"Poems about being in WWASPS programs" - Anonymous, 2004
_ Alice felt as though she had no ground.
She liked the dizzy spell but found that
No-Ground is where disaster's found.
Now her legacy, I go recklessly,
frightened terribly but falling nonetheless.
Minutes carry the weight of years,
So enjoy the monsters and the queers.
My thoughts are
not programmable.
The paintings are as
natural and mathematical
as Phi, or seem
to follow the accord
of 1-2-3-5-8.
Don't bother, let it
be.
Don't control,
greet understanding.
Honey is a
classic example:
preservation, beauty, kindness,
acceptance of our mortality
and impermanence.
Complication? Stamen, pistil, anther
and ovary. Let life
rush from the channels,
it'll be away too soon for
you to put your thumb
on the solidity
of change.
I'm writhing and gnashing because
I don't have anyone to save me.
Insanity, degeneration.
All I need is a kiss to my forehead (a promise),
so that perhaps I can open my eyes to morning
and figure out a way to survive...
Have a better tomorrow. Stay alive.
Money > souls ... (In capital may I trust)
Don't dream ... (don't hope)
of more ... (become empty)
Don't beg for your life! ... (then they'll take it)
System: System corrupt.
I'm delayed on cloud 8. They're saying there is no number 9.
Once in a while you cannot breathe -
lungs collapse and there is nothing
holding you back from falling head
first into the void, pressure/black.
That's what they did to me.
You think of convents,
but also unease -
it fucks us all in an undetectable way,
spurring paranoia and assumption and
the stirrings of identification that
what Darwin said was true...
You're breaching my auras.
It enters every cavity,
coating my tongue with distaste for the questioner.
I don't settle with this.
Our faces aligned - your pupils small and hard - you don't hear me.
Is your uniform a magic tuxedo? Can I give it a try?
None of you care; you're nothing like God.
Look into my eyes; are you capable of experiencing the meaning of equality?
I'm not some punk derelict trying to get under your skin,
but you cannot exert your mental jurisdiction over me.
My mind remains free!
Perhaps there is some real goodness underneath your magic tuxedo...
It'll remain a mystery, though:
your damn power trip is effective camouflage.
Rise to a fog outside,
a chill inside,
how blessed, the silent morn'.
Do not stain the quiet's innocence -
I see your face, forlorn.
Remorse for human slovenity;
a ruby archangel to slay the dragon, arriving on a capybara.
CAN freedom ring? It reverberates, synthesizes,
crashes into an orchestra the minute you've been
kicked out of the entrance hall.
So, perhaps, no.
Drink down your gloom; it's manufactured not so far away.
Sweet old dejection, we now have capitalism for you.
Closing the door -- feeling nothing, filled with "mirth" --
Cast in a frame of mind -- Chaos, the last child left behind.
A burning village is simply an annotation:
The apparent idiocy of homo sapien sapiens,
Drenched and disheveled from the world.
Cataclysmic, serene, and wholly perfection:
The vision of infallible perception.
Who's to believe?
I'm afraid to breathe -
uncertain, insufficient.
Wrong...
That bell jar encases me.
LIES! LIES!
I'll catch you; I can not
(dis)remember.
I think I can't fix it.
She liked the dizzy spell but found that
No-Ground is where disaster's found.
Now her legacy, I go recklessly,
frightened terribly but falling nonetheless.
Minutes carry the weight of years,
So enjoy the monsters and the queers.
My thoughts are
not programmable.
The paintings are as
natural and mathematical
as Phi, or seem
to follow the accord
of 1-2-3-5-8.
Don't bother, let it
be.
Don't control,
greet understanding.
Honey is a
classic example:
preservation, beauty, kindness,
acceptance of our mortality
and impermanence.
Complication? Stamen, pistil, anther
and ovary. Let life
rush from the channels,
it'll be away too soon for
you to put your thumb
on the solidity
of change.
I'm writhing and gnashing because
I don't have anyone to save me.
Insanity, degeneration.
All I need is a kiss to my forehead (a promise),
so that perhaps I can open my eyes to morning
and figure out a way to survive...
Have a better tomorrow. Stay alive.
Money > souls ... (In capital may I trust)
Don't dream ... (don't hope)
of more ... (become empty)
Don't beg for your life! ... (then they'll take it)
System: System corrupt.
I'm delayed on cloud 8. They're saying there is no number 9.
Once in a while you cannot breathe -
lungs collapse and there is nothing
holding you back from falling head
first into the void, pressure/black.
That's what they did to me.
You think of convents,
but also unease -
it fucks us all in an undetectable way,
spurring paranoia and assumption and
the stirrings of identification that
what Darwin said was true...
You're breaching my auras.
It enters every cavity,
coating my tongue with distaste for the questioner.
I don't settle with this.
Our faces aligned - your pupils small and hard - you don't hear me.
Is your uniform a magic tuxedo? Can I give it a try?
None of you care; you're nothing like God.
Look into my eyes; are you capable of experiencing the meaning of equality?
I'm not some punk derelict trying to get under your skin,
but you cannot exert your mental jurisdiction over me.
My mind remains free!
Perhaps there is some real goodness underneath your magic tuxedo...
It'll remain a mystery, though:
your damn power trip is effective camouflage.
Rise to a fog outside,
a chill inside,
how blessed, the silent morn'.
Do not stain the quiet's innocence -
I see your face, forlorn.
Remorse for human slovenity;
a ruby archangel to slay the dragon, arriving on a capybara.
CAN freedom ring? It reverberates, synthesizes,
crashes into an orchestra the minute you've been
kicked out of the entrance hall.
So, perhaps, no.
Drink down your gloom; it's manufactured not so far away.
Sweet old dejection, we now have capitalism for you.
Closing the door -- feeling nothing, filled with "mirth" --
Cast in a frame of mind -- Chaos, the last child left behind.
A burning village is simply an annotation:
The apparent idiocy of homo sapien sapiens,
Drenched and disheveled from the world.
Cataclysmic, serene, and wholly perfection:
The vision of infallible perception.
Who's to believe?
I'm afraid to breathe -
uncertain, insufficient.
Wrong...
That bell jar encases me.
LIES! LIES!
I'll catch you; I can not
(dis)remember.
I think I can't fix it.