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Their idleness, aimless and languid airs.

penny wiser than art can unmake

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Yes, a thousand times, yes. 

Later in life, a sweet peculiar breeze
which swept me off my feet but left me wanting-
wondering if it were mine to keep;
Which has lately become a wild, world-shattering wind
where from within I withstood the terrible love.

A terrible love, my dreamboat,
As all love is eternally terrible;
But still the object of my affection
You strange, mysterious thing.

And I myself a puzzle
somewhat porcelain
Like you;
An impenetrable island
somewhat
Like you
Whose presence is felt dearest
In absence and excesses
Like yours.

But yet I am different as you are different;
Difficult as all things persevering
Still, above all-
Together and growing
In Love.


J.













seastreet  # 1:00:00 AM

Saturday, November 06, 2010

I would give a limb and three toes for something resembling a coherent whole
I do aspire towards the sisyphean task of exploiting complexity
But swimming unguided in the abysmal sea
gravely darkish and solemn
A fool's errand to wilfully sink
For I will sooner arrive and recollect
Than ever again march to the drum of defeat.
seastreet  # 7:51:00 PM

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Speak, apostrophe.                         
I only ask to be
Institutionalised
The good citizen
A happy shipwreck
and a place to call home.
seastreet  # 10:48:00 PM

Thursday, September 23, 2010

As far as the chase goes
fast miles after imaginary tails
Without trace nor destination.
seastreet  # 4:26:00 PM

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

On the imperialism of bounded rationality:  
If you reckon the theories are perforated with imperfections; the models break like glass
You either become the iconoclast and plow the rich earth of academic tradition
Or please just relent and institutionalize with standard procedure already.
seastreet  # 9:24:00 PM

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Bukowski on a disconcerting dervish
Be it by fluke or some parsimonious wake-up call
succinctly and with characteristic brute.
as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little. 
To be young, full of ideas and stupidity.
Towards maturity you entrench yourself in something that resembles consistency and thrive on its methods   just so you know the brickwork is safer and sound
Than the wrecking ball of knowledge.




 
seastreet  # 11:01:00 PM

Thursday, September 02, 2010

A pittance for my thoughts and wordless prose
The trying hours knocking around
Looking for trouble and meaning;
That which I am I could not change
Believe me I tried.
seastreet  # 11:17:00 PM

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