BlackCanaryOfDeath
Apr 11, 2005, 08:48 PM
Last week my friends and I decided to write stream of consciousness poetry after taking tequila shots and playing records. Exciting bunch, right? Well the fun part was that we were going to try to write serious poems about things that are not serious. Still more exciting. This was pretty fun because stream of consciousness is crazy when you're not drunk. So I wrote some about PSO, but no body knows about it and the humor was lost. Here they are, unaltered and magnificent:
the future of our colony is written on
black paper. those who would seek to harm us
and our cause only for love of those glittering
yellow geometric shapes that we use as
currency
brightly glowing and bursting from the inside
of all of us. sometimes as greed and sometimes
in the most literal sense - when it is hidden
in the corpses of our enemies.
if a plan could be born out of desperation
and also take the time of running out a whole
ship of colonists out to the site - who is
desperate?
is it the colonists who?s lives are postponed
and moved on to another plane, another place of
existence or is it the principals, the ones that
wove everyone into the entirety.
names. names are crossed and broken
several times over, then forgotten. by everyone
even the ones that bore those names, no
matter what form they may hold now
the swords and sabers that held the names
are now wielded by others
those who came after the fact
those who don?t know the weight they carry
those who would rather throw away their history than carry it
names that might as well be just words:
donoph, rico, heathcliff, mome.
all that remains of these once proud captains
are the ruins of rust and duplicity
ps- there was another poetry thread but it was over a year old so fuck that.
the future of our colony is written on
black paper. those who would seek to harm us
and our cause only for love of those glittering
yellow geometric shapes that we use as
currency
brightly glowing and bursting from the inside
of all of us. sometimes as greed and sometimes
in the most literal sense - when it is hidden
in the corpses of our enemies.
if a plan could be born out of desperation
and also take the time of running out a whole
ship of colonists out to the site - who is
desperate?
is it the colonists who?s lives are postponed
and moved on to another plane, another place of
existence or is it the principals, the ones that
wove everyone into the entirety.
names. names are crossed and broken
several times over, then forgotten. by everyone
even the ones that bore those names, no
matter what form they may hold now
the swords and sabers that held the names
are now wielded by others
those who came after the fact
those who don?t know the weight they carry
those who would rather throw away their history than carry it
names that might as well be just words:
donoph, rico, heathcliff, mome.
all that remains of these once proud captains
are the ruins of rust and duplicity
ps- there was another poetry thread but it was over a year old so fuck that.