reecenerdify, Uncategorized

The Courts from Above Ground

Can you hear the Jury grumbling as they take their seats?

The Judge cracks open the session with his bulletined order of events.

 

Like a tombstone of structured emotion, the prosecution states their case with a cackle of arrogance and bitter assumption.

“We are defending “the liberty of love” beckons the defence, but the patronising scoffs of despair and horror are normalised in this world of systematic tabling.

 

But I….feel nice here.

In my pot of soil.

On my patch of mud.

 

Withdrawn from production line patriotism,

And isolated from the sounds of their rules,

their reasons,

their judgements.

 

This pot gives me plenty of space to run,

I can feel its walls, but I can see freedom in the darkness.

And the silence echoes with a special…

“Thump, Thump”. Order! Order!

This striking sound of ‘justice’ deafens my minds(s).

One fails to recuperate such tranquil thoughts with the murmurs of an enlightened mob above them.

 

I do not infringe upon others movements,

The thought of asserting my morality gives me no amusement.

I have not relinquished my citizenship for a hovel of an existence.

But simply rekindled my sovereignty so that I could have independence.

 

I can hear the defendant interrogated and accused of a love based on guilt.

As if the prosecutor understands.. ,

Oh what castle of lies they have all built!

 

You see, in these worlds, grands delusions reign supreme.

Call whatever Witness to the stand.

They will testify to their own hypocrisy.

Offering perceptions born out of the fog and mist.

 

But in my dwelling, I provide no blurred convictions.

The love I hold, is not hollow but honest.

I am not swayed by unrelenting passions.

No bleakness can consume me,

because I have freed myself from my own harsh reality.

 

However, it seems that sentences must be carried out.

Children must be punished.

And yes, we must learn from our mistakes.

People need to have regrets,

and so we must control our own heartbreaks.

 

Though I live for the eternal, I can not forsake my liberty.

For my truth is powerful because it can shift.

It sustains my wriggle room in a life that constricts.

 

So when the jury makes their call, I will cackle in my chair.

For the courts can’t influence me, and their verdict is insincere.

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Antxnia

Again

I want to explore the human condition

Our flaws, our habits and the inane repetition

The attempt to find meaning in what we do

Thinking you’re better, one of the few

Tight smiles and bonus points for tight arses

Half full and half empty glasses

Couldn’t I just exist with the people I love?

No worries, no drama and no one above?

I want to explore but it’s disappointing and dirty

Career paths, bonds and having it all by thirty

So many attempts to do the same thing differently 

(“I’m worth it, I swear!”) Innovation, the greatest mystery

Each day explores the human condition

For I am a human and this is my condition. 

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Meursault

Observations

I straddle a chair, and cast an eye over its form. Four poorly manufactured legs stretching down to no real feet just dull wooden ends. The chairs leather has been worn out from the excited motions of sports fans, and the anxious pickings of those who wait for someone who may never arrive. My seat faces the bar, the lone tender looks bemused, his clientele are muttering, shouting, screaming, dying. No, no, they’re not dying, at least not visibly, perhaps internally. I order a drink barely considering my choice, it seems irrelevant, the coolness will envelop most of the taste. The money chinks into the register without me realising I’ve handed it over. After a few poorly executed sips I turn and survey the room. Daylight is fading, the lights are yet to come on, perhaps they’ll never come on. An elderly duo play pool in the corner, their game is rather still, they’re drawling into each other’s ears. The tables’ cloth is worn, and marked by constellations of chalk stain. The cushions looked warped, slightly hunched like the spines of the participants. This scene makes me nauseous. I turn away, another glug of liquid, followed by a breath or two.

