From the archives

[hkellick]

As some of you may know, I used to write poetry.
Some of it's bad. Some of it's good.
Some of it... is bloody bloody odd.

This one, I think, stands in the category of bloody bloody odd. I don't remember when I wrote it.. sometime between senior year of high school and sophomore year of RIT. I swear I may have been listening to waaaay too much TMBG when I wrote it, however... it's fascinating.. and I wish to share it.

Coming of age - My story
by: Howard Kellick (aka LITE)

The moon is out,
it's time to play.
Listen to the werewolves howl
in the night.
Watch the watcher above watch you
and all you do
and are
and will be.
Run to the jungle,
to be free of the lion's den.
I am Tarzan king
of all you see around me.
This is my faithful
companion jane.
Say hello jane
WOOF! = hello
Mathematician linguistic game.
Howl at the passing stars.
Wait till there is no time left
to wait and then
wait some more.
Play until time has ended.
Every game, new and exotic.
Every player, old and the same.
Every dream becomes reality,
while reality is but a dream.
I am mother.
I am Your mother.
You are the son.
But I don't want to play this game anymore.
I want to grow up
and stop playing these imaginary
games and
start playing reality
like a harp.
An invisible harp.
Each note heard
differently by different people
But no note seen.
Each note a different pain.
Each hurting people differently
handled differently
producing different results.
No real way to tell
what string is played
and what ripples it produces.
Even when you hear,
you can't listen,
you want to
but your mind cannot handle it.
For that note is the present,
past
and future
rolled into a multi-toned
simplified
unintelligible hum.
And as you concentrate
You realise the major truth of life
"It doesn't make any sense"
It never will,
but isn't that reality.
Reality itself is unintelligible.
One can never tell what one images
from what one dreams would
until it is thrown at your face.
No, reality is nonsensical.
Unrealiable.
And aren't people the same.
Each with his own pains
Each with his own good
Each an evil in himself.
No people will never make sense,
as life it is nonunderstandable.
For if it was, man could control
his destiny
and others.
And man is greedy, always doing
for himself and not for others.
So that invisible twang
could be used to help the friends
and hurt the innocent.
And justice could not be served.
But then isn't that what justice is?
Control the fate of others.
So wouldn't justice be served?
Ah what a cruel irony
is life.

Comments

[kareila]

You're copycatting again. Speaking of cats, is that a new picture? I like it. :)

[lite.livejournal.com]

Yep. I am copycatting again.
But here's my reasons...
I looked at your poem at plogs and just wanted to see what poems I HAD on Zip Disk (about 10 or 15)
And I started reading through them.
And... this one just caught my eye because it's so bloody FREAKY. It really DOES seem to me that I must have been listening way too much to TMBG when I wrote it... if I had to GUESS, I'd suspect I was listening to "Don't Let's Start" if nothing else.

Besides, I LIKE posting my creative endeavors :) I always have :)
I have TONS of parodies and poetry and story bits stored on zip disk.
I'm tempted to post my Borg parodies again. Those were amusing (Especially "Always Look On The Borg Side Of Life" which actually got into a small online ezine) and I haven't really looked at THOSE in years. :)

And... I don't use the Cleo picture much.
I AM officially sorting through my lj pictures. Want to turn these overs and find 25 pictures for plogs.net :)
I just keep getting distracted :)

[tunoddenrub.livejournal.com]

>.> <.< >.>

WOOF!!

[lite.livejournal.com]

Hello, Jane!