TITLE (EDIT) Invisible Thugs Or Imaginary Killers, A Collection Of The Perverse Verse
DESCRIPTION
These are a series of poems I have been working on lately, they are bizarre and fragmented but I think adaquetely describe a general feeling of despair and yearning in our culture for meaning and stardom and how we mix reality with fantasy so often in our lives and create our own individualistic dramas to fill the cracks in our subconscious. [578 words]
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I am a 36yo african american male living in the united states after recently migrating from a university in Africa. My recent exposure to the American culture has led me to write these poems. [August 2006]
Invisible Thugs Or Imaginary Killers, A Collection Of The Perverse Verse Jason Roland
I became
I became the picture in the movie screen today
with a lot of glimmer and glamour and just the right
amount of pizazz, with not a blemish to be found
I am infinitely perfect now, my hair has become
long sheens of desperate white and grey
While my neck seems to stretch over limitless muscles
that pose and expose for delicate viewers
who are up for a little decay
When I perform I outact and outdazzle everyone
around me until they are catty behind the scenes
my love interest is a penguin and my, how hard that is
to pull off geniune interest in something so black and white
Then there is the zebra, who is all stripes
My decadent little daughter who I throw off the bridge
in the middle of the film, my wife Insanity
who drives me around, then there is the big climax
where we all become one with God
the screen explodes
and the audience gets sucked in
and we forget that we are watching a movie
and realize we are the movie.
we are all living on the edge
we are all living on the edge
of consciousness and our own words
that come back to haunt us late at night
we are like paupers who have come to see the light
but still live like rich men when the hour is late
because we all want to shine for them
I am sad because this road seems to go on forever
with no clear end in sight
This money game seems to drain me dry
trying to pretend to be something that i am not
to fill some empty void in my heart
the days pass by in this lazy haze
and I see God in a thousand children's smiles
but this strangely gives me no comfort
because I am stuck in this flesh
and I am desperate for some meaning
to my sad little life
that goes on like a sitcom
well past it's prime
with no viewers
and facing imminent
cancellation
so it just adds a new cast of characters.
preaching to a dead choir
sometimes i find your face
in an old picture
or a fragmented dream
and i singe off the edges
just to see them burn
i loved you once
so much, so tender
but now all i am left with
is these black and blue memories
of a life that it seems never existed
stuck in the ever aware present
so many minds and bodies infect mine
with their need
and i am just a sponge to suck up
the psychic cacophony
of everyone else's sorrows and greed
i wish i could swim in dollars
but i wasn't meant for such things
instead i live humble and suffer
to learn some great lesson
i'll get after i'm dead
until then i write these stories
that bend and break the weak of mind
and i write these poems
to die a little and feel inside.
everything is fading.
everything seems to be fading
through a hole in the wall of my apartment
only a pinprick big but large as the universe
in it's infinite vacuum of circumference
I feel myself becoming one with it
the endless tide, the ebb and flow
of destiny summoning me
like dead roses laid upon a sinner's grave
hot breath flows over me
all i have become, all that i forgave
the time has come to make grim decisions
why do the faces always have to change?
why does it seem like comfort is my undoing?
as soon as i start to depend on something
it starts to shift and itch like an animal
it kicks its legs out at me
and makes me tumble to the ground
i feel rejected by life sometimes
by it's emotionally detached demeanor
like the ocean it moves, clearly full of synergy
but compassion is foreign to this extraterrestrial fiend
can a God know humility?
Or does he merely like to pick the ants off one by one.
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