Aquas' domain

post-modern society

Every now and then I like to watch some television rather than lounging out at the computer, usually to watch some of the reality shows on Bravo like Project Runway or Top Chef, and Desperate Housewives… it’s kind of a guilty pleasure.  Today I’m watching the Tyra show and she had a special about kid youtube celebrities and it’s like, I stopped watching tv so many years ago frequently because the way the american culture was heading was disgusting me in a lot of ways.  But the thing is, now when I occasionally watch, I get caught up with these ‘disgusting’ things and upon my face is a baffled incomprehension as I witness these these things.  Tyra had a bunch of 6 year olds on, one of them was a kid who was filmed while he was fucked up on drugs after a dentist appointment, another a girl who narrated cat pictures and the last a boy who was good at dancing.  All of the kids had gotten a ridiculous amount of views and comments on youtube.  A quote by Kurt Vonnegut often comes to mind that “the computer is now becoming for us.”

In america’s society now there are now all kinds of deep rooted cultures and niches and complexes that have formed between the boom of social networking.  It’s still so weird to me and really I never wanted to accept it, but it is becoming so ingrained now that it has become grating to ignore or despise, at least for me.  We’re now living in a “peep culture” which characterizes all the stalking and youtube celebritism and projecting our independence upon the world for others to see.  The middle class world has become a clusterfuck of peeping where new social connections have been enabled and people are taking advantage of this new technology.

Overall, I feel jaded and disgruntled at the state of this culture.  But at the same time I have been slipped into its nurturing wing, with a healthy share of ignorance.  I wonder what I should do in this era, and I’m still not sure.  The peep culture has opened itss heart innocently and it’s a mess inside.  Surely there is a new quadrant of truth to explore with a courageous awareness of what exists.

I think Tori Spelling is going to be consumed by Cthulhu in her dreams.

reminders of feeling

Every now and then I take a look at some of the things I’ve written in the past, mostly, poetry, since it’s about all I write.  Though I haven’t written hardly any at all lately, which is a dying shame.  When I look at some of the poems I wrote in the past, some of them have feelings that were more current to the time I wrote the poem, but others that ring with me when I see them again.  The previous post is about this, but this poem of mine seems most relevant to my writing situation.

Overgrowth Brushed Aside

I check my writing journal
for a door I have opened,
but I haven’t
written for a while,
haven’t opened many doors.

As a writer, I guess I expect
to open up my notebook
to something I had
forgot about writing.

But I haven’t
written for a while,
there are no doors
to the other me
left open.

It makes me sad.

Like the
tombstone
with its
overgrowth,
left alone
for too long.

Should brush aside
to learn the years,
learn thy name.

And honestly, it’s kind of a slap in the face when I read things like this that I wrote in the past.  I’ve been so sluggish lately with things in my life but I guess I am grateful to look back at this sentiment of ‘brushing aside the overgrowth’ and learning exactly what these years mean.  I want to take my own advice.  More recently, my poetry has taken a rough course into surrealism and borderline dadaism lol, which reflects this conflict in my self.  I kind of want to get back to writing sentimental poetry with simple sentence structure, and simple ideas.  Instead, I’m fucking a train through a panda in the garden of bloodlight, stomping mutatedly and such.  It’s really a problem.  Here’s an example of the fuckery:

Sheath

Fighter army sin full mouth melts cloud copper
that troll ferocity tears flesh and cups blood
so ritual a mastadon sniffing up ant colonies
and swelling adrenal glands as insect pulse technology,
clenching barrier bars the cell penetration so
triangle structure force punctures blood plop
eye drop iris contraction extracts witch excitement
and underground is foiled throbbing magmas
shimmering spikes of crystalline greens and
a knight’s twitch throw a fit so
flip a switch bitch, no tale is over.

