right, I confess these rants to be all borne inside my caffinated mind. and I will be cross if you try to pass them off as your own.
the damn kids
in the backyard
keep on screaming
just to bug me
imitating the sound of a chainsaw
damn kids
rant #2
under serious construction,
sour user in deconstruction.
cut is no sound resurrection,
donors use cure instruction:
circuit dunes to sooner runs.
doctor Neuro uses tinsun-irc:
"I do not rust nor cure ice suns"
rant#3: madrant3
I can
old frostbites
turning grey
where are you no
it crawls
red shadows
they all have wings
I broke some windows
wake up skinless
well just wake up
rant#4: unfinished
there used to be stars
in the sky with the scars
but the noise has died away my voice
has died away
fallen
wee serpents do not lie
I am full of stones I am
I can smell you fishy
you no longer love me>br>fallen
rant#5: cancellation
every night
I leave the windows open to the dark
waiting for some bat to fly in
and get tangled in my hair
like in that one poem
all I get is mosquitoes
rant#6: a wrong
this was said:
we are the strong
we the people
not us the people
know our right from wrong
warn our weeping wistful wretches
save the sorrowing sad slaves
look beneath the war-machine
for our proud loyal children
I can be that
these days
rant#7
MURES OF SANITY
and fields of madness
look, love, there's BONES IN THE SKY
and it's cold
rant#8: jet-lag factory
there's a door
in the moor
where the heather breeds frogs
it goes down
a mushroom crown
above the bolts and locks
workers unite
the work is tonight
down in the jet-lag mine
travellers all
mutter and fall
before the production line
rant#9: the tale of the sailor old (with apologies to coleridge)
there was a youth, his youth he earned
reached to a passing sleeve:
''ahoy sailor.'' the old man turned:
''witherfore stopp'st thou me?''
''the night is cold,'' the youth replied
''and you look alone at sea.
there is a cure, that well applied,
will cure both you and me.''
the old man stood, as steeped in thought,
''I do crave company''
an inn they sought, two ales he bought,
down sat the youth and he.
after a draught, or two, or three,
the old man raised his eyes:
''a ship there was-'' he solemn quoths,
the youth replied with sighs.
[cont.]
rant#10: monday
tired of this game
the hole in the ceiling
bleeds raindrops on my bed
in the icing of the window
dried flies are raisins
all steel wants to be cold
I am the eater of pride
rant#11 a poom
thir is pien
thir is suffrin
behind ivry winder winder winder
the yeller liet
ov thi candils green
betries the ei of thi beholda
hieds the palla
the piel ghast palla
ov all the weepa weepa weepa
blodlis ghoosts
runnin into doers
conregietion ov de sleepas
thir is dogma
thir is anga
thir is hapla bloddy murda
shegoot reapa
shegoot casta
shegoot weepa weepa weepa
griet tiems nien
flood damm swa tiem
cans'ta shied tears afta?
tirint ded long rot thi keng
cans'ta mend thin heart
thin all mispliecd lov?
anothir winder
chall be soot
and round around aroond aroond
circus for tha serfs
rant#12: null orb
there's nothing underneath the bed
I know this to be true
there's nothing breathing next to me
there's nothing grinning in the night
I know this to be true
nothing at all staring through the window
nothing at all is in the mirror
nothing at all coming up the stairs
I know this to be true
to all the things that are not here
I sleep, I dream, I do not fear
the chill going up and down my back
it's just the draft, just the draft
all the whispers, voices, sounds I hear
just branches scraping the walls too near
I know this to be true
rant#13 the what
behold! the midnight chicken comes
I had become numb, inside and out. I wished not for death, not even for life. I wished for the ability of being able to wish, to want, to yearn for something. anything.
but why did I care? we're all dead anyway. maybe all I need is to consume a bit more poison, he thought, and sipped the lukewarm coffee that had gathered plentyful of the floating dustparticles that speckled the dying sunlight. he cut his lip on the broken rim of the cup.
_insert laughter_
what we need is a live audience, he thought. he sought a reflecting surface, a spoon, and polished it on his shirt. then he tried to catch a glimpse of his cut lip on the curved end of the spoon. it was virtually impossible. nothing ruins the fun like a cut too small, he thought.
_ insert laughter_
he then proceeded to enlargen the cut with his teeth, finding that, too, a little difficult. his lips were too numb. he couldn't locate the original cut, so he was forced to make a new one, which he lost, and yet another one, untill he finally could see the red red world reflected upon the curved surface of the stained stainless-steel spoon.
he finished his coffee, now cold and dustier than ever, with a tiny cynical smirk and a large helping of his own thin and probably disease-ridden lifeblood. needs sugar, he thought.
_ insert laughter _
life is grand, he thought. one can easily perceive how some may be inclined never to let go of it. grand, grand, grand. but more coffee will be needed to complete the thought.
*
(continued) sometimes you get only what's best for you, he thought, even if it's something you'd rather be without.
he looked around and gave a bored nod to the darkness surrounding his chair. there was a glimmer in the shadows, suggesting something dark and clotted and sticky.
he had filled his coffeemug again, with something very much like coffee.
the skylight was now a gray square in the ceiling, adding more contrast to the gloom than the now-gone sunlight had. the sun was never coming up again, he thought. 'tis the end of the world.
again he glanced in the shadows. ah, to be a goth...to be able to think romantic thoughts about the grave...
_insert sighs of sympathy_
what must a man do to get a live audience, he thought, and leaned deeper into the armchair. there comes a time when a supporting applause and an encouraging smile can do a world of difference. damn all dead audiences, he cursed aloud, and reached for the cup on the red-painted table.
life's theatre. the effectiveness of a drama can be judged by the number of corpses it produces. this one's been a fairly good one, he thought.
he half-finished his drink and set the cup down beside the razor. the dead skylight above would have shone the light of the first stars on his face, had the glass not been dirtied by age and the usual grime a city upthrows. pidgeons, he thought, are the parasites of a city. he realised his thoughts had begun to wander.
time to lower the curtain, he thought. even the most renown actor needs a bit of rest, after a long and weary day on the stage. he stood up and bowed into the shadows, answering all the frozen double-smiles with his trademark grin. life is grand, he thought, and grinned a bit more.
_ insert laughter, vigorous applause, cries of encore._
* exeunt demones*
