I live on a mixed diet of caffeine and water,
and I don't know if I oughta add anything else,
vapour don't fill the gut up,
food's rough, don't taste like much.
I'm eating through paper and ply just to satisfy,
learning how to starve to survive.
have you encountered loneliness?
you may feel lucky to be left out
but you've left out the experience,
never let it out, no resistance to remember
existence is existential
and loneliness is a part of the whole.
Only, a part alone.
Words are like a salve, or an ointment,
they can be medicinal but are often simply aqua,
they cover and relieve in the moment they are applied,
but are soon absorbed and rarely retained,
I remember them,
But I still feel dry
and sore.
Perhaps, we thought, a solution to temperance,
permanence of these words,
scratched in leather, dried as ink,
a byte in a hard drive, a drop from a cloud.
But these are as easily forgotten,
And the relevance recedes in repetition.
How easily we all forgot,
The lessons we learnt from those who came before.
A generation suffers to teach the next,
But the world has changed, the lessons no longer apply.
The words that convinced the first,
to hate and to kill and to justify that,
in blaming others,
we no longer listen to them.
But instead those words transcend
No longer in long books we agree to revile,
But short moments lost in a storm of opinion,
say it enough times and it becomes the truth,
only truth is always subjective,
and often the subject is skewed,
mired and satired,
joked and spoke,
so often now that no-one listens.
So tired of the arguments that they refuse to listen to what is being said.
The cries of the weak and poor are lost and excused as knowing no better.
Why listen to someone who knows so little that they cannot listen?
A circle of blame that damages and blinds all but those stirring the pot.
We assume so often now,
assume those that don't fall in our line of thinking,
are simply seeing their own truths, so blind, blinking mad
maddening that others cannot see the truth that we speak,
in mantras, in madness, in memoriam.
How easily we all forgot,
The lessons we learnt from those who came before.
A generation suffers to teach the next,
But the world has changed, the lessons no longer apply.
The words that convinced the first,
to hate and to kill and to justify that,
in blaming others,
we no longer listen to them.
Spillage
For the words that are hardest,
Are not build by the artists,
but short and nothing sweet,
The simple sound,
of a single beat:
I hate you.
Means a thousand fists,
Beating you into a corner,
where the only retort left to find
in this
the cataclysm of social disorder
is to fight back
or step away;
I'm sorry,
that pinches against the grain,
and makes us understand to pass the burden of pain,
That we consider ourselves
just as we consider
One another again,
One another again,
Thank you.
Is grateful, and means so much more.
than words contain.
So in eyes it is gained
So in eyes it is gained
(pried in a moment) before
those same spy the floor,
But,
where those eyes met,
and stare into the iris hue,
No words so simple,
Could capture the jingle,
Of an,
I
Love
You
Nice Guys Finish Last
I managed to fall into a discussion today with a stranger whilst having a midday coffee break.
He had seen me helping a lady get all her bags onto a bus and said I was one of those "nice guys". I said "Aren't we all, in the end?"
"No." He bluntly said and continued along the lines of, "Some people don't try to be nice guys, they don't even want to be. The politicians, the marketers, the salesman. They succeed because they aren't nice people. They succeed because of nice people."
I was pretty taken aback. I can't remember the majority of our conversation but one thing he said really got to me.
"If you always give then it's easy for other people to take from you. If you stop giving you don't lose anything and you stand to gain a lot more."
I'll admit it. I was almost convinced by this argument. I'm the kind of person that will rarely say no unless I absolutely have no other choice. I try to do whatever I can to help other people, even if it means I would be less well off at the outcome, which I usually am. Either with less time, money or energy. If I stopped giving of these then, yes, I would retain what I have and still acquire more from those that were the "nice guys". It's a win-win, right?
I wondered, perhaps that if I were to be less focused on the wellbeing of others, I would instead be able to focus purely on the self. If someone considered me to be selfish for it then who cares except they themselves? I would still benefit at the end of it all..
So why maintain this persona of nice for niceness?
No, as I said, I was almost convinced; not entirely. I finally came to my conclusion only a few moments ago.
I don't help people because I have to. I don't do it for the sense of satisfaction in being the good guy. I do it because I want to be treated the same.
Okay, so there will be a lot of people who may take advantage. Many who would bleed my veins dry for themselves. Some who may not realise even that they are doing so. These people are an unfortunate reality and I can accept that.
But if I acted the same, I would be teaching others I meet that that is how society is. That's not how I want society to be, that's not the impression I want to give, that's not the world I want to live in.
I hope that if I treat someone with respect that they would treat me the same, and expand the attitude onto others. I hope to show empathy and I want others to be empathic too.
And yet, empathy is a much bigger word than it first appears. You can put yourself in another man's shoes and say you see and feel and understand without ever having done anything of the like. Even in your mind, you can picture a person's situation but the detachment to it is still a factor. Although the solution to you may be obvious, the situation has had no affect on you because you remain behind a glass wall of imagination. Until you really are in the same room, surrounded by the same four walls, breathing the same air you cannot fathom it. It's very easy to say cheer up when you're not the one in despair. It's all too easy to let someone go when you aren't in love with them and it's a simple thing to fall asleep when your mind isn't running in circles.