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Collection of memories and creativity

Dulce Bellum Inexpertis

Lift heavy hands to my head
Caress away my worries
fingers gentle, maternal
absorb trauma that ferries
oscillating brain to bone.
Echoing “set me free lover”
proves impervious but carnal.
Free the fallen flower inside
Residing in ash beneath eyes
Hold me tight, under the cover.
                  *
Bodies tangle, unwillingly
in the depths of deaths sleep,
Embryonic universe, spills
from reverie to realities keep
splitting guilt by her seams.
“Hold on to me lover, hold tight”
swallow the contraceptive pill
Regurgitate the love I gave in
orchestral thundering, “why”
Bodies drift into the night.
                  *
Eyes that flutter often forget
in the shades of darkness, listen
dulce bellum inexpertis
etched, on arms of politicians.
Chain my body to a boulder
inhale, devour raw liver.
Forbidden to reminisce
Histories lack of her story,
Look, look to your lost lover
As she flows into a sombre river.
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Ossídio Gaspar

Revising myself

I am this continuous stream of cerebral matter

Exposed, disposed, cut-up into strips of thankless transparency

No one can see how I see what I can or cannot

There is no authority greater than a set of collected hours of authorisation

And that this is me and I am nothing and truly this

But not nothing like there is just nothing and nothing else

And not like nothing but everything else being except me, with and without, but that,

In the everything there is, I am this coincident meaning of what is this nothing otherwise,

Strips strapped bare and stripped of straps to anything

For when I am there is nothing dandier, nothing truer

Than the dandiest truth of myself being an absence for everything else

Meaningful, meaningless, spiteful or childless

That in the substance of life I am the next idea of the lifeless

And in the life of substance I am the edges evaporating into the rest

And this makes me a map, or a chart, or a scale or a number

Of pages, times, lines, conditions, chances,

A number of dead people – to be recited, or recounted

That breathe through me as I dance on the old land of the mortal soul

This is neither life nor death, this is an expression that must be either way

In the way that I am, in the ways that I am not,

In being and in nothingness

As in being and as in nothingness

The expression of the expressionism of anything

The truth carried two places to say that: even nothing needs to be affirmed

Even a lie must have its truth in the right to be said, in the air carrying its preoccupations

Even I am in what I am not, or that I am really not in everything that I am

Because I can be said in all of these ways and yet they are

The same ways to be said

The same places to be said

The same drawings to be made

The same conclusions to be taken

Because to be alone is to have mastered a certain kind of loneliness

Or because to be alone is to have failed a certain kind of society

Of the self, but to acknowledge one’s self is the highest kind of feeling

Like a stance with nothingness

Like a stand-off with everything

To have extricated, extracted, stolen or downright lied about this sensation of the sensations which makes this the one sensation of profound loneliness

Which is nudity, which is an uncommon reflection

Eyes turned in

Tongue turned out

Arms and legs swapped around

I am the shadow of a lost body remained at the accidental point from which it became lost to its final drift

I am the expectation to grow without the knowledge of it having already being happening

Too much

Too far

Away

Also apart

There is nothing that can keep me closer to myself

There is nothing that can take me much further than I already am

And the questions of what I want and what it is to be are nothing to me

For they keep me more or less where I already am

As that missing person whilst everything else was only everything

I am revised like nothing before

I am nothing like anything before

Or I am everything and nothing means anything instead

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Meursault

But one glimpse

I walked the town during the summer gazing zealously into mirrors, puddles and windowpanes barely asking a question yet always expecting a definitive answer. I often remained in bed until late, rarely rousing myself before midday. During these mornings I partook in barely conscious musings of immediate yet vague importance, indifferently seeking divinity from within, whilst fooling myself into believing that such an end was of an internal nature.

The leaves turned brown and left the trees without me leaving my abode for more than a few minutes at a time to purchase meagre food supplies, all of which were chewed but never tasted. I desired no guests and no guests came, unsurprisingly so for who would of wished to visit a young man who snobbishly severed his social ties in favour of his own company. For a while the flies and spiders played cat and mouse in the dusty corners of my room but soon even they grew bored of my morose quarters, somehow escaping through unknown passages. My appearance became shabby, poorly kept hair obtusely sat upon my head, ground coffee coloured stubble mottled my face but still I glanced into my smeared mirror, hoping for just one pure glimpse. But a glimpse of what? I possessed no vantage point above any other. Alas my misguided path had already culminated in my sacrifice upon Mount Moriah, and so in trying to place my existence I tragically misplaced all else.

The first songbird of spring tipped me it’s hat in welcoming as I sprinted into the bright morning. I dived into the streets, uttering greetings to strangers with stony faces as I continually hummed along to the universal chorus that had been awakened within the thawing chasms of my glacial self.

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