Things I should have said #1

Scenario:

In class, professor is discussing the effects of the rise of Christianity on popular artistic style. Posits a hypothetical to get the class involved, says: If joe here was your king, and he converted to christianity what would you as his subjects then do?

Actually Said:

"We would convert to Christianity."

Should have said:

"We would riot in the streets, for equality and peace. The gutters would brim with the blood of his queen. From nipple of Christ we would finally be weened."

Home

The royal light of night time.
Venus will open her eyes.
She will bleed this stolen pen,
Across the sad November skies.
There is nothing left to stand in her way.
Hold steady now child.
You have but one verse left to say.
Cut your veins to sate your quill.
Don't let your tears dampen your will.
With the fall of winter,
Your light too will fade to gray.
Rest easy weary traveler,
Take here shelter from the fray.
Fix you're eyes upon the page ahead.
Fight the urge to stumble on things unsaid.
Let your focus slowly fade.
As the whispering wind sings to you this serenade:
"long enough your soul did roam. it is time now for you to come home."

The Lizzard Queen

This, my friend
is the story of The Lizzard Queen.
Before the clock strikes Five,
she is not oft seen.
But as the dusk grows thick,
she'll be free for her tricks,
so she'll race through the sticks,
just to get home on the quicks.
There she will fathom,
the fortunes that come,
with settling of evening,
she might have some rum.
Before long she will cast,
all her cares to the wind,
where they will be carried to caves,
bound up, and pinned.
Free from her troubles,
she'll sigh deep within.
With a flick of her tounge,
she'll bear a bright grin,
for night time is comming,
and so are her kin.
At last when Venus reigns supreme in the skys,
she'll sit with delight,
as the stars shine for her eyes.
Later when the winds,
carry with them her friends,
she will bath in the laughter of those whom she loves.
When the evening is finished,
the moon waned and done,
she will lye in her bed,
and wait for the sun.
Her soul will be carried,
far from our view,
while her body is watched over,
by her gaurdian, Q.

Love

I was.
She came to me.
I asked for love.

She gave me water.
I drank.

She returned.
I asked for love.

She gave me seeds.
I ate.

She returned.
I asked for love.

She gave me dirt.
I cried.
For, I knew not what to do with it.

!you

she wont deign to let her eyes fade;
but she'll gladly listen and then look away.

i'd just...
like to know where you go.

whether you think in poetry or prose.

see, on this side of the line,
we're all binary. moments in time.

!you though.
Dimensions divine.

Carful with your code.

I find it odd that you believe the co dominant relationship of the alleles of the gene that regulated finger shape of a man that lived over a hundred years ago, who machined a cog with a millimeter defect, that was used in a machine which machined the parts for the machine that was used to produce another machine that produced the condom that broke has anything to do with fate.

Some day

Some day your children will ask you to speak on your past. Will you talk of the suns and the waters, the moons and the sky's? Will tell them your stories through your dimming eyes? When they ask you of love, what will you say? Will you talk of two eyes from which you could not stare away? Or will you look inward and fade with the day?

She stares back.

Have you looked up to the sky?
Have you stared into the dark of the night's eye?
She stares back.

Eyes Closed

She woke, eyes closed, conscious now of both her dream and reality, hesitant. The numbness in her arm prompted her to roll off of her side, onto her back. She listened to the sounds coming from her open window with disinterest. The door opened, with a mild creak as she checked to make sure her eyes were still closed. The sound of expensive shoes clicking and shuffling on tile floor filled the air. Soft sounds of fabrics brushing together rendered near the window. And then they were gone. Her lips parted as she breathed out, her sigh mingling with the ambient noises from the window. A smile made its way from behind her ears to the corners of her mouth, wavering between the window and her lingering dream: "i can go anywhere..."

Darkness

"They are gone."

"Where did they go?"

"Into the darkness."

"Where is that?"

"Everywhere you are afraid to go."

Legit

A thought on the nature of our perception of legitimacy:

I was tap tap taping away on my desk during class last night, a beat here, a beat there, the usual mindless activity bound to manifest itself during mindless lectures. What i started to notice was this: the beat only sounds out of rhythm, out of beat, out of sync, out of place, if there is no corresponding beats to go along with it. In other words, single beats that break your base beat will sound off. but if you add a pair to that beat a few beats down, and then another the same interval of beats down, your mind legitimizes the initial beat, and it no longer sounds out of place. an example:

- : empty beat
t : taped beat

t---t---t---t---t

above is just a regular interval tap, tap, tap, tap. nothing to fancy. But say you get distracted and end up doing this:

t---t---tt---t---t

if you stopped right there, the beat would be broken. it would sound broken. but if you continued on with this:

t---t---tt---t---t---tt---t---t---tt---t---t---tt---t---t

The beat no longer sounds broken. That may have been a long winded description of a commonly understood phenomenon, but what I got to thinking was that, basically our perception of legitimacy stems from repetition. the more something happens, the more likely we are to accept it as ok. That there, is also a commonly understood concept, but what i found interesting is that according to this oh so scientific example our perception of legitimacy may not be a conscious or even sub conscious event, more likely it is a physiological one. similar to the mechanism that puts a series of sequential frames (images) together into motion as slow as 1 frame / second?

I saw a picture

I saw a picture today. In it the sky was a blue gradient to white-gray. The tree was bare. It made me burn and wish i was there. The tree was bare, but alive, buds, just a few, red and searing. With wisps of white, soothing. A generation passed through my veins. And then I was alone, and the florescent white of the room covered me. And I remembered that she never called. She never called.