Book Of Poems

This is some stuff I'd been writing down for a few years, thinking to put them in songs, or poems, or... a book of poetry. It's dark, lively, philosophical, and sometimes pure crap.

-- 3 business men on a street terrace after work. Their cycles strengthen each other's. Each cycle on its own, synergies strengthen. Cycles, patterns, beliefs are what turns the world. This is more and more the case as the new world turns. The cycle of family, friends and roots will continue unabated. These patterns decide who owns what, who is important and who is not; who has a family and who will waste away; who can express and who can fuck.–

"Why don't you love me?" "Why do you ask me that?" "This is such a sad house. And you live such sad lives. You cut everyone else out... and for what? Maybe you would have been sad if you had opened up. I'm sorry that you had to try and find dignity on your own. You couldn't have done it with your family. Is all that true?" "Tim, you don't know the first thing you're talking about. Please stop talking, you don't know what you're talking about" "Mom, this is about both of our lives. You sweep betrayal, deceit and sweep our futures into God's hands. It's all with him, but you're no happier. You've removed yourself from the sins of this world, but when is it your time to laugh, to think, to be? Do you know how hard it is for me to do those things now? I can't sit still for one minute without wishing someone had truly loved me"... "It's hard for us to admit sometimes that we need affection. That we need to be understood. I'm so mad at you, but you only did what you knew how."

-- Pick the season, pick the night. Flow with it. Don't give me shame, give me love. Don't look away. Just let me cry. Just wanted that tender touch. When is it alright to love.

-- I do not like the shape given by the past. The essential transformation begins with the self. To see the world through the eyes of a child - without fear or anger. Brother, sister, father, friend, teacher.


-- Scream; line down a note, the chest is beating. The heart's pumping and so is the music. Stream of consciousness listen to life. Get out the paddles and go with it. What's in the way. Is it fear? Is my innocence sullied? Do you love me? Scream. Why can't I just love you baby. I'm waiting for an open call. Or maybe just a place to put my head down. Thought that I could play it cool. You turn me on.


-- How should I open? Open so that you spirit runs free. Open so that you spirit is strong. To be string is to know It's nature and to accept it. Fighting it will get you into trouble. Everything we say or do breaks us down or builds us up. I found childhood today on a train to Paris, listening to Lenny Kravitz. Music is it. Love is it. Screaming is it. Screaming the music of love.


-- Mirror mirror about desires, obesessions and where they lead us. All illusions. What illusions are reflected back through the mirror. What is the mirror?

-- so why are we here. I began with a question, then another. I dared not begin to answer - then did and became hot. I burned and did not know why. Was it because the answer is not words? It is hot and it is us. It is where I move and it is an entire world.

-- Focus on it, believe in it, surrender to it? To begin is to see what is missed in every moment, and to be swelled with crushing force of it. Become it? The souls on this side pull me back to the sanity of this world. But I've seen the sun and walked back into the darkened cave. The more I try to forget, the more I dream. Where is my truth? I let go and find myself. What I am and am not.

-- Life, a flower, a dream, ah yes, dream is your soul in full blossom. Your soul is life's music. Life's music is wild, at home, wandering, a cup filled up and drunk down, every muscle squeezed; it is nothing at all and everything else.


... of men and women ...trees in the wind
... of dreams and pursuit ... doubt and belief ... tables and nothing in between
... the cup half full and the empty heart ... city streets and theatre stages

-- We're going and coming coming and going. All to be; and we've already been . Look into the past. It is strained so our hope doesn't breath. While hope suffocates, the past and future lose colour. So dream again and wash away the stain.
-- Ultimately, people put their souls in front of themselves. Their hopes, loves, obsessions shape each one. Those raw emotions are swelled, suppressed, diminished, put together by how long we suffer our own state, and those of others. Do others imprint us or we ourselves. In the end, we reflect the light and dark cast on us - mirrors in the light and dark. I am here now (hope) and gone tomorrow(night).
**
- Masters of theory and reason rule the land; then the thing unprepared for arrives - an unsolvable puzzle. An unseen relationship.

- We have lost our god, that spiritual myth that surrounds us. So is the road to peace, as it has always been, long. It si so hard to walk with patience and a sharp mind when enthusiasm and blind acceptance is what makes you a part of society. But still, I walk blindly, taking what comes and am the smaller for it.

- Learn nothing, move freely, adapt intelligently.

-- I think the greatest tragedy must be to die in confusion; to have not seen the colour of life.

-- Eyes locked, I wanted to reach my arm to her and kiss her. Those eyes that glow, to see her move. To know that I move her. Surrender to my desires & learn from them, listen to them. To know that she was there too.

