It's better for you than half the stuff you THINK is good for you.

Late-Night Strolling – 29 May 2013

Just got done with studying, and homework, and decided to do a bit of late-night strolling just for the hell of it. Its been a while since I’ve posted something, so I’ve decided to put up a few poems I wrote some time back, under various circumstances – for class, during a boring lecture, because I couldn’t sleep, because I was high, etc., etc., and so forth. In any case, I’m posting three poems this time – “Sonnet Written to Fill Time,” a blend of a Shakesperian and a Petrarchan sonnet; a free-verse poem, “One Thousand Lifetimes;” and a piece of free-writing called “The Machinery of Night.”

It makes me happy that I have a place to post these, as they would most likely go unnoticed on Facebook which, if I may be frank, has become a forum of petulance, a sea of horrific spelling, contextual, and syntactical errors, and just downright boring status updates.

Maybe this will shake things up a bit.


Sonnet Written to Fill Time

Singly, doubly, triply! Long have I thought
Of what the ease of use of heart-wise wond’rings
Really is. Again, and again, a fraught
Mindset have I. Is it worth it? All things
Considered, is it really better to
Have loved and lost? I don’t know. The thing is,
The hurt, the shock – it burns me; and stings so
Sharply, sweetly. Still, sustained stings miss
Their mark. They hurt, they humiliate. And –
I ask again – are they worth it? As one
Practiced in such time-wasting thinking, I
Am… not sure. Singly? Doubly? Triply? Stand
As I do on uneven earth, the sun
Passing overhead through gray sinks of sky.


One Thousand Lifetimes

If I lived a thousand lifetimes –
One thousand births and one thousand deaths –
Would I live the next as I did the last?
Make all the same mistakes and learn from them
One thousand times –
Fall in and out of love so fluidly, easily,
One thousand times without fail?
Most definitely.
But a thousand childhoods, adolescences, senescences
Could not possibly be lived exactly the same.
People will be different, experiences will vary
And circumstances will change.
If I lived a thousand lifetimes –
One thousand births and one thousand deaths –
Would I really be any different?


Machinery of Night

Howl, the engineer said.
Gears grind, pistons pump, and the guts of the Machine
Crank out their steady rehearsed droning.
The engineer watches his ward work, moving along the path set out for it.
The Machine operates for a singular purpose –
To keep night away from the people of the Hinterland, of Thule, of the caverns of Hades
The City.
The engineer fancies himself Heaven’s earthbound emissary, a sacrosanct extension of
Providence’s influence.
If he wasn’t there to maintain the Machine, who could?
Nobody. He was sure of it.
Howl, the engineer said.

The Clade is watching.
They see the engineer, and monitor his ever-worsening Deus Complex,
Invariably the consequence of years underground, isolated with only the Machine
for company.
This has happened before, and will happen again –
At least, until escape from the Hell-bound tunnels becomes a possibility.
Until then, it is the Machine
That will nourish them, illuminate and comfort and provide succor for them all.
The lone caveat:
It cannot take care of itself. That task falls to humanity.
The Clade is watching. The Clade is evaluating.

The engineer knows every inch of the Machine’s entrails,
The size of every cog, the placement of every screw, the function of every switch.
The Machine is him, and he it, two indistinguishable halves of a most vital whole,
Analogous to God Himself.
He observes his significant other close-up, checking and rechecking, listening for
irregularities in its heartbeat.
As usual he finds none. He is whole. He is perfect.
Suddenly, a switch is thrown.
Where our engineer once saw harmony, he now sees discord. Where he heard
consonance, dissonant whining takes its place.
The Machine has become a competitor, an adversary, a flawless artificial soul,
The gears and pistons sapping him of his humanity, his individuality, his true soul.
The machine rules the world, and he is forced to be its handmaiden.
Why should they both be divine
When he could be the Almighty of the Hinterland?
The world – indeed all of humanity fits into the palm of his hand.
They depend on his brain, they need his knowledge, his expertise, his skill,
Not this machine’s.
Howl, the engineer says.


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