cardboard adolescent

when will i feel the weight of the things i've said?
it's a small room
and the bum in the corner
has pissed himself
once more

i couldn't be here
if i weren't
not here
you see?

i wonder if parallel lines
ever get
antsy

i wonder
if

this is it

can i be
the great liar of my times

to take the prominent words
and twist them
cleverly

i could not be bitter
before your teasing smile
like your teasing light
in the corner of my vision

drawing the curtain, she shudders
a little thought had passed between them
is it too predictable?
she turns
"yeah"

cardboard adolescent

three in one,
a god that's cheaper
slightly schizo
but stern
and loving too

I tried to make myself
into a wonderful
person
but found
I had no clay to work with

and my hands were stuck

I will imitate
my former
rebellious gestures
because
they mean nothing
but
I don't know
who I am
without them

McApathy
iTedium

no use climbing mountains
when you can roll down hills
no use climbing mountains
when you can roll down hills
no use climbing mountains
when you can roll down hills
no use climbing mountains
when you can roll down hills
roll down hill
no use climbing
when you can roll down hill
down hill
down, down
down

cardboard adolescent

absence, absolute actions
addiction administratively affirms ancient age anew
assigned attack, awaiting, aware
body bored born breathing
calculated
camera capitulating category
choose city: cold commodity
conception confirms conflict
continuity correct
crack crime culture, dance death
dehumanization delivered
dig disrupts distance divine
dreams dripping dry dualism
eagerly echo electrodes
enjoy eradicated estrangement
evil explanations external
film flesh floor
gap girls give glitches glorification
god's good greed, green hand hanging
indifferent indistinguishably
inferior infinites
inflict innumerable intelligences
jolly joy justice kick
knees laugh laws
life liquidation longer lose love
loves magic man mass
mathematically mating meaningless means
mind misses modern moment
moral music
noble normality
nothingness obsolete
paints pan perverted phenomena
play praying precisely
problems processed
quality question raised
rays reach reassembling refuse
remains repetition
sees sex shake shoplifters
shows sleepy social solving sound
spins spiritual splendid stole
stupid subjects
suchness suffering summer sun
synthetic system
tautology tears thought
thoughts torture
trace transforming truth
uncommited underdogs
uneconomic
unite universe
void
walk
war warmth wholly won
work
world
worse writing

TheBig3

Hey Malicious,

People generally post in their own threads. i'm going to remove these until CA makes a decisions. Until then, feel free to start your own.