-- A: I'll never be happy until something good happens to me
B: But nothing good will happen to you until you're happy.


-- With the lack of real insight into the events that influence us, we must rely on rumour hearsay and innuendo as actuality. To understand events as they happen requires a pedagogical foundation. Assumptions about a person's motivation and place in society are needed as are a philosophical ideal to reach for. The middle of a nation - it's people are shaped to fit easily or otherwise. Can pride and rumour be erased - NO. We are a fickle culture that has been taught to live for very temporary things. Spontenaity should have its place as should ponderance. Expression alongside silent evaluation; Understanding, wisdom with acceptance - all in balance. But when to use one versus the other. Or do we even have the choice. What shapes us? Is it each other and the land we toil. I post that these are the 2 main factors to our reality. The actual desire to achieve great things in this world and understand its shape coms from a love and comfort of it. Remove the love and comfort and we will want to fleece these provincial barbarians. How could anyone understand the depths of my sorrow or understand how precious After the basics of life are done, we connect deeper to see the worlds of those around us. Once we have the depth of language to reflect the matrix life, we must connect deeper to create the tools that let us see and travel this earth that sustains us. The farther we reach towards, each other and the physical world, the deeper the connection needed to express it. So what do I see. I see pages empty with so many words. I reach so far with no arm of understanding. I know I am love and I am unrequited.


-- I want to be happy. I want a bad heart, mean spirit, to make it to the top an beyond. I wish I did not care about others so I would be able to follow more of my impulses. I wish I did not know death, depression, want, or patience. I passed through death and still feel its weight. Depression does not want me around. I knew want for far too long and do not know what to do without it. Patience keeps on telling me that things will come in time. But I can't wait that long.


-- At the end of it, we know that there is no quiet disposition. At the end of it, we are given a compelling picture of our own madness. The sounds. The haze. The collision of peoples worlds. I am still hanging on to strands of madness because they are what give me life. I walk the streets at night. The city becomes my promenade. My cake walk. The acetones. The urban orchestra. The wrongful roadways; surprising byways. From an overcooked boulabaise to ... The urban landscape scream for attention, and deafens us in the process.

-- Life is about obelisks. Obelisks. Obelisks that monkeys jump around and marvel at. Obelisks that exist to be marveled at. Obelisks that you create. Your obelisks. Monkeys. Jumping around. Marveling and giving alms. ALMS. Alms to the obelisk. Your obelisk! Make obelisks!!! Like vortexes. Those things that people are sucked into. SUCKED INTO the vortex. SUCKED INTO. MARVELLING AT. GIVING ALMS TO. Hmmmm... How perfect would that be?

Treatese
-- When men come back from war. They must perform the play of reason, justice, humanity. Because all those things are lost in war.
-- Relationships, meeting, courting, kids/living. The way of life incorporates sex, kids, music, education as normal healthy things.
-- It is the mind's central purpose to find purpose, foundation. This is why it is constantly searching, moving. A mind that moves / thinks about other things rather that the book you are reading, equation you are solving, or... has not found a solid foundation. It is dangling in the wind and thirsty for truth. We need to, a the end of the day, actualise our internal thoughts. If we dare not, we are slaves.


-- Read, write, commit. At the beginning we learn how lost we are. We can also feel ho close the truth is. Truth only need be conceived. Our thoughts only need be uttered. Our words (the ones we've said, and the those given to us) only must travelled... for us to glimpse, the breath of our humanity.


-- A man wakes up and rises to heaven. Slowly.

-- A woman begins to write and unable to stop writing. Or stop shaking her hand. Her words are unrecognisable. But vengeance is hers because she's writing. She goes mad.

-- A homely man is suddenly and very mysteriously attractive to every woman he meets. Heart palpitations, hand tremors and the need to smell him overcomes every woman he meets. Our homely hero enjoys his first few nights of lust. After a while, his ardour dies. Like Billie Holliday, women can't stop watching and this loving this depressed sexy beast. He eventually finds a piano bar gig and sings his sorrows away.

-- A slow kiss. Felt on the lips. I felt her bouche. My molars touched hers. I could fell her mouth smile, just like mine. I'll take you to the patio, the theatre, the restaurant. We'll go with friends to the beeeeeaeaeach. Yeah yeah.


-- Berlin is the past and future. I've left my dreams behind so I can find the light. Kissing lips hang their grease slowly while it bends. I do not plan to fail just as I don't plan to die. We've just met. We can share our secrets together drums to spare.

Posted by Timothy Washington on 2007.04.03| Original post

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