Quote:
Originally Posted by Eŋg
the mind stops.
we confuse stasis for backwards movement,
|
Do "we", Eng? Do "we" really?
Quote:
i've got unused basics. acting prudent
but these fundamentals are built on shaky terrain
- whose falling? truth calling,
does her gentle lilt ache me again,
or chase in the vein a beat that resounds
of a feeling i've floundered to forget.
tell me how your pulse speaks
and its pound you reject?
|
The imagery is so jumbled up, disjointed and discombobulated. Like a drunken mind trying to make sense of the world. And .... somehow this works.
Quote:
now it's false speech as the sound you respect.
white-knuckle grip bound around your neck, shit.
|
I think the inclusion of the word "bound" is unnecessary and makes the line that contains it read a tad clunky.
Quote:
my trouble is you still don't have to accept it.
but i'm choking, too.
broken; knowing enough
to have this sobering overview
where hope isn't holding you up.
suppress all the pain till the notion erupts,
you find a good fit from the moulds that are cut:
the caskets, the cradles, cold are their touch.
serpent-mouth sews itself shut.
skin shed, instead: change is the nobler of loves
for oneself.
|
This section gave me pause. I had questions about what somethings were striving to say. But then ... I meditated on their possible intent and formulated my own interpretations. The end result: I dug it.
Quote:
yet we talk about the colour of whose lives matter,
…aren't we all made up of matter?
|
Dismissive and willfully aloof. But also clever, intuitive and scientifically correct.
Quote:
as if we can’t shatter the illusion
in the hues of our skin and realise that we are kin
bound by the movement of the same fluid through our limbs.
that colour's blood-red,
over colour blood sheds,
o brother! undead we live life defining
ourselves by divisive lines on
maps ancestors drew -- for people we never knew,
so sever truth
if you’re not willing to serve what’s right.
i mean... we’re all living imperfect lives,
yea we struggle, but is there purpose in our plight,
would Sisyphus know what the burden’s like?!
in a word – he might. It’s absurd I write all of this,
performing more for myself than I do my audience.
there’s a voice that observes, sometimes I’m absorbed with it,
plucking all my past experiences and it’s auditing,
am I sincere or in fear; real or fraudulent?
does my shrinking ego recoil at the thought of it?
If solely obsessed with appearances,
what self-love is there for the core within your ripe heart?
the mind starts.
|
^This was all bravo worthy text. You went in. I loved the introspection, questions raised, philosophy employed and vulnerability you wrote with.
Nice read amigo.