Sometimes, empathy is impossible.
We cannot understand because the concept is too alien.
I want to help if I can, and where I can't I want to show that I want to.
Because sometimes all you really need is someone to just be the "nice guy".
He had seen me helping a lady get all her bags onto a bus and said I was one of those "nice guys". I said "Aren't we all, in the end?"
"No." He bluntly said and continued along the lines of, "Some people don't try to be nice guys, they don't even want to be. The politicians, the marketers, the salesman. They succeed because they aren't nice people. They succeed because of nice people."
I was pretty taken aback. I can't remember the majority of our conversation but one thing he said really got to me.
"If you always give then it's easy for other people to take from you. If you stop giving you don't lose anything and you stand to gain a lot more."
I'll admit it. I was almost convinced by this argument. I'm the kind of person that will rarely say no unless I absolutely have no other choice. I try to do whatever I can to help other people, even if it means I would be less well off at the outcome, which I usually am. Either with less time, money or energy. If I stopped giving of these then, yes, I would retain what I have and still acquire more from those that were the "nice guys". It's a win-win, right?
I wondered, perhaps that if I were to be less focused on the wellbeing of others, I would instead be able to focus purely on the self. If someone considered me to be selfish for it then who cares except they themselves? I would still benefit at the end of it all..
So why maintain this persona of nice for niceness?
No, as I said, I was almost convinced; not entirely. I finally came to my conclusion only a few moments ago.
I don't help people because I have to. I don't do it for the sense of satisfaction in being the good guy. I do it because I want to be treated the same.
Okay, so there will be a lot of people who may take advantage. Many who would bleed my veins dry for themselves. Some who may not realise even that they are doing so. These people are an unfortunate reality and I can accept that.
But if I acted the same, I would be teaching others I meet that that is how society is. That's not how I want society to be, that's not the impression I want to give, that's not the world I want to live in.
I hope that if I treat someone with respect that they would treat me the same, and expand the attitude onto others. I hope to show empathy and I want others to be empathic too.
And yet, empathy is a much bigger word than it first appears. You can put yourself in another man's shoes and say you see and feel and understand without ever having done anything of the like. Even in your mind, you can picture a person's situation but the detachment to it is still a factor. Although the solution to you may be obvious, the situation has had no affect on you because you remain behind a glass wall of imagination. Until you really are in the same room, surrounded by the same four walls, breathing the same air you cannot fathom it. It's very easy to say cheer up when you're not the one in despair. It's all too easy to let someone go when you aren't in love with them and it's a simple thing to fall asleep when your mind isn't running in circles.
Sometimes, empathy is impossible.
We cannot understand because the concept is too alien.
I want to help if I can, and where I can't I want to show that I want to.
Because sometimes all you really need is someone to just be the "nice guy".
Platform of Power
It was only after writing this piece of poetry that I really looked into the past of the Israel/Gaza border war. All in all, I can't really say which side I support in the conflict. Both of them have made poor aggressive mistakes and to be honest I think they are as bad as each other. That being said, I wrote this poem after reading several recent articles revolving around the shelling of schools and the humanitarian crisis that's occurring, or rather had been occurring in Gaza at the time.
Who even gives a damn if you're a black, a white or even Asian?
Look around, it's seems we've figured out ourselves we're all the same skin,
Besides, now we've got democrats, republicans and liberals to spill our hate in.
It's amazing, the villain seems to always get control,
Waging wars in which they never fight, at least not they themselves alone,
Instead as a head of a nation, they risk the population as a whole,
And I'm not here to point fingers, but you can see it in the death tolls,
Look up the polls, nazi Germany, 6 million Jews dead,
And in the war that ensued for their freedom 7,375,800 Germans took rounds of lead,
How many in comparison were the ones who stood behind the desks?
Who commanded this campaign of hatred, who sent the population to their deaths?
Even the top dog of the lot spent his last days safe, concealed on the back line,
And despite that it was all just his own impassioned method of divine,
He built a wall of lesser men to distance himself from his own crime,
And despite the loss of a generation of families through his lies,
Despite the sheer number of Jews and Germans tortured by his political guise,
Despite that he would allow those men in his place to sacrifice,
Still, within his creature comforts he survived the blight of war by taking his own life.
Power is a platform that lays on the backs of others strife.
And now look to Gaza, where mothers, children, fathers are left to rot,
Where another form of genocide is warming up the plot,
Where daily, those that die are not a military lot,
But the innocent and stranded in a cage waiting to be shot.
Where the water is a luxury that no man has even got,
Where the houses now are rubble, where the payloads had been dropped,
And who stands in the background ordering this horrific defiance of god?
