November 27th, 2008

mcavoy sad

Raging Hearts, Burn in Unison

(I'm extremely fickle when it comes to names.)

Chapter 1 The Canvas and its Man

There was the absinthe of colors that cried from brush eyelashes. Blue, purple, red, green, there was gold. Broad image-- deliberately subtle enough as to capture intensity strictly through gazer's squint. A surrealism like perfume, capturing passion into a bottle and exerted on awe-struck victims. A fragrance so sharp it cut through like tears on delicate cheeks.

But an invisible line ran through his seemingly perfect canvas-- a fine line that separated flawless and perfection, two distinct things. Flawless was only without blemishes, no tears, no weakness; no entrance. Perfection was.. something so much stronger. He needed perfection, he craved perfection. It aroused nothing but contempt.. and infatuation, infatuation for striving, striving to revolutionize.
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mcavoy sad

benjamin at 7

the ardent zephyr broke itself in waves against the ocean of tall, sandy wheat. as seconds slept, benjamin, eyelids fastened, walked with gentle thrusts amidst the quiet chaos. the struggling grass dampened his bruises, but could not corrode his soul. for benjamin at 7, pushing his small frame through the war between earth and her elements was his narrow escape from broken bottles and beaten mothers.

as the tip of the the sun gently tapped the soil, he felt beyond the sonance of rustling against his overalls; he was tasting the clouds as he crawled towards the ceaseless sky. host of an unremitting determination to break the bounds of gravity, he would fly too close to the sun, but he could care less; what was one tale to tell him he couldn't ?
mcavoy sad

'happiness is a warm gun'

confronting the memory, i think that day months ago is like one of those pictures that gets ruined by motion. so much unnecessary verve, you can hardly process it clearly. its been sloshing in my head night and day, with no way of unloading the thought, the memory. it's the excess that gets to me. i couldn't tell anyone, i just couldn't. unless vaguely. but not even one damn person could follow such obscure trails, even when i was screaming for someone. anyone.

i piled myself with studies, tried to soak up the memory with mathematics, books. i started convincing myself that the thrusting, overwhelming feelings were just pre high school jitters, for its transient properties. i'd get over things like that. the good thing is, i ate it all up; all the bull i was feeding myself. for a while.

i don't know what the hell re-triggered it, but the gun is still warm. kharmic retribution.

where to begin-- IF i should begin, I still don't know. you have no idea, the flesh underneath my fingernails is trembling, suspended over the keyboard. it waits for the next crippling series of word vomit to spill, waiting to throw up my heart.

in this case, whats hell on your soul is hell on your nerves, too.
mcavoy sad

'our world is one big rock polisher.'

you hear about that earthquake sleeping under our feet? you have all that rage swept under the rug, the folks over at the seismology center say that one day, the one we just had is just gonna be a temper tantrum.. at best. yup, deep down, mother nature's pretty pissed off, but its one of those things we really don't wanna know, but dare not forget.

sometimes, i just fall against the soil and pretend the ground is trembling, that i feel the earth revolving. i pretend that tragedy is striking when i most expect it, right there and then. boiled down, the truth is that we love conflict. to spread peace, we declare war on war. thats how we've been doing it for so long, i'm beginning to think thats just how it works.

against the soil, i wait for that natural disaster to save me.
mcavoy sad

melted down, phantasmagoria is just light play.

i had another dream i couldn't control, and, quite honestly, i was scared. i woke up, the sweat beads ripping down my temples felt more acidic in the cold of the night. almost instinctively, i branched out for an uncharged home phone by my bed. i could've called anyone, but i called you.

and you read whatever fragments of lines you could remember from that poem you were writing in math class, that the teacher threw away. although shaken, two lines still stick with me.

"the hearts that pound against the door?
they pound together."
mcavoy sad

postitnote thought # 3 - cages with velvet bars.

can you think to yourself without thinking to the public anymore?

dig deep down, and you'll find that you excessively confide in the street lights
that are really only company until they flicker away into the night.

howling at the industrial moon juice, screams are lost, faded into the hectic city buzz,
where people tangled in their silk cling to their own hands and part with their souls.

frustrated, taped to an obsession of control,
you break down the universe.
mcavoy sad

pawns and you.

your networth is $248948.

really, its about who you know. your big-shot name pumpers, these are your friends, your access, your price scanners. when you have this kind of mindset, you see everything in the context of 'marketable'. by today's standards, real art is defined by 'will. this. sell?' sure, anyone can recreate shakespeare, but will it fall into the laps of every teenage girl this side of corporate america? unless you can convert 'poetry' into big bucks, too freaking bad.

same concept with people. we are the objects of society.
we are the children of tomorrow.

this is our great depression.