Their days twice as long;
their hours doubled;
still seems like a minute but its two.
More time to feel sad, more time than the regular guy.
Their brain not bigger but strangely formed.
cradled better, aroused better.
More urgent thoughts than the guy working the same shift
in a different store.
Can't see ghosts, can't love.
these are the things they understand too much.
Love molecules temporary,
romance a repeat thing
with many different women.
there was nothing special in mom's cookies.
dad was just like every other dad.
the only thing unusual about him
is that he knows how hard it is,
how unfair it should rightly be,
how lonesome he has to feel
in order to get things right.
lonesome brings bitter
against the cops. and a deep loving
everybody hates the genius until he dies.
criticizes the genius.
the public picks all of the geniuses
from the genius tree.
makes sure he can't be happy,
feel proud for his hard works.
it would make the public feel too terrible
about their shit lives.
the geniuses are gone.
they're all dead and long forgotten.
cops got em all.
20 Jan 08
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ok what is your drug of choice?
The one that reciprocates love to its user. _\|/_
I am going to edit the hell out of this in a while here. After I wake the fuck up. ::::::::::
wake up all-reddy?
or wake up blew
it all deep-ends on ewe.
[never]mind duh gene-use.
i wouldn't edit it, just write more into it and force the hints into the open. the energy is here, it's just dissipