Sunday, February 8, 2009
New Poetry Blog on Tumblr
Bah, I'm just going to restart everything. New blog on Tumblr, people! Follow this link, subscibe to the RSS feed, and enjoy.
Letter
Letter
i can only hope that this message reaches you in time...
i'm right here, waiting for an answer that i know is never going to come. so to pass the time, i sit here writing poorly reasoned arguments for my own existence. it's an endless (read: worthless) exhaustion of my limited resources, but i do it anyway, for my own pleasure and satisfaction. it's something hopeless, that can not be explained with our beautiful yet tragic words. the best i can hope for is for Death to come sooner than i expect it to. what a miraculous sensation, Death. i'm sure that for all my longing now, that when the time comes around, i'll stare him down with my trembling, tearful gaze. because Death is nothing compared to the behemoth that i've got chained up in the back of my shack that i call a home. if i've conquered that thing, then i can't imagine that Death will be any worthy adversary. humanity bears scars of battles lost and won, but ultimately it's the way that we are remembered that matters. we're on the verge of the abyss, a bottomless pit that we dug ourselves. but it's ironically inhumane how our own creation wreaks havoc on our pure, unadulterated souls after we come tearing furiously out of the womb, like a searing comet making it's mark on the murky tar-black sky of the night. we're not even completely human anymore. what is it to be human? i'm not a sage, so i can't possibly answer that, but i do know with complete certainty that i'll never be able to buy humanity. in a place where buying a shirt leaves me naked and wretchedly sobbing in my poorly lit room at 4 in the afternoon, what hope is there for the race of man? it's our own pit bull that's bit us, our own euphoric flame that has reached out and wrapped it's neon-bladed hand around our entire being. but it's like i said, what really matters is how they will remember us. i sometimes think about how they will remember me. will i be a ghost, under shadow of some supreme Dharmic being. or shall i be the fulfiller, the final reincarnation of Vishnu, ready to create of destroy at the flick of a wrist, ending myself to bring salvation to the people chosen by some great Over-being. or shall i live forever, with you by my side, wistfully watching the sun set on the mountainous horizon each and every day. after a bit of thinking, i decided that the last choice is what i most dearly wish for. we're both wounded by a silent gunshot to our backs, but we talk like the world around us is both beautiful and monstrous. oh, if you only knew how i dream of each and every word you've spoken, turning it over in my subconcious mind, treating it as a holy mantra for hope and illumination. it's better than the Hare Krishna. i told you once before, but it must have seemed frivolous and childish. i admit wholeheartedly, it was like you were Jane Goodall with an ape. you hadn't yet awakened this existential despair and longing, but we are both so beautiful and strong. i may not be the best suitor that you've recieved, especially when you consider my hephaestus beauty. but i can guarantee you, with formerly unspeakable truth, that i can do something extraordinarily unique. Ha! that, of all things, is what i so dearly yearn for. there may be many others like me, even more far superior, but it's only me sitting here with my heart in my throat, writing this letter to you. even if you only see me as some Mohammedan prophet, to share tragic and humorous anecdotes freely and unjudgingly, i feel something so powerful that it's seething underneath my iron will. but now, i've somehow channeled this furious power, this explosive, occasionally divergent might into something barely legible, yet unshakeably powerful to me. this is my tantric love, my holy scripture of devotion. and think of this: you were my Melpomene, my muse of Tragedy, my chanting one. it's your profound yet well-intentioned misinterpretation of me that i weep over. i can't blame you, or anyone, really, but myself. it's my cowardice, my weakness, my angst-driven madness that calls to me secretly that has led to this tragic, laughable misunderstanding. i've said this before, briefly, and in base and uninviting and sudden words. but that was unsuitable for a wingless angel such as yourself. you deserve more than a few words spoken quickly by a fool. you deserve something like letter, this complete analysis of my deep and abiding respect for you. this must seem a bit sudden, a bit too fast for your refined tastes. but i'm a vulgar man, who moves quickly from place to place, basking in the sunlight as if it's my birthright. perhaps i expect too much. perhaps i am being fooled by my own illusory hopes and ambitions. i've always kept my expectations low, but i now feel the need to have faith in something, someone, you. it's a mystical energy flowing red-hot through my veins, like the Styx on a saturday night in 1969. how ridiculous i must seem. you're probably thinking that this is a joke, some sort of farcical attempt at expression. but this was necessary, and it came upon me so quickly and unexpectedly that i could barely believe my eyes. i can barely believe them now, looking back at this unutterable conviction that i stumbled upon. i was thinking about it just the other day, with fewer words, and more ambitious yearnings mumbled to a friend in a dusty coffeehouse. it's such an explosive thing to me, how far we can travel by sitting on a bench