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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 28, 2016
The 16 in Nietzsche. by muscularteeth is a well-realized, articulate poem which sets out to define the prominent groups of people who comprise modern society.
Literature Text
The Scientists.
We remade our eyes of plastic
because we can wipe them clean
without pain: at night our skin
has been fitted with lights and we
altered the chemical pattern
in our brains to forget ourselves
or maybe the rest of you,
life is hard without numbers
to describe it because the Earth
is an irregular rock floating somewhere
inconceivable: and I am even more
a mystery, a contradiction seeking
a definitive despite the logic
of entropy,
the only continuity
is none.
The Activists.
I'll rewrite us again. We are nothing
but an idea of the issue and its
resolution, the bum sleeping in the back
of a truck or your quantum physics class,
always borrowing notes but acing
those tests, drawing a crowd with nothing
but an idea and a voice to speak it,
isn't it charming to be alive?
Isn't the world so beautiful through
the right fish-eye lens?
I think if we think hard enough
it'll turn over or at least I'll pass this
unharmed,
our spirit aches at every slight
we imagine and every victory
won by force.
The Soldiers.
Love is infinity or a bullet to the head.
There's no defining the space in ourselves
without the influence of others, myself is fuzzy
around the edges if I stare at the wall for a minute
too long: you are the meaning of my existence
but no one cares that much,
not even myself. When the dirt is sludge
my feet rot and the thanks is
red paint in my shirts,
but I'll die for you again
just to say
I can,
just to say
I did.
The Artists.
To singularity we said death and to death
we said creation,
a lasting effect in the tendrils
of thought which intertwine the one
to many, a crowd undulating in the rhythm
of a dead man or crying in the brain of women
who never lived off celluloid,
we find ourselves staring in
or dying young but doesn't it pay for those
fifteen minutes? Doesn't it fill
an eternity of blank
to know we inspired the suicide
of an entire
generation?
We remade our eyes of plastic
because we can wipe them clean
without pain: at night our skin
has been fitted with lights and we
altered the chemical pattern
in our brains to forget ourselves
or maybe the rest of you,
life is hard without numbers
to describe it because the Earth
is an irregular rock floating somewhere
inconceivable: and I am even more
a mystery, a contradiction seeking
a definitive despite the logic
of entropy,
the only continuity
is none.
The Activists.
I'll rewrite us again. We are nothing
but an idea of the issue and its
resolution, the bum sleeping in the back
of a truck or your quantum physics class,
always borrowing notes but acing
those tests, drawing a crowd with nothing
but an idea and a voice to speak it,
isn't it charming to be alive?
Isn't the world so beautiful through
the right fish-eye lens?
I think if we think hard enough
it'll turn over or at least I'll pass this
unharmed,
our spirit aches at every slight
we imagine and every victory
won by force.
The Soldiers.
Love is infinity or a bullet to the head.
There's no defining the space in ourselves
without the influence of others, myself is fuzzy
around the edges if I stare at the wall for a minute
too long: you are the meaning of my existence
but no one cares that much,
not even myself. When the dirt is sludge
my feet rot and the thanks is
red paint in my shirts,
but I'll die for you again
just to say
I can,
just to say
I did.
The Artists.
To singularity we said death and to death
we said creation,
a lasting effect in the tendrils
of thought which intertwine the one
to many, a crowd undulating in the rhythm
of a dead man or crying in the brain of women
who never lived off celluloid,
we find ourselves staring in
or dying young but doesn't it pay for those
fifteen minutes? Doesn't it fill
an eternity of blank
to know we inspired the suicide
of an entire
generation?
Literature
Flagstones (Section 170 (7))
I went back to the secret
waterfall where once
we professed our love
and poured libations to the gods,
only the river had dried
to a trickle
and was choked
with leaves.
I stood there
alone
on the wide dry stones,
listening to the humbled
murmur of lost waters,
and realized
that when the river was gone
it became a road.
Literature
21.15 Mnemonics
He awoke to sunlight in his eyes and the smell of her. Every day, he would stay in bed just a little bit longer than he ought to, just to bask in the glory of smell she had left behind. It was roses and mint and sandalwood and woman and a million other things he couldn’t have described, even if he tried, but it was her, and he would never forget it, as long as he lived, and probably not for a long time after he died.
But every day, the smell grew fainter, the sheets seemed to grow colder, and it was one more day since the last time he woke with her actually there.
Literature
In Vain of Venus
This is the tale of the beauty of Venus
and how she was showered with love.
Men would come from afar to sail
to her and profess, How I love thee, Aphrodite!
their tries, however, ended in vain and death,
and while she lived, immortal, on her planet.
Twas not until Hermes came to her planet
And cried, oh great Venus!
Let me have thee, even if death
doth end my life tomorrow, love.
Let me give you my heart, Aphrodite,
and together, around the world, we could sail.
But the goddess did not want to sail
and she felt weary of leaving her planet.
I do not love thee, said Aphrodite
And sent heartbroken Hermes from Venus.
He traveled back to Earth,
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i had a dream about nietzsche describing the sixteen myers briggs personality types. this is what i remember.
© 2015 - 2024 muscularteeth
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Well deserved DD. Good stuff.