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Oh, Not Us.

what is poetry?… that open-ended quest for interpretation to initiate answers from the corners of our brainpan holding up to document all the debris that catches the mind’s eye alive, the artist is that raw maker or creator whose senses witness the glorious as beheld in this living concretion enmeshed with all of its’ best and worst elements as the building continues under phases or auspice of sheltered shedding skins that slough off once the achievement of extension is complete, but we are not merely barren vessels awaiting a sea of pleas to shove us off into the appropriate directions to meet the status quo at full measure of accomplishment… pleading out the question at last of what it is that is what we call art?… a transient substance of intangible force and fortitude that will remain far after the human scraps have left this place for different horizons once again, the cosmos opens out into a universal dream which takes form when there is no more of the cyclical spitting shame that heats the debates between those chained to their gods or whatever thing it is that takes one away, but for me it is this writing Here where my eyes can see the gravity as it gushes from the transmitter insane that gives way to motions of the tongue after the matter of the fact has been passed back and forth to share the ideas that tease the individual into functions like this… what is society?… that it deserves attention with all the cruel and harsh gloom that floats cloud-like over the fields and creatures is reason enough to sort out the damaged parts, cataloging and collecting pieces consistent in their artful artificial resurrection to each seeing is believing a different angle of the same exact replica everyone else is viewing Here, but drawn together in ways that confuse those who have already gotten used to the format made apparent by the ages as they pass one after the other revealing deeper layers to this old onion as catalyst for a crying game where tragedy curses our mistakes… taken with far too liberal a grain of salt and lemon juice to over-exaggerate the pain from wounds left as an all-or-nothing all-too real bingeing and purging to attain perhaps a false glory catered to by the masses as celebrity allows us to worship our television idols with an ease in static convenience, breeding the wishes to the surface like engineering desires whose turn it is to come to the fore as your ‘king for a day’ decision between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in constantly coming to terms with the self that is you, but maybe these toys have been left out for too long to serve a better purpose than to just be Here as a reminder or remnant of the fires of passion and artistic revelry… when i stand up to rant my heart out with words cultivated from the mental dirt we all dig into facing an audience without fear, it is a temporary catharsis against the backdropping sounds and dim atmosphere of the places we fit as the design or location may hint with its’ own symbols and grounds as foundation for the drama unfolding, but this is how we create art that seems as to pull right off the pages before these very eyes that decide to see it all scattered in the pattern-seeking brain informing an interpretive open vein reinforcing the people as artists to re-appropriate this reality of inconsistencies shrugging along in vain as the endless queue of trained peoples starts and stops… a glory like before is what we wish now, the insight to have seen the brilliant as the theme song plays up to our expectations that have been taught to us like laws to rein in our lives let loose upon this worldview as demographics sitting in pews to await the next vital commandment disguised in subtle signs giving way to future atrocity by the convinced meandering massive, but do we actually pay a piper to whose music we dance macabre as the skeletal mockery sings a sparse and bony melody to the pumping pulsing rhythm of organic pseudo-mechanical machinery that thinks it can win without compromising ideals?… meddlesome, the smelted sin that weighs heavily on minds and a soul whose whim is betrayed by a quarrelsome aspect of moving in this thing, but we only fool ourselves seeing the riddle as some question with an answer to solve it instead of the mystery that leads us further from whatever it is today to the lands of tomorrow we catch sight of in distant memories as dazed and confused as we are to be distracted by consequence and the fetish for an opulent lifestyle that one cannot be allowed to regret… forceful impression impressing us to make a social revision…

Thanks, khet.