~

Looking at poems I wrote in the past, I remember some advice and feedback I’ve recieved by some people.  It makes sense, but it doesn’t seem to stick.  Anyway, if I’m gonna get back to writing sentimentally, I think I have to conquer other areas of my life… untill then I’ll continue to lose my cool in an explosive and impolite manner, in writing, of course.  I’m done rambling.  Later!

Poetry Comparison ‘Days Don’t Write’

Well, I happened to write a part 2 to a poem I wrote over a year ago.  I would like to compare them and put them together now on this here Tumblrerer. This is an important subject to me, yet it doesn’t seem to hold its importance as the days go on.  Never the less.  Here are the two parts.

~

Days Don’t Write (summer of ‘07)

The days that I do not write
become their own unfamiliar
reality, I’m shifting through
a smog of tender force,
the way the days go
I’m away from home.

I am healthfully re-introduced
to the twirls of warm embrace
with a somber song or
to be in my own desolate chair
to chalk up more of this existence,
the wind visits through the windows.

As I disband the pen for
this somehow elsewhere,
I feel somehow intimidated
to have my sword hidden
in my other cave.
People being people and
I’m keeping silent, honing
my invisible blade at
all the remarkable engines
of this world’s facility.
Call me taciturn or some
other fasciando of words,
I’m summoning up my characters.
Dragon’s flying
flames are rising,
rainfall’s steaming
jungle’s breathing.
All the fantastic things
are wrestling in my heart.
Fair do not doubt the
extravagant amount of Love
I have for all that is ‘you’
but all of this excitement
calls for the Boding Over,
I should rest when my poet
is satisfied to have
discerned the greater feeling
and can sleep again.
Please, forgive my mirror.

The days that we do not
express a point of interest
are lost or stored,
are sad days of regret.
Could you come back
with a higher vitality
some other day
and feel God-like?
Or feel very human
the way you shudder
on a snowy night.

I fail to believe that
we can escape the
destiny of meaning,
but to all fairness
I believe we can
shape the form
in which that
destiny comes.

The days that I do not write
become their own unfamiliar
reality, I’m shifting through
a smog of tender force,
the way the days go
I’m away from home.

~

Days Don’t Write (Part 2) (fall of ‘08)

Days Don’t Write (Part 2)

These days along my journals
are the unwritten pages,
on these days I did not write
I must have felt zombified.
To not recollect mystifying notions
I am vexed into a dark damnedness
of blankness, coldness and numbness.

On the other side of these unwritten pages
are my dreams calling out to me,
one is my youthful self aching out to me
to seize the energies of women with sincerity
and another is my voice belting out at me
so annoyingly that I begin to shout back
(the moment when one writes.)

My mustache grows
and with that I feel a certain absurdity of
heaven and hell battling within me.
An epic battle of every thought I’ve had
clashing as matter does to form planets,
exploding through my flesh and spirit,
through my heart and my brain repeatedly.
Of brutality preluding fraility,
entrails of the old lovers who birthed out poetry.
The deaths and resurrections, the dancing nanoseconds,
the beasts and the eggs in cahoots to hatchings —
a pulsing cesspool pumps through-out me

and the tip of my pen shattering
opens a window to a raucous hell of
night creatures romping and
collapsing holes to an underground
where lurks life in special stasis.
My journal transforms into a spiralled tube
in which seep out my fears and truths,
but the days I did not write
are the most fearful of all
as they drill against my spirit
and yell, “how could you!?”
as if in tremendous pain my knees shatter
and my joints pummel the floor
like a sickly knock to the otherworld.
…
there’s an answer like a heartbeat, but not.
What is it… what is it?
Perhaps the days I did not write
are trapped back there,
wanting just a breath to soothe them.
Well, this poem is for those days,
but I’m afraid it just won’t do.

good evening

Hey, making one of these.  Not sure what it’s going to come to.  You can thank Katon for helping me erect this here blog.  Perhaps I’ll post poetry or musings or shit about games I’m playing.  shit shit shit.  fuck fuck fuck.

crack lip sit down up kill snack tower

Later.