Those same sufferers of evil, that this world pledged to and had not forgot,
I am not a racist, I am not anti Semitic, I've no time to be, I am not,
But this stinks of an similar genocide, stirred in a similar form of pot,
And I hope that those that sit beneath those higher men feel the blood in their backs begin to clot,
That they see.
Power is a platform that needs to be promptly lifted off.
Also please, check out this astounding video recording made of the rescue of a small child buried by rubble. If nothing else, this stands as a poignant reminder of the true victims in political warfare.
Post by Thông Tin Hàn Quốc.
Post by Thông Tin Hàn Quốc.
i have a friend and he’s my backbone,
my gritted teeth and and fortitude,
and when i die i want on my headstone
a little piece of his attitude,
I have a buddy boarding stations,
playing music to the booths,
And if i had his determination,
I’d be singing similar truths,
I’m not myself, I am a culmination of all those that i meet,
i’m not a star, and i refuse to be,
i’m am myself, formed by inspirations, victories and defeat,
I’m not a star, i am a goddamn galaxy
and i owe my talent,
to a dedicated poet i’ll never be,
i blame him for my habits,
and my willingness to openly disagree,
and i owe my freedoms,
to a star i catch in every northern sky,
and i owe my reasons,
to every artist that sings to just get by,
I’m not myself, I am a culmination of all those that i meet,
i’m not a star, and i refuse to be,
i’m am myself, formed by inspirations, victories and defeat,
I’m not a star, i am a goddamn galaxy
we are not planets, we shine brighter each and every day we believe,
we are not islands split by sea,
we hold each other up, with a silent contract of willing community,
we all become a goddamn galaxy.
sssd
I could have been the richest guy in the world,
except instead i got a job and now that's my lot,
its like im paying to stay in prison,
is it a given, that I give them, every goddamn ounce of my soul,
to reach a goal i never dreamt for,
if being free means being poor,
then give me poverty,
if there's a line i won't need to to see it anymore
Diabetic Dreams
A fog hangs around the room with a definitive musky scent, it develops from the embers of my tobacco roll up and spreads itself in grandiose swirls around the place. I move slowly so as not to disturb their dancing and shift the curtain slightly across so as to let in a strand of sunlight. The effect was as to be expected, although the way the light shine off of those little smokey particles is always astounding. I feel like I'm in a 1950's cinema, smoke obscuring an Alfred Hitchcock picture, I see John Williams mouthing but the sound is a bubbled muffle.
The door opens and a police officer steps in explaining his urgency to get me out of the house, something about carbon monoxide. Across from me I can see Ed J. Carlson slowly falling unconscious to a sleep we all know he never wakes from. I grab my mac and head out the door with the police officer.
In his car he explains that he is no longer an officer of the law, but instead a contributing member of it, he tells me how his past employment left him with vertigo and a debilitating acrophobia. As he speaks I can see the road getting longer and longer as if I were not moving but instead the world moving around me.
I blink and Maggie is standing there in the middle of the road speaking to a man, I see the words "Jealous" and "Skipper" pass her lips but again no sound utters free, another blink and I gasp for air.
My room. The same cigarette burning through to the filter tip that all now hangs ever threateningly over the whiskey glass I often use as an ashtray. My eyes sting and my throat is a pin hole in tin foil, each breath tearing through with a sickly tasteless sensation. I drink a water bottle dry and pull up my shirt revealing my stomach. I jab a needle into it counting, "1, 2, 3, 4..".
As I lay I listen to the silence that engulfs me, I can just hear so distant in my own head a music only I can understand, the guitars, the drums, the piano, the violas and the cellos. Somewhere a glockenspiel is driving it.
- Max
Yellow Journal, 17/12/1983
The door opens and a police officer steps in explaining his urgency to get me out of the house, something about carbon monoxide. Across from me I can see Ed J. Carlson slowly falling unconscious to a sleep we all know he never wakes from. I grab my mac and head out the door with the police officer.
In his car he explains that he is no longer an officer of the law, but instead a contributing member of it, he tells me how his past employment left him with vertigo and a debilitating acrophobia. As he speaks I can see the road getting longer and longer as if I were not moving but instead the world moving around me.
I blink and Maggie is standing there in the middle of the road speaking to a man, I see the words "Jealous" and "Skipper" pass her lips but again no sound utters free, another blink and I gasp for air.
My room. The same cigarette burning through to the filter tip that all now hangs ever threateningly over the whiskey glass I often use as an ashtray. My eyes sting and my throat is a pin hole in tin foil, each breath tearing through with a sickly tasteless sensation. I drink a water bottle dry and pull up my shirt revealing my stomach. I jab a needle into it counting, "1, 2, 3, 4..".
As I lay I listen to the silence that engulfs me, I can just hear so distant in my own head a music only I can understand, the guitars, the drums, the piano, the violas and the cellos. Somewhere a glockenspiel is driving it.
- Max
Yellow Journal, 17/12/1983
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