future to the back

Remember back when you were a teenager, listening to Nirvana in your ratted old jeans and wishing you could pen provacative lyrics like Kurt Cobain did? Just to express your contempt for the world you lived in and wanting to be "cool' and "different" through your creativity?

Well, I certainly did.

Earlier today I decided to poke around some old CD-Rs and USB keys to see if I could scavenge or come across something interesting from the past. Behold! My attempts were successful as I salvaged a long forgotten folder marked "Personal" with contents back from 1998. Like, thirteen years ago.

In it, I found quaint, archelogical mind treasures that had me shaking my head in disgust, wonderment and pride.

In here, I'll be sharing what we all attempted at some point --

Bad poetry.

Let the first contestant step up to bid... An entry titled "tray agitation".

Her face was painted with blue, her body left to drain

The green grass soaking into her and leaving a stain

despite her fury, she still felt no pain

for she was lost, and denied what she should gain

the vortex happenned again and again

innocence mixed with a touch of defecation

she did know her right to perfection

and so she lay down bleeding agitation

for her nocturnal life was anything but true

she lived in a shell, trying to eschew

she had soul doubt, which she tried to disavow

and her hands clenced at a sycthe, and proceeded to sow.

At least it rhymes. Right? Next up, is one I had called "Darkness". Undoubtedly influenced by my Nirvana/Nine Inch Nails fanaticism at the time.

Darkness

your brother told me lies

about which way the pretty bird flies

it dives into the river and captures a fish

granting me that one last fateful wish

your mouth filled with open sores

kisses my organ like a common whore

blashempous surprises abound

I know not where your true love may be found

ambiguity, your face is full of it

fearing my soul to your dark blue pits

in between the devil and the ocean

lies the extent of your black sin

like a melting glacier inside your heart

my tears come washing all over your feet

then I saw your face come peeling apart

the blood dripping down from your raw meat

Riverz of hate, streams of longing

the fire, and the water, the grass and the firs

mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers

observe! the skeleton wishes to speak a word

and that word is "darkness" unlike you ever heard

This poem may sound untrue, it could seem like a game

it may be contrived, yet the meaning is all the same

unite all ye people who have closed their eyes

and see the beauty where the brown dirt lies

OBSERVE! The skeleton wishes to speak a word! Haha.. You know, for someone completely unprofessional and penning this when he was around fifteen years old; some of this stuff isn't half bad. I especially liked the ending, and the entire poem conveys a melodic tone in of itself. Sure, what's being said isn't all that poignant and relevant to the subject; but the earnestness and adherence to meter is really quite impressive for me.

Evil ==

Evil has its many forms

it could live inside your mother

it could breed itself into your father

it may be inside the old lady across the street

it possibly is in your girlfriend's petri dish brain

it might be holding a conversation with your children

it is right now looking at you

evil has its many forms

end

Hmm, this probably came from around the time I was a huge Marilyn Manson fan. One thing I sure picked up from him, was that evil can be interpreted to mean ignorance, and this is sort of what I am alluding to with this poem. Also, watching Blue Velvet at around that impressible phase likely didn't help.

The Mating of the Fishwife ==

A Smile, A Glance, Turned Into Friendship

Blossomed into love. The mating of the fishwife

was about to begin, she knocked on her carefully

made wooden door, and opened it to reveal the

man that would infest her crotch with his lust.

fin

I gotta say, huh. The first line reminds me of something I once saw in a television commercial. But, there is something interesting to this particular piece. The fishwife, with delusions of finding love, crafted something behind a door that would satisfy her yearnings for intimacy. Why the fuck would a pimply faced sixteen year old write about something like this? But then again, I really liked the mysterious metaphor that presents itself from "she knocked on her carefully made wooden door...". I don't think I had any particular inspiration to write something like this, other than letting thoughts flow freely from my fingers.

Lord Hear Our Prayers ==

Running their lives is no easy task

It's a fucking chore

Having to take care of them

Feed them

Clothe Them

Administer their daily dose of delusions

It's hard to be a good father

When your children are in numbers of over 5 billion

Each and every one has to be carefully attended to

The rich, the poor, the starving, the nourished

It was way easier when I first started with only two

I know naught of a single limit

That can restrict my control

But five billion?

It's impossible I just can't do it

So I gave up

And decided it would be easier to randomly skip across all the bodies

Playing my mind's game with their pathetic existance

The beings I have so lovingly created

Are now worth to me just as much as dirt

I love fucking with their heads

Fear me, for I am God

And I am bored.

-dk

This particular one, besides the misspelling of 'existance" is pretty close to any raw idea I might come across these days. I had been thinking about attempting a story that dealt with the possibility of God returning to Earth one day and is pissed off. This "poem" is packed with peripheral information. It describes a being originally thought to be benevolent in nature, but is revealed to be a cynical, possibly hateful being. It is entirely plausible that a great intelligence has the capacity to tire of it's creations or to experience boredom. It's exactly why I'm adopting the Agnostic tag on my religious views these days. One can never quite know the mind of God until they meet Him face to face. And even then, it may simply not be possible to relate to such a profound and alien force of thinking.

Michelle in Gloom ==

You May Not Know Who This Might Be

But Your Smile Cheered My Soul

Like A Ray Of Sunshine On A Dying Rose

When You Frowned

My Heart Snapped In Two ...

This is about what could have been but never was

A fading memory of my fading cause

I was a dying rose, just waiting for you to make me bloom

Yet it never happenned, and now my life is filled with gloom

They say love never dies

And I don't think I'd forget you

Please believe me, these aren't lies

Cuz now I'm drowning in my sea of blue

Sighs. Teenage angst nuturing a brokem heart, which upon present-day reflection; is something I roll my eyes at. Given that I've had my heart broken much worse, it gives me less appreciation for it's supposed earnestness. Although, to my credit I've only ever told three people that I loved them. One of these is my mother, the other was my first girlfriend. Michelle. So, it's understandable how young love can excite me to this level of naive romanticism.

Take a gander at my attempt with free-verse, stream of consciousness writing. It's a bit of a gas to read.

This fire churned passion of desire sweeps across the heart like a sharpened scythe, sowing forth blossoms of love drenched with the infinite universe of night clothed with the glory of the Lord. it is with this love that the grass gently blows back and forth, a field of poppies peek forth from behind their petals. To cross the boundaries of Time and Space is but such an easy feat whenever I am with you, you in my arms, your chest against my pounding heart, your lips of fire brushing against mine, to experience mortal divinity in a single kiss of heartfelt passion. I love you with all my being, my body, my mind and soul. In the years to come, I shall look back on your love as my blood, my life, my love... And when I shall rest finally upon my deathbed, when I am finally spent and my time has come, when the lord shall grant me but a few seconds for me on this Earth, I shall look deeply into your eyes and tell you that I love you, so very much that I will continue to do so when my body has expired and I rest my soul in the great father's palms, looking down at you with a smile so vastly infinite and loving that you would be able to feel it even across into the living world, because I will always be with you, if not in body, then in spirit.

Now as I wander down the river, inhaling the scent of the wind, and imagining your palm pressed against mine, I see a daisy, the only daisy, on the right side of the path I am on. I call it Michelle, and I gently hold it in my hand, stroking the petals which is your hair, running my fingers along it's stem and thinking of your lovely body, and finally I kiss it deeply with such passion that the flower, which has not completly bloomed yet, grows into the most loveliest flower imaginable.

I feel as if I am in heaven when our lips meet, I can almost feel the tip of an angel's wing brushing against the side of my face instead of your hair. Colour me blind and I could swear we are on clouds in a place far far from reality whenever we close our eyes togethor and dream.

Well, wow. Wow.. Uhm, words fail me in providing with any meaningful commentary on this. I guess, I was much more naive than I once thought. It's stream-of-consciousness though, so I think it's only fair to grant me a bit of slack knowing that I wasn't correcting anything of what was coming out of my thoughts.

I don't know if I loved Michelle THAT much, is what I'm apologizing to my past self for.

Sybaritic denizens of a shallow complexity: act one ==

the bonaparte thrashing within

sycophants meandering on the stairs of greed

eyes sewn shut, arms raised towards the sun

climbing on faceless human ladders

emptying pockets of refuse and hatred

spraying their excretment to the bottom

sybaritic denziens of a shallow complexity

always bath in their own terrorism

when they take the seat of obloquy

and chalk up their numbers in cold blood

First off, I love it when new words inspire me to write. Sybaritic, sycophants and obloquy.. Wow.. It does sort of look like I even understand what these words mean at the time.

Sybaritic = Fond of sensuous luxury or pleasure; self-indulgent.

Sycophant = A servile flatterer; a person who acts obsequiously towards someone in order to gain advantage.

Obsequious (heh) = Obedient or attentive to an excessive or servile degree.

Obloquy = Strong public criticism or verbal abuse.

Some of the imagery in that one was kind of interesting I thought. Human ladders and slinging excrement below them? Win!

It's not all just doom n' gloom and "woe is me, I got pubes now" pretentious teenage angst, but there are always happy days around the corner. Here's one proof of that.

I called it, "The Future".

When cherished memories are deprived

one becomes desperate

longing for a fragment of the past

priceless, rich, deep colors

of every shade

all in the drop of a tear

a milestone to be loved

with heartfelt compassion

an experience to learn from

unique in every way

a part of a long forgotten dream

like the remains of a smoldering fire

forever captured in your mind

serenity, like no other

it only happens once

but it is rendered immortal

reflected on your soul

forever

-dk97

Well, maybe not so "happy" are the days ahead of me, I once thought. But rather, the importance of acknowledging the present. That the future holds regret only in proportion to the sad memories we create today. Always look ahead, but at the same time, remember the past.

Live in the now.

... It's been a trip looking through these old poems and artistic accomplishments. It really gives me perspective to gauge my emotional development from that point up until now. I am certainly less guillible, naive and overly-sensitive these days. I tend to watch what I say, even in private until I can express what I'm feeling in the clearest, possible way. At least, that's what I've been aspiring towards. Achieving a more authentic version of myself, rather than the hypersensitive, melodramatic narcissist I once was.

I wish I had these last fifteen years back to do it all over again. But with the knowledge I have today.

I could've done so much differently.

Buying stock in Amazon.com would've been one of them.