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I've moved to a new address

cardboard adolescent

let him do what he wants, i'm permissive

cardboard adolescent

To wrap you around me and keep the stars and the moon in a cloud around my waist. Catch the sunlight in a golden cup and get drunk on druid's hill with six pleasant, erudite beavers. Something about the way the Church glows as the Sun hides, or as I hide, lying and facing in directions that eventually branch and diverge. There are veins that connect me to the stars and they pull me upward, over the heads of stunned spectators and overprotective parents. I can't say which I prefer, the spiraling closure of Gothic arcs or the gaping ruptures following the movements of a restless Earth, the beautiful violence of tectonic plates trying to get comfortable. I think of being filled with sand, of bursting with obscene life, worms and weeds. He is determined to understand me, so he can beat me at my own game. I shuffle the cards apathetically, dealing them with detached eyes, automatic hands. He gets upset when I win twice in a row, and deals with his frustration ironically. I fake bemusement. Eventually he gets up and says he has to leave, and does so. He leaves a trail like a snail, the room feels sick and heavy with his mucus. I have trouble breathing, I feel I am sticking to my chair, I feel that this room is becoming a mirror for my body, and my illness is a decomposing figure leaning against the coat rack, falling apart in unsettling fleshy drips. Bones clatter and roll along the floor. I light a cigarette, and flames rip through the air. A thing is not inevitable until it is part of who you are. The blue screen prompted him for a response. This call was unalarming, it had been domesticated, he could justify himself glibly. “I did it for no reason;” the synthesis of hero and anti-hero is a measure of bad faith, the faithless protagonist is neither hero nor anti-hero because (s)he can not structure a narrative, things must happen to them or they can only speak through the discontinuities of what is expected of them. So, for instance, with the prince who, upon finding the princess, coughs. She awakes from her slumber prematurely, while he is still an approaching shadow. It is human nature to put sunglasses on a fish. With ascending classes of infinity, God presents us with independent realms of aesthetic ecstasy. The imaginary, with the density of the irrational, fills in reality and pulls around us like a blanket. The folds of spacetime are the robes of a naked Adam, smiling innocently as he waves the fabric. Next to him lies a faithful dog, grinning and panting, tail in mouth. Our prophets whisper madness to the future. They have seen the past with burning eyes of madness, they have seen the horror of lives betraying their limits with blood-curdling screams and hot iron. They say the sound of searing skin has no end. Father told me I would have to abandon him to follow Christ. He told me I would have to count all those I knew as nothing. As a young child, this made me feel oddly elated. I pressed down on my eyelids and resumed my flight through the isolated world of androgynous bricks, giving forms the opportunity to present themselves. Ready, as always, to provide an audience. I would love to map the curves of your shoulders, to lift you in the air and swing you around, and lick the corners of your eyes. “Come,” she said, “let's get out of here.” She stepped up, onto the horizon. She became the color of the sky, she was a dancing white outline on the edge of the big open. I yearned to chase her down the labyrinths of her convoluted steps. The harmony of the spheres hung about her neck. She did not belong in my corduroy afterlife; her escape was bittersweet. I played a song to mourn the loss and managed to charm myself. A frenzy of blood and wine does not ensue, rather, the lyrical laughter of the opium den, enamored glances that skip along veils dropping slowly, playfully. The mystery of the feminine becomes the mystery of its disappearance. Finally I get my wish, surrounded by beautiful women, each a self-contained spiritual kingdom, overflowing with the intoxicated tension of modernism. They all love me, and I find them beautiful. Together we craft memories that can not be held. No stories follow our deeds. Time begins to fade, we are becoming a crystal. Suddenly my world is a network of caves, a rippling web, a skeletal edifice mocking transient epochs with slow, deliberate gestures. I fall in love with plants, living entirely on the surface. I try to imitate them and bring everything to the surface, but the guilty lines emerging on my body make delicate souls shudder and turn from me. I feel I am pushing away everything I need. I am pulling dollar bills out of my wallet to bring it all back. The sales man smiles and shakes his head. “You won't find anything like that here.” He points to the sign over the door, and I realize my mistake. I stumble into my shame. I look around for something else to buy, but I am only making the situation worse. And yet, I am not unhappy there.

