OH SNAP PROSE

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TheIrishPatriot
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OH SNAP PROSE

Post by TheIrishPatriot » Sun Apr 26, 2009 10:46 pm

Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down-

Words on fire,
Paint on faces,
This room's like home.
He stands and moves,
Pushing us to action,
Pushing us to rage.
Reflection is gone,
Cast away,
Into the coal-dark night.

We are a riot.
We are a mass.
We are a mob,
To burn the sky.

He is a demon,
He is a legend,
His words pull at hearts,
And push at minds.
His face is death,
To all who seek it,
And we are his sword,
To crush the nations,
And burn the sky.

We are a riot,
We are a mass,
We are a mob,
To burn the sky.

He'll lead us out,
And our yells will
Reach Hell and the Sky,
Reach our lost reason,
And reach the cities,
Which tremble with our march,
Which will dread our passage.
The cities' stomachs will clench,
And they will freeze,
As they watch the march,
Of men to burn the sky.

We are a riot.
We are a mass.
We are a mob,
To burn the sky.

No one knows our name,
No one knows our face,
We are hidden and crude,
We are New.
The sky will fight for freedom,
But we will capture it,
Torture it,
And burn it,
As the world watches;
How it will keen.

We riot,
We mass,
We paint, we paint Red, we paint
Gold, the burning sky, the falling sky,
The dying sky.
And the world keens.

Afterwards,
As the sky falls around us,
And grown men weep,
A few will reflect:
'I never thought to burn the sky.'
We will cry,
Upon the ashes,
Harmony with the children's wails,
And the wind.

We are a funeral,
We are a loss,
We are a legend,
Of your dead sky.



Pale Words
Nails of youth, they’re nails
like claws, they make
skin whine like bombs, and bleed like
dogs. A synesthetic hung
from the roof where rhymes fell
through his eyes. His family had
black souls and unshaped faces,
like the shaky drawings of ten.
Vorpal equations drowned
his hand, but people, shapes, and
names drowned his mind. Crowded malls
with short skirts and glass ceilings
squeezed him hard, and so did
she; but she never saw
anything in those eyes but a smile,
anything in his hands but love,
as they stroked beauty in her hair. He
discerned, although mostly wrong, that
other worlds visited him at night,
and their atonal tales were
what hung him, by his neck,
by his tongue, by his eyes.
At the breakfast table you could
scratch the floor with a gaze, to
watch lies surface in the blood. His
school held him and his school reached
for his eyes with disease and faces and
words and motions and beats. Behind
everything was a tritone, until he swung
on the rope, and in a few hours, she
will
walk upstairs,
find him,
see the rhymes fallen round his feet
and
scream his memory.


Acedia


Drown yourself in distractions ‘til you’re numb, you can’t face the truth.

Bombard your brain with information ‘til it collapses, and then you can pretend you’re free.

Your friends are infections. You can feel them consuming you. Long after their pleading fades, you will see their words painted in blood on the walls of your mind.

Self-pity and self-loathing dance around each other in the town square of your mind. The people watch, in dirty dress, and clap the beat so slowly, so slowly.

You eat words. But words aren’t even true, or real. They’re just labels for truths. And to you, words are dead before you eat them. To you, what everybody says is dead.

And you don’t care! Above all, you don’t care. You tried to, a few times. But you didn’t want to succeed. So, you didn’t.

Reasons? What are these? Explanations. Words. Reasons are lost in the fog of your mind. If they ever existed.

Eventually, you are forced to look at your self. People, names you drag up from the depths, make you look at yourself. And you see the truth. What you are. Pathetic. You’re a pitiful wretch. You are God’s sign to all who have seen you: “The damned.”

But there are hopeful faces all around you now. They want you to rise up, to cast aside the iron weights. And you can, you realize, you can!

Then you remember. Hope: It’s just a word. Words aren’t even true, or real. And so, you fade away.

* * *

Wailing and gnashing of teeth, you’ve fallen into a black hole and woken up in a pool of your own vomit.

Haunt the grave, haunt your windows, and haunt the dirt. You’ve done it all, ‘til it’s a nightmare, a nightmare of wheels and fangs and black lipstick and dust and judgment.

You saw it coming since you were born. You saw it from the first time your words drew blood.

Black butterfly that hasn’t the strength to break its cocoon, do you compose lullabies in the dark?

…Who are you? You’re the fossil that the future will spit up, and reject almost as quickly. You were painted by another one like you, and like you would, he gave up halfway, splashed a black paint over you, and threw you in the corner. You’re the untimely birth where the abortion failed.

Too tired to sleep, your dreams decide to dance before your eyes instead. Once, you drank a strange poison, and the world’s been popping ever since. If you could reach out and stop it, would you?

…No. Never.


* * *

You're Apathy. You're Numb. You're Sloth. You're Acedia. You've laid in the ditch and been force-fed pain and your headache flashes back to memories of dark dark times in dusty rooms, where you screamed and all that came out was your blood and your care.

You drifted away down a river, a river of sights and sounds and sensations, and you spoiled on these, you drowned in them till your senses were gone, and you arrived at a land of depression and wasted paint and being unable to cry.

Your days are spent remembering the sensations, and your nights are spent decaying. Your cheeks are hollow, and your eyes are red. Your hair is long and your nails cracked. Your bones ache with ages never experienced. You're a gibbering wreck. All your nostalgia is regret, and all your food is bitter.

You lie beside an deep open grave, and how easy it is, to push over, and finally, the last thing you'll ever do, fall. You fall, and so soon, it'll be over. You fall, and the vestiges drain away. Images of a dancing girl and images of a grinding slut. Memories of smelling salts and cocaine. You and your girlfriend hugging, and you and your girlfriend having sex in the cramped reality of 'This won't last.'

If you had time to cry, maybe you would. But you're rushing way too fast to the bottom. Your mind fragments and everything spills out, in that last second. Rejection and faded dreams and tears on your bed and psychedelia in your mind and your best friend's lost face and your broken promises and your broken hands and your stupid sacrifices and your tepid creations and your lukewarm expressions and your pride in your decadence and your pride in your sloth and your pride in your death and now you're reaching out to STOP, STOP THE FALL, because you suddenly CARE,

-LET ME OFF THE RIDE, I'M GOING TO THROW UP-

because it all meant nothing, you FEEL and you suddenly want to LIVE-

-but the drop is quite enough to break some bones. And in the grave, where there's no imagery, and no metaphors, and no lies, the rain washes away your rebirth.
Image
Read my prose please :).
An tírghrá Éireannach

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VZhitogoroshi
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Re: OH SNAP PROSE

Post by VZhitogoroshi » Wed Apr 29, 2009 7:01 pm

Did you forget the word "poem"?

TheIrishPatriot
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Posts: 1001
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Re: OH SNAP PROSE

Post by TheIrishPatriot » Thu Apr 30, 2009 6:56 am

VZhitogoroshi wrote:Did you forget the word "poem"?
Mebe >.>
Image
Read my prose please :).
An tírghrá Éireannach

Rectifier
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Posts: 259
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Re: OH SNAP PROSE

Post by Rectifier » Thu Apr 30, 2009 11:52 am

Probably my favorite war poem ever, written/published right after WWI.

Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. 1918.
The Hero

‘JACK fell as he’d have wished,’ the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she’d read.
‘The Colonel writes so nicely.’ Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. ‘We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.’ Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

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