinning,
the machine is up and running.
infinitely idling
in hopes of finding someplace new
to crash and burn.

Listen to more NIN.

June 28, 2011

insert credits to play

It's been far too long and this post will be far too short to make up for it. Not that anybody pays attention to this shit anyways.

words on civil disobedience:

I'm sorry, am I disrupting the signals? I realize I'm the sore thumb of this hand, but I'm still good for something. It's not my fault you're incapable of concluding. It's not my fault you'd prefer to divide.
We're all broken cogs in this imperfect machine, trying to pull each others weight. But until one of us budges, none of us move and we'll remain enslaved to a flurry of algorithms that of which none of us comprehend; just going through the motions and accepting the minimal action we're given.

Fuck it.
i'll be back.


April 30, 2011

O ye of little faith...

Submitted for your approval on April 30th, 2011:

Today peacekeeping and terrorism landed on the same page in my dictionary. Today I realized that "peacekeeping" is just a fancy word used by those in power to fool us into believing they have not declared war. This is manufactured consent in the flesh. It has made itself visible in the dead today in Libya. Gaddafi may have been a dictator and his troops may have killed civilians all over Libya, but today NATO sank to that level with the bombing of Saif al-Arab Gaddafi's residence. Sure this may not have actually been an assassination attempt against Muammar Gaddafi (who was in the residence at the time of the bombing). Sure this may have been accidental. But how are we to know?
All the information we receive comes from NATO and the United Nations's PR desks, as well as global media corporations who, while they have the power to critique their home country's actions, refuse to do so because they are cowards. We should really question everything we see; every single thing that goes on in our big, fucked up world. Otherwise we miss the things that matter the most: all the things that are swept under the rug and all the bodies that are buried behind blind eyes. Question everything. That's the only way to learn anything.

and with that comes this:

next are the oppressed...

this was a failed attempt,
but we’ll play it off as an accident.
we’ve got the influence
so we’ll call it whatever we want.
who are they to question?
we’ve explained our motives
and they know the mandates.
therefore, we’re untouchable
because we’re the ones doing the touching.
and it's truly touching
the way they scamper about
and beg for peace
as they writhe under our iron fist.
and the protection from the aforementioned
is our highest priority.
we’ll be the judge as to who’s harmful.
we’ll be the judge as to who’s not.
and we know just what side of the fence our troops are on.
there is no right or wrong,
there’s just the right to what’s left.
we’re scavengers
with the technology to scavenge
from the bottom-feeders
and not think a thing of it.
for we are the saviours,
just as we always are,
and that’s where we’ll always remain.
so sit back
and watch where our cards fall
as we fire up the machine
in hopes of deconstructing a regime
and rebuilding our own
necessary illusion
that declares that the fear has gone.

March 06, 2011

the revolution will be broadcast...

Something to break the mould; the mould I've created for myself.
There's a reoccurring feeling (or at least I hope there is) in most of the poetry I write. This sticks close, but as far as its format is concerned, I wanted to explore a new layout. I feel like it fits with the theme. Here's an abstract:
I am surrounded by hopeful revolutionaries. Who are all fighting so they can one day fight their own war. Future leaders, present dreamers. I respect them all, but I prefer not to agree with their ideals. Say what you will about yourself, but I know for a fact that I'm not here to change our entire world. Especially not on my own. Not unlike my beliefs concerning Anarchism, I believe in revolution on a smaller scale, because it's the only way it will work. I'm not here to tell people what they should fight for, I'm just here to provide the other side of the argument; to make you all think. Education, not indoctrination. My purpose is to see you all prosper and to follow you all the way.

une cause commune?

burn in these images.
play back the broken record.

somehow it sounds worse every fucking time i hear it.

pain on repeat.
loses sensation over time.

even the sickest of sadists knows.

but you keep on portraying.
the facade ever fading.

a complex too complex for my liking.

your world is electric.
mine’s all intensive.

and for all intensive purposes, i’d say i’m fucking purposeless.

fucking pathetic.

a sorry excuse even for your proletariat.

I'll be fielding questions til the day I die,

January 28, 2011

one on one

It feels nice, having a voice again. Call me gothic, but words just can't explain how great it is. I need to thank my muse. You know who you are.
I appreciate your giving voice to the voiceless, and being the only person who reads this bullshit.

she gives (me)aning.

raise the flag_.
raise the fucking white flag.
these faces won’t stop staring
and their anticipation
is killing me,
so i’m killing them.
(we’re all dead anyways.)

why not latch?
why not leech?
we can’t win on our own
and we can’t heal
without first diagnosing our

i’m searching you
for something
i’ve hated.
(and you know damn well)
it’s everything
i’ve ever fucking wanted.

our dirty circuitry is circling;
(you encircle me)
i would _love_
to be
lost in our symmetry;
in our twisted little forestry;
our fortress
(our dream).

something so simply hidden
should not have been
so hard to find.
i’ve invested time
(after time)
in the same
useless search,
but now i’ve found
a new puzzle;
a new struggle.
and it’s the best kind
of trouble;
(you give me)
the best time
i’ve never had.

Going nowhere never seemed this meaningful.


January 02, 2011

just enough to piss you off:

“It’s funny how afraid we are of gravity itself,
when defying it should be our biggest fear.”

Every generation, every culture, every society is defined by movement or an icon. Looking back, it’s easy to stereotype decades, eras, peoples, into convenient little looks, styles and stigmas.
This current generation will be an easy one to define — all we’ll have to do is open our web browsers.

The internet has quickly become our society’s crutch. It’s something we rely on, something we quench, something we desire.
And unfortunately for us, we’re no longer in control of it.
As much as we’d like to believe we aren’t, we’re all slaves to something much bigger than us. We’re paying for freedom, we’re paying for knowledge and we’re paying for our own identity.
We're no better than a bunch of fucking junkies.

Our crutch began as nothing but a pretty little toy that we built.
But now it’s grown;
it’s snowballed into an entity of it’s own.
Our resource is now feeding off of us,
and we’re all laying back and accepting it.

Wake up.
Is this how you want to be remembered?
As a profile?
As a number?
As a series of still images?
A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a legacy is worth more than any of that.

Pull out of Big Brother and try to remember who you were.
And more importantly,
who you could be.

*NOTE: I realize the irony that lies in this being posted on a blog, but you're not gonna come read it off my notepad now, are you?