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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
June 11, 2007
The Blue Notebooks by =arctoa is a lyrical sequence of poems with accompanying portrait.
Featured by somestrangebirds
Suggested by NLY
Literature Text
04:10 - A Reminder
Three days:
tri-rises of the Sun beyond the
high-rises of my dreams
where you & I ran, ran, and ran:
from drug-head dental captivity
to escape-acts in manual cars
("Change the gears!" "What?")
and chasing the stars, to police stations
in old tenemants and crowded
riotous acts in a once-quiet coastal town
it all went down
with you & I gripping tight
against the ever-maddening night.
Blink
Skin soaks and sheets stick;
breath comes shallow, fast,
and strains of former thought
invade without rhyme nor reason.
Eyes twitch a bloodshot reminder
and search for life in darkness;
be it your silent form, or some
malignant lurking terror.
Blink
Realisation kicks:
it's three o'cl9ock in the morning
and mine are the only vital signs
in this white-wall cell(ular existence).
09:20 - Old thoughts airse
When I was a child I was told to
Respect
to be respected.
And yet, and yet, and yet...
as soon as I coucld break the maternal clutch
I ruined body and mind in the pursuit
of any empty epiphany.
I was brought back
to Earch in a hospital bed.
I'm humble and frail, and those days
are long-gone; yet my atonement
stretches to the still-dark
and distant horizons.
Hope is my flag; a rag
that I keep half-mast
from the ravaging winds
of this god-damned reality.
The clocks tick onward.
13:15 - Re-state my assumptions
Death stalks the decks
of this stricken ship.
You've been missing for three days;
and cut ties ache like the hole in this
chest. 'Panic Attacks!' --
but with less of the science-fiction
golden-age glitz and more like the
wrenching fear of a lifetime as zero
zero, one, one. Zero zero zero-one.
Death whispers a dream
then tears it up before me.
20:21 - Losing Control
Connection lost;
another day of
contact over and out
(of control).
Burn the servers,
sever the spine --
Jangling nerves misfire
and send jolting panic
signales to over-burned
synapses --
It's just another spilt cup
that stains without and within.
The gears are burnt-out, and
I'm stuck in neutral.
01:19 - ShutDOWN
#these eyes are sightless
#these eyes are sightless
#tsehe esye aer silghstse-
>> runtime_ERROR: fatal execution
>> run "reboot"
>> commence reboot: Y/N_
>> Y_
>> loading "backup.exe" <C:toolshope.dll> ... failed!
>> runtime_ERROR: corrupt data
>> retry: Y/N_
>> Y_
>> loading "backup.exe" <C:toolshope.dll> ... failed!
>> runtime_ERROR: corrupt data
>> retry: Y/N_
>> N_
>> run "shutdown"
>> commence shutdown: Y/N
>> Y_
Three days:
tri-rises of the Sun beyond the
high-rises of my dreams
where you & I ran, ran, and ran:
from drug-head dental captivity
to escape-acts in manual cars
("Change the gears!" "What?")
and chasing the stars, to police stations
in old tenemants and crowded
riotous acts in a once-quiet coastal town
it all went down
with you & I gripping tight
against the ever-maddening night.
Blink
Skin soaks and sheets stick;
breath comes shallow, fast,
and strains of former thought
invade without rhyme nor reason.
Eyes twitch a bloodshot reminder
and search for life in darkness;
be it your silent form, or some
malignant lurking terror.
Blink
Realisation kicks:
it's three o'cl9ock in the morning
and mine are the only vital signs
in this white-wall cell(ular existence).
09:20 - Old thoughts airse
When I was a child I was told to
Respect
to be respected.
And yet, and yet, and yet...
as soon as I coucld break the maternal clutch
I ruined body and mind in the pursuit
of any empty epiphany.
I was brought back
to Earch in a hospital bed.
I'm humble and frail, and those days
are long-gone; yet my atonement
stretches to the still-dark
and distant horizons.
Hope is my flag; a rag
that I keep half-mast
from the ravaging winds
of this god-damned reality.
The clocks tick onward.
13:15 - Re-state my assumptions
Death stalks the decks
of this stricken ship.
You've been missing for three days;
and cut ties ache like the hole in this
chest. 'Panic Attacks!' --
but with less of the science-fiction
golden-age glitz and more like the
wrenching fear of a lifetime as zero
zero, one, one. Zero zero zero-one.
Death whispers a dream
then tears it up before me.
20:21 - Losing Control
Connection lost;
another day of
contact over and out
(of control).
Burn the servers,
sever the spine --
Jangling nerves misfire
and send jolting panic
signales to over-burned
synapses --
It's just another spilt cup
that stains without and within.
The gears are burnt-out, and
I'm stuck in neutral.
01:19 - ShutDOWN
#these eyes are sightless
#these eyes are sightless
#tsehe esye aer silghstse-
>> runtime_ERROR: fatal execution
>> run "reboot"
>> commence reboot: Y/N_
>> Y_
>> loading "backup.exe" <C:toolshope.dll> ... failed!
>> runtime_ERROR: corrupt data
>> retry: Y/N_
>> Y_
>> loading "backup.exe" <C:toolshope.dll> ... failed!
>> runtime_ERROR: corrupt data
>> retry: Y/N_
>> N_
>> run "shutdown"
>> commence shutdown: Y/N
>> Y_
Literature
blue
years between us still
you're simply the most stunning
shade I've never seen
Literature
The Darkness Has Been Embalmed
The darkness has been embalmed,
saved for the dilation of pupils.
Water drops echo the void of ill
illumination, the mossy slick stone floor
is presumably protecting permafrost,
and only a single occupied chair prevents this room
from becoming a black hole.
A whimpering can be heard--like howling
creatures of the night--only muffled
by stitched lips: the victim
of an unperceived reality, a truth only
viewed cinematically in all its maniacal
possibilities.
The drops serve as the only tangible
conception to a propitious reality.
Proceeding each one is a silence
which begs to be the last.
As if it were judgment day, a ghastly ma
Literature
umbrellas
I.
A boy putters in the hotel
corridor, leashed
by a single thread of duty--
it is wound
twice around the doorknob,
pulls taut at his wrist.
Recede through the keyhole,
and his keepers are weary,
sprawled like dead
leaves on bedspreads,
and fading
into sleep.
II.
A small girl wails, maybe three,
her teethy pitch escalating
by years.
In the rented night,
her last cry strangles,
undone by hands
on wrists.
III.
A forty-foot red curtain separates us
from the amphibious stage.
At the cirque du soleil
(i squint to see the sun),
clowns chase leaks
with patchy umbrellas.
This is a present, a moment
like a birthday. But
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Updated 26/08/2010 @ 15:56
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