in the park. we sit and speak of lost passion and tigers, and when we journey into the realm of theory and musings, i can see the blinding light of God and you. it frequently leaves me speechless. yet there are always these extraneous activities, these worthy and necessary interruptions to our lawless fun. there is meaning in those heart-racing conversations, at least to me. my worst fear is that this is a charity for you, a pitiful yet vaguely amusing curiosity that you frequently retell to your friends as some sort of joke. this has been something i was searching for, and it would be devastating if this simple letter made me lose it. but sometimes i think that you've erected these fences around yourself. you're wandering through the dark forest, waiting for the wolves to come, afraid yet so honestly yearning for that reprieve to come, at least in my mind. i know, because i'm the same way. they say that we all want happiness, but how could i want it if it kills me with the fresh and murderous knives of ignorance? it's so hard to distrust everything, to be an eternal skeptic, even of yourself. ideologically, you couldn't possibly burden yourself with this. it's a laudable insight into the heart of humanity, that deep & hopeless cave that no light or hope dare enter. soon they will come and strip my crown from my head. this is a heathen's prayer, an eternally desperate resorative attempt at something resembling human emotion. besides that, what i am attempting to get out of this is unknown to me. it's like some sort of cathartic release, something that i haven't done for a very long time. when you get to be like me, you keep a lot of things to yourself, you know. it's a sad thing, repression. but like the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding out of the mouth of Hell, i expect this to end with disappointment. the demons never really scared me enough. it was more of an abject fascination. i can retell a thousand and one stories, but i never did anything for myself. it's about time that i stopped weeping over the rose in the closet. but now i'm starting to get absurd and repetitive. i could write this forever, retelling the same story, thinking far too much for my own good. i hope this isn't too maudlin, not too serious or overwrought. like i said too many times, it came exploding out of me, uncontrollable in a public library downtown. this is the most honest i'll ever get. but you know me by now. i wish i could tell it to you straight, but i'm a shameful man, and you're smart enough to know that this is for you. thanks for the ride.
with you on the american hajj,
sam (johannes)
i can only hope that this message reaches you in time...
i'm right here, waiting for an answer that i know is never going to come. so to pass the time, i sit here writing poorly reasoned arguments for my own existence. it's an endless (read: worthless) exhaustion of my limited resources, but i do it anyway, for my own pleasure and satisfaction. it's something hopeless, that can not be explained with our beautiful yet tragic words. the best i can hope for is for Death to come sooner than i expect it to. what a miraculous sensation, Death. i'm sure that for all my longing now, that when the time comes around, i'll stare him down with my trembling, tearful gaze. because Death is nothing compared to the behemoth that i've got chained up in the back of my shack that i call a home. if i've conquered that thing, then i can't imagine that Death will be any worthy adversary. humanity bears scars of battles lost and won, but ultimately it's the way that we are remembered that matters. we're on the verge of the abyss, a bottomless pit that we dug ourselves. but it's ironically inhumane how our own creation wreaks havoc on our pure, unadulterated souls after we come tearing furiously out of the womb, like a searing comet making it's mark on the murky tar-black sky of the night. we're not even completely human anymore. what is it to be human? i'm not a sage, so i can't possibly answer that, but i do know with complete certainty that i'll never be able to buy humanity. in a place where buying a shirt leaves me naked and wretchedly sobbing in my poorly lit room at 4 in the afternoon, what hope is there for the race of man? it's our own pit bull that's bit us, our own euphoric flame that has reached out and wrapped it's neon-bladed hand around our entire being. but it's like i said, what really matters is how they will remember us. i sometimes think about how they will remember me. will i be a ghost, under shadow of some supreme Dharmic being. or shall i be the fulfiller, the final reincarnation of Vishnu, ready to create of destroy at the flick of a wrist, ending myself to bring salvation to the people chosen by some great Over-being. or shall i live forever, with you by my side, wistfully watching the sun set on the mountainous horizon each and every day. after a bit of thinking, i decided that the last choice is what i most dearly wish for. we're both wounded by a silent gunshot to our backs, but we talk like the world around us is both beautiful and monstrous. oh, if you only knew how i dream of each and every word you've spoken, turning it over in my subconcious mind, treating it as a holy mantra for hope and illumination. it's better than the Hare Krishna. i told you once before, but it must have seemed frivolous and childish. i admit wholeheartedly, it was like you were Jane Goodall with an ape. you hadn't yet awakened this existential despair and longing, but we are both so beautiful and strong. i may not be the best suitor