cardboard adolescent

How now? To accuse existence with my tone, to expose creation as the original rape of silence—let none miss the sadism of the Lord. I need this and I need you to need this too. There is no reciprocal relationship but that which destroys both parties—the only stability is the perpetual unrest of power and resistance—a system which remains undisturbed even as its terms cycle and disappear. Here I am...!
And then to undo my own negativity, becoming my own nemesis to witness an impossible fight, a reaction releasing enough energy to turn nonsense into sense, garbage into neural pathways, guiding the mind into a closed circuit, a feedback loop closing in on itself, nodes casually coinciding, becoming the self-sustaining atom of love, the ground for all life, making cruelty bearable, comprehensible. Still, the engagement never takes place. The words leave no room. Settle the dispute with an audience call-in.
Alchemy is a clever series of postponements. In this way it parodies politics. If we could, we would instill all animals with neuroses. This would provide a small comfort. Ctrl+Z my whole life. Rewind. Born as history was ending, left with your cool memories—floating on a lotus leaf down a polluted river through a war-torn land, watching starving children watch American television with dull eyes and hearing the murmurings of the pathetically satisfied, desperate to parody themselves. Too late... so late, I was right on time, ready to declare myself a fool before he could. Yes, I am part of it, inside and out.
Nightmares leave treasures at my fingertips. In my quarantine I have cultivated my own flavor of suffering. It is derived mainly from textbooks and the non-identity of the middle class. I replace Fate with structural necessity—the romantic hero strikes me as a madman, exponent of a madness which renders existence impossible, a madness I hope to acquire through my studies, which I hope to alert others to through my writing. If I can give you a hint as to its shape, you should be able to notice traces of its geometry in your local space-time, the particular indentations of its edges winking through the kinks of photon paths... follow them as they get sharper, they will lead you to the incision... Silly gibberish... he imagines himself on the tightrope between meaning and nonsense, when he has in fact long since plummeted into the abyss of incomprehensible, intolerably self-indulgent babble. Best to read (t)his trash with pity, as a document of semi-dormant mental illness and deluded frustrations. See what TV and irresponsible philosophy can do to a promising mind. Suddenly every thought aims beyond itself, everything is impotent.
Nothing is happening, everything is trying to avoid happening. Suddenly I say things like “nothing exists!” I found my truth where your tolerance ended, a step further than you were willing to follow. Somewhere there is a hipster staring at a chimpanzee, and suddenly you can no longer decipher the function of the zoo, the roles seem to have decomposed. Situations like this follow their own sexual mechanics. It's fortunate that I like French thinkers, since there is still some novelty in French thoughts molesting English. The French are very kind to their translators. Proliferation is a French word, but do we ever thank them for it? We are robbers and gravediggers.
I don't acknowledge any cultural inheritance as my own but since I have become intimate with this language I must bear witness to its faults as my own, and the most vulgar of these is its will to spread, like a whore or a virus, over/to all things trivial or profound. It follows then that we must always do violence to language, such as unto a whore or virus. Gnashing gnashing gnashing teeth wearing down and cracking and splintering gnashing he calls it “dental torture” and he has rows and rows of tapes in his basement and this is how he kills God as teeth gnash and crack and splinter and drills turn gums into mush. “I am almost bacterial,” he says, panting, and you can tell that he believes it. Do you see your opportunity here, will you aim the gun and shoot? Another rotten life for the garbage heap. Another rotten soul for the Devil to chew on.
But why does he shake and scream? What tortures the torturer? What inspires the Devil? Reason is the Devil's whore; frenzy is divine. We turned from crucifiction to fire to avoid noticing the repetition, but with the death of every blasphemer our Sin becomes more transparent. It is Kristallnacht and the masses have once again found the only thing that can really satiate that void: an enemy. The Devil convinces himself he is God destroying the Devil pretending to be God, while God can only watch and suffer as the Devil tears off into self-destruction. In the last stance Lucifer is apathetic and cold, and comments distantly on his own disappearance. “Oh? Time for that, is it?” He will not allow his end to be tragic, or even comic. So much the worse for us.

cardboard adolescent

find something which does not scream itself
a furtive presence, ennobled by secrecy
conspicuously missing from the old myths
following the trace of its absence
we can not leave it alone

we rush through life, expecting the momentum
to carry us somewhere
sailing through the glass dome
more at home with polymorphous clouds
shifting identity, position, consistency
embodying the insubstantial
potentiality of form

to be a canvas for your
unborn

lust
reduced to body
crawling along the endless plateau
nausea

indifferent eyes
stone organs

his only gift
his cruel gaze
his honesty

a monster

gather the allotted tokens in your palm
keep a tight hold on yourself
through the mirror maze and freak show
a shaking pale devil
your every movement is grotesque
running away only to come running back
to the carnival

no retreat to nature
we can not twist its silence
into an excuse
we can not conceal ourselves
between its layers of peeling skin
no song can redeem
our indecision

there is only one direction

Arya Stark

You're a great writer.
What inspired you to write this?

__________________

MB Journal.
Azucar y Especia. My blog.

NumberNineDream

You seem pretty much soaked in your existentialism, which is in itself exceptionally done, especially with all the pretentious increase in the existential absurdist market.

I've spent a good hour reading everything posted in that thread, and all I can say is, if you find yourself publishing a 1000-page book, consisting of whatever you find yourself writing, I'm certainly going to purchase it.

Note: The links of poems to the external site are all leading to the deviantArt main page.

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