Socrates Agrees

Yeah

I don’t really get that last poem either.

Manic Success

It’s a guiltless day, where guiltless reign
with two fists of profit, two eyes alight;
smiles like blinders to signal the sky.
They envy none. With each every one,
there’s no sense of calm, no state of mind,
nothing contained but good bottled wine.
Chatter can cease, but not ‘til release of
nebulous candor to drift ‘bout the room,
guzzling fancy, speaking of doom,
darkening shades in light of gruel matters
concerning our finds, our whimsy and fortune;
where was the man, on night driven mad
by we men so branded by manic success!
Where was he chosen, where was he sought?
Back to the party, it’s all been for not.

Wow

Pitchfork really hates Donald Glover when he’s in Gambino mode.

I love everything that Donald Glover does apart from his rap, which makes sense because I’m not a fan of the genre, so why would I? But… Why does Pitchfork hate it so much?

Fighting Belial as Wizard (D3 Again)

So I’m on my third character now. I’ve got my Wizard up to level 25, and have just gotten to the final part of Act II where you take on that big ol’ galoot, Belial. I’d really like to take him down singlehandedly — especially since I had zero problems with him on my Witch Doctor and only very minor issues with my Barbarian — but once he transforms into his final form, I just can’t seem to end him without getting two-shotted. I do plenty of damage to him, but I just am not quite quick enough to whittle him down before he stomps my ass flat.

Any advice? Or should I just suck it up and call in a friend to help out?

Ian Cohen

I know nothing about the people Pitchfork employ to review their albums, but the moment I read Cohen’s little quip about Sigur Ros’ bassist (“… there’s a good chance you had no idea that Sigur Rós had a bassist, let alone what his name is.”) I stopped reading.

I’m sure he’s a fine writer despite his douchey comment, but dear God, one of the only things that actually stands out to me about Sigur Ros’ sound, aside from the vocals, is the bass. Maybe I’m the strange one here.

A Dream/Your Ass, The Monolith

I woke upright, on Covington streets —
fully-clothed and coherent, to my pleasant surprise.
Eyes opened slow; took in the sun…
Safe to assume it’s morning with the crispness to the air.
Hadn’t taken many steps when you
formed to material, nude and tattooed, and tended to
by a team of designers in tandem
who would not allow you to take a step without having
every variable considered.
I couldn’t be sure, lest not for brands,
which dot every curve and ruin you concisely. But then,
I know you well, parts of you rather;
made more apparent by the wings scarred into each shoulder.
If will was mine - were you for taking,
you would have been taken without pause for considering.
But something in your posture said
that you were there on Main Street, as chosen by the void
who hung in black, skyward long,
issuing orders for positions to take beneath risen day,
making damn sure you stay beneath him.

Needless Nice

They couldn’t fathom the depths of you, and why would they?
You’re a man in a cave, quietly going extinct. By nightfall
you will be but bones, flat on dry ground, rotting
without murmur or sound. And when they’re excavating,
you will be recovered and fastened with plastic trappings.
They will wire you to the glass of your display, hastily,
and label you as something so much less than you were.
You are a relic from simpler times, long past your prime,
with all of your peers long dead and vanished. When
the time comes for your unveiling, they will feel awe,
and wonder how a thing like you could have become
a thing like them. But you never did, and so you’ve left,
while waiting on your tribe to return with their yield.

Midnight Neon Love Bug

Windows tend to speak to me after certain hours.
What they say is troubling, if only just for now;
because it’s all about the dark that’s left when suns forget
and lull into a hapless sleep on the other side of spheres.
They speak in volumes, tomes and missives,
blaring like an idled train,
and say to me, “you’ll stay alone
because you’re somehow worse than yesterday.”
Their voice, like glass, is very thin
and barely reaches toward the bed.
Cadence crackled, hoarse and whispered,
yet still it finds the nape of neck,
the ear of the loneliest man in the room,
and the strings which pull at his heart.
“Alone is what you are and were —
alone is what you’ll be forever.”
I reach for something heavy, solid,
stone-like with a fit to hand,
to lob at blackness closing in
through where I let the breeze intrude.
Yet as there is nothing near,
besides the cat,
and because I am so tired, and so tired of fighting,
I’ll roll on one side and bundle close,
enjoying the company of all these pillows I’ve collected.

Bad Weekend

Couldn’t get myself to leave the house hardly at all this weekend and ended up missing out on a bunch of happenings. That’s all right, I guess. The thought of socializing right now kind of makes my head hurt.

I think I’m going to take a walk to the parent’s house and jump in the pool. Today maybe I’ll use the wooded route and see if I can avoid getting hit by a car.

Never Content (I Assume Until Death)

Minutes are exhausted by the spiraling concurrent with
my middle sect expansion that is keeping eyes cast down.
Every ear once lended by a friend that held their patience in
has boarded up and pacified through insistence towards the frown.
And I can’t help but understand and do my due withdraw again
so that I may just hide my face and barrel-belly growing.
Maybe then I’ll tend to plots of dirt torn by submissive winds
or maybe I’ll just sit inside and stew in this ill-knowing.

100 Followers!

Thanks for reading! Hope you continue to enjoy my nonsense!

Warm Null Void

There were stronger days where waiting
didn’t force my eyes toward strangers,
patient in their own submissive way while rather
ugly in their chosen manners.
Skin worn tight upon their bones and
constantly consuming pulp;
spitting out receipts and change while lacking
the slightest notion this way, that.
During all my time observing,
organizing thoughts in sequence,
all these people seem to slip away
and through my semi-conscious fingers.
But I won’t regret their leaving
or fume about the ways they’d bested —
I’ll simply watch them go and clatter
while I enjoy the quiet alone.