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satanicdoctor Profile
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vacuums.


How soon has time roused minutes to corrupt

And strain me forth yet leave as one not me

All that I am for now! Is the present only who

I am for now? Is my bleak past more who I'll be;

Immutable and even by the second, more, then

Who I am, at present? Besides the dull ideals,---

Useless and still heavy on the mind with

Implications narrow or broad enough to say

Not much, be not more than a brief toy

Of the intellect, the psyche---should my brain

Give more to this future I grasp for, still, yet

Do not sit with, as a changeling recognizes

Rarely what it is,---changing in the mirror oft

It looks deep into,---foundering, seemingly?

And yet this does not come too close, even,

To what it is about my lone position midst

The stars,---in tumult to assign me place.

 

In fact, the troubled things, events most foreign,

Do more once looked at, recognized, in me,

To bruise my head,---but since there's nothing else,

I have no choice but to bend backwards and

Observe my own damned asshole, just

To find perspective, make things clearer in

The sheer force of no cosmic place of sure

Redemption, yeah, and aught to come as soon

As time goes catching up with hopping

Heels to my cold, formless, chained, lascivious

Personality,---enough to paint me further as

An eloquence that dogs me in a slumberous

Haze, a drugged pursuer of my ends, a quiet,

Yeah, enough to be the silence of an age, yet little

To me once I put it down, dissemble grace;---

Rather it is I who catches up with naught

But naught, who lives up to the void, then

Falls into befuddlement, crude insanity---

Who hops his hellish heels in a manner

Darkly, hungry for a fresh mistake.

 

So I go on, and paint the picture thus:

It will not suit me to remain without

Speech, nor does a minute’s recompense

To me, that is, the giving back of stoicism,

Elemental traits, brave and humane,---eventually

Softening in the mind with doubt, with woeful,

Breached events into time's wound---offer much

To sway this life into being preferable. The

Twisted sense of some ultimate identity,

Achieved only through bent spines to observe

That majesty foregone---and it will foil

Later, anyway, with learned circumferences

Beyond the whole parts of my running knowledge---

No, none of this persuades my vacant soul

To fight, go on in life as this, drawn out

In lengths, inventing with its grasp a ledge

Above the precipice of time I hang off

Of, dangle, as a man, no, as a doll, might

Hang, limply, taxed by the very wind

Within this vacuum of imagination.
May/4/2012, 4:58 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
 
Katlin Profile
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Re: vacuums.


Hi Doc,

Do you know Yeats (to name but a few):

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May/15/2012, 4:27 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 
Katlin Profile
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Re: vacuums.


Or maybe, if you are interested, you'd like to take a listen to Mr. Yeats set to music by the Waterboys:

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(Scroll down to listen to an audio of Sweet Dancer.)
May/15/2012, 6:55 pm Link to this post Send Email to Katlin   Send PM to Katlin
 


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