that you've recieved, especially when you consider my hephaestus beauty. but i can guarantee you, with formerly unspeakable truth, that i can do something extraordinarily unique. Ha! that, of all things, is what i so dearly yearn for. there may be many others like me, even more far superior, but it's only me sitting here with my heart in my throat, writing this letter to you. even if you only see me as some Mohammedan prophet, to share tragic and humorous anecdotes freely and unjudgingly, i feel something so powerful that it's seething underneath my iron will. but now, i've somehow channeled this furious power, this explosive, occasionally divergent might into something barely legible, yet unshakeably powerful to me. this is my tantric love, my holy scripture of devotion. and think of this: you were my Melpomene, my muse of Tragedy, my chanting one. it's your profound yet well-intentioned misinterpretation of me that i weep over. i can't blame you, or anyone, really, but myself. it's my cowardice, my weakness, my angst-driven madness that calls to me secretly that has led to this tragic, laughable misunderstanding. i've said this before, briefly, and in base and uninviting and sudden words. but that was unsuitable for a wingless angel such as yourself. you deserve more than a few words spoken quickly by a fool. you deserve something like letter, this complete analysis of my deep and abiding respect for you. this must seem a bit sudden, a bit too fast for your refined tastes. but i'm a vulgar man, who moves quickly from place to place, basking in the sunlight as if it's my birthright. perhaps i expect too much. perhaps i am being fooled by my own illusory hopes and ambitions. i've always kept my expectations low, but i now feel the need to have faith in something, someone, you. it's a mystical energy flowing red-hot through my veins, like the Styx on a saturday night in 1969. how ridiculous i must seem. you're probably thinking that this is a joke, some sort of farcical attempt at expression. but this was necessary, and it came upon me so quickly and unexpectedly that i could barely believe my eyes. i can barely believe them now, looking back at this unutterable conviction that i stumbled upon. i was thinking about it just the other day, with fewer words, and more ambitious yearnings mumbled to a friend in a dusty coffeehouse. it's such an explosive thing to me, how far we can travel by sitting on a bench in the park. we sit and speak of lost passion and tigers, and when we journey into the realm of theory and musings, i can see the blinding light of God and you. it frequently leaves me speechless. yet there are always these extraneous activities, these worthy and necessary interruptions to our lawless fun. there is meaning in those heart-racing conversations, at least to me. my worst fear is that this is a charity for you, a pitiful yet vaguely amusing curiosity that you frequently retell to your friends as some sort of joke. this has been something i was searching for, and it would be devastating if this simple letter made me lose it. but sometimes i think that you've erected these fences around yourself. you're wandering through the dark forest, waiting for the wolves to come, afraid yet so honestly yearning for that reprieve to come, at least in my mind. i know, because i'm the same way. they say that we all want happiness, but how could i want it if it kills me with the fresh and murderous knives of ignorance? it's so hard to distrust everything, to be an eternal skeptic, even of yourself. ideologically, you couldn't possibly burden yourself with this. it's a laudable insight into the heart of humanity, that deep & hopeless cave that no light or hope dare enter. soon they will come and strip my crown from my head. this is a heathen's prayer, an eternally desperate resorative attempt at something resembling human emotion. besides that, what i am attempting to get out of this is unknown to me. it's like some sort of cathartic release, something that i haven't done for a very long time. when you get to be like me, you keep a lot of things to yourself, you know. it's a sad thing, repression. but like the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding out of the mouth of Hell, i expect this to end with disappointment. the demons never really scared me enough. it was more of an abject fascination. i can retell a thousand and one stories, but i never did anything for myself. it's about time that i stopped weeping over the rose in the closet. but now i'm starting to get absurd and repetitive. i could write this forever, retelling the same story, thinking far too much for my own good. i hope this isn't too maudlin, not too serious or overwrought. like i said too many times, it came exploding out of me, uncontrollable in a public library downtown. this is the most honest i'll ever get. but you know me by now. i wish i could tell it to you straight, but i'm a shameful man, and you're smart enough to know that this is for you. thanks for the ride.
with you on the american hajj,
sam (johannes)
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Future of Desolation Blues
Goodness. It appears that I have not really put anything besides my self-indulgent poetry on the blog in quite some time. To be completely honest with you readers, I almost forgot about it for a good while. I admit, I have been severely lax in my duties to provide you folk with articles for your reading pleasure, if that is what you choose to call horrific pain. Yes, I know, I deserve to be savagely, savagely beaten. You barbarians.
Aside from developing my self-deprecation skills, I have also been rejuvenating my writing skills, which, due to circumstances, almost atrophied beyond the point of no return. However, they have survived, and may be back with more vigor than I ever expected of them. But enough about me. Let's talk about the future of Desolation Blues.
I don't know if I will ever follow through with this plan, but I plan on completely ceasing to post things musically related here. I know, it's a tragedy, and very inconvenient for you all, as that is probably the sole reason this blog has been visited at all. But you don't need to worry, I'll be creating a new blog for that very purpose. DB will now be entirely dedicated to the pursuit of poetics.
Well, that's really all I wanted to say for now. I'll create the new blog very soon, and I expect to have an article up there by the end of the week. You'll see a link to it soon.
- Zalarus out
Aside from developing my self-deprecation skills, I have also been rejuvenating my writing skills, which, due to circumstances, almost atrophied beyond the point of no return. However, they have survived, and may be back with more vigor than I ever expected of them. But enough about me. Let's talk about the future of Desolation Blues.
I don't know if I will ever follow through with this plan, but I plan on completely ceasing to post things musically related here. I know, it's a tragedy, and very inconvenient for you all, as that is probably the sole reason this blog has been visited at all. But you don't need to worry, I'll be creating a new blog for that very purpose. DB will now be entirely dedicated to the pursuit of poetics.
Well, that's really all I wanted to say for now. I'll create the new blog very soon, and I expect to have an article up there by the end of the week. You'll see a link to it soon.
- Zalarus out
Monday, January 26, 2009
Poem: A Feeling Like Medea
a feeling like Medea
it's so strange that i think of you now,
walking down some unknown street.
but then again it's not so rare
that i think of aching things.
it's like i told you
i hear the talk,
talk of a savior
words of a temple in the holy land
but well, it's nothing but lies
lies and whores and
Madame de Pompadour in nothing but a corset.
she was always my favorite.
a feeling like Medea washes over me,
as i stare into the clear winter sky.
it's so strange that i think of you now,
walking down some unknown street.
but then again it's not so rare
that i think of aching things.
it's like i told you
i hear the talk,
talk of a savior
words of a temple in the holy land
but well, it's nothing but lies
lies and whores and
Madame de Pompadour in nothing but a corset.
she was always my favorite.
a feeling like Medea washes over me,
as i stare into the clear winter sky.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Review: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea
So, I spontaneously decided to write a review for my favorite album, Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. It's part of a series of reviews called Ten Albums That Changed My Life. It occupies the number one spot on the list. Here it is:
Unsurprisingly, at least in my mind, the number one album on this list was not very hard to choose. In fact, I knew from the second I began this list which album deserved the number one spot. There has only been one album which has truly, completely, changed everything for me, yet has always been ready to comfort me in my times of need. Only this one album has had a certain power over me, that has been completely rewarding with each listen. Nothing else has been so real yet so mystifying at once. The album I am talking about is In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, by Neutral Milk Hotel.
This album has always been there for me throughout my teenage years. Whether in love, in tears, in hope or despair, Aeroplane has always been present to comfort me and keep me going. I shared this album with my first girlfriend, both of us madly in love with each other, content in each other's arms. And I listened to it, sobbing, on the day that she told me that she didn't love me anymore. This record has been a rock for me, something solid to stand on while the tempest of life rages around. For me, In the Aeroplane Over The Sea is more than an album, more than music. It's something that I needed during my darkest days, and it's something I'll always need. It's love and hope, joy and innocence. But it's also anxiety and fear, frustration and rejection, heartbreak and loss. It's loving a ghost, something that cannot be held or attained. Yet ultimately, there's a sense of resignation, of finality. You're exhausted and spent, but you have come to terms with the tragedy of your loss. You can move on, finally at peace with the phantom called love, because you know that it is eternal. It is all this, and more. This is art in it's purest form, beauty and emotion wrapped up in a glorious tapestry of vibrant life.
No album will ever take Aeroplane's place as the greatest album I have ever listened to, simply because no other album will be able to carry me through the worst times of my life. I will always treasure this album, and I will always love it each and every time I listen to it.
Unsurprisingly, at least in my mind, the number one album on this list was not very hard to choose. In fact, I knew from the second I began this list which album deserved the number one spot. There has only been one album which has truly, completely, changed everything for me, yet has always been ready to comfort me in my times of need. Only this one album has had a certain power over me, that has been completely rewarding with each listen. Nothing else has been so real yet so mystifying at once. The album I am talking about is In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, by Neutral Milk Hotel.
This album has always been there for me throughout my teenage years. Whether in love, in tears, in hope or despair, Aeroplane has always been present to comfort me and keep me going. I shared this album with my first girlfriend, both of us madly in love with each other, content in each other's arms. And I listened to it, sobbing, on the day that she told me that she didn't love me anymore. This record has been a rock for me, something solid to stand on while the tempest of life rages around. For me, In the Aeroplane Over The Sea is more than an album, more than music. It's something that I needed during my darkest days, and it's something I'll always need. It's love and hope, joy and innocence. But it's also anxiety and fear, frustration and rejection, heartbreak and loss. It's loving a ghost, something that cannot be held or attained. Yet ultimately, there's a sense of resignation, of finality. You're exhausted and spent, but you have come to terms with the tragedy of your loss. You can move on, finally at peace with the phantom called love, because you know that it is eternal. It is all this, and more. This is art in it's purest form, beauty and emotion wrapped up in a glorious tapestry of vibrant life.
No album will ever take Aeroplane's place as the greatest album I have ever listened to, simply because no other album will be able to carry me through the worst times of my life. I will always treasure this album, and I will always love it each and every time I listen to it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Poem: Illumination
Sorry for not posting in over a month. Here's a poem. It's not the best I've ever written, but it's something.
illumination
the hollow-eyed soldiers are clad in iron and silk
their minds clutching onto the last vestiges of hope
such sorrowful hope
quickly now
it is vanishing fast, like a ghost
or a dream upon awakening
lost to the dark recesses of the mind
dead before its time.
before it can be held.
but there is a beauty in this formless monstrosity
the vibrancy of it simply cannot be seen or heard, only felt
joyous noise and din separating truth from angst
falling into endless nothing,
i see that there is a darkness in all men.
-johannes de silentio
illumination
the hollow-eyed soldiers are clad in iron and silk
their minds clutching onto the last vestiges of hope
such sorrowful hope
quickly now
it is vanishing fast, like a ghost
or a dream upon awakening
lost to the dark recesses of the mind
dead before its time.
before it can be held.
but there is a beauty in this formless monstrosity
the vibrancy of it simply cannot be seen or heard, only felt
joyous noise and din separating truth from angst
falling into endless nothing,
i see that there is a darkness in all men.
-johannes de silentio
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Poem: The Eternal Dream
the eternal dream
we plunged through the murky depths of the world
laughing our way through the hordes of blank faces
and empty seats on the subway.
flying through the milky way
in the hopes of reaching a different planet
fast in the pursuit of the eternal dream.
we let the demons run amok
indulging in their most horrible fantasies,
but we didn't care
their rage was absurd,
and empty
she led me through the dark corridors of my mind
the barest psych images slamming into me
stripping my soul naked.
desperately clutching on to my only salvation
i heard the preacher
his mouth was full of blood and fire
and he spoke words of terror.
for a moment i was frightened of this madman
but when i gazed into her infinite deep eyes, angelic,
i knew how pitiful he was
so i opened my third eye
and severed my chains
i am now truly free
and we journey on
through the valley of the kings,
we ride on the white-feathered wings of eternity.
climbing the spires of ten-thousand frantic suicides
i look below
and see the damned
clawing at my feet
screaming obscenities
i whispered no,
and they scurried back to their dark, forgotten halls,
shivering wretchedly in the cold.
there is no hope for these souls.
the soldier lays dying on the field of dust.
i saw him there, crying for his lost love.
but the black tears on his face,
they are from laughter.
for he has realized that the most precious thing about life
is that sometime, it must end.
although i'd like to stay for a bit,
and give honors to the dead
we must travel on...
Well, I think that this one turned out pretty well. I'm quite proud of it. It's not exactly finished yet, either. But leave a comment if you like it or dislike it, as long as you tell me why. I'd appreciate that.
-Johannes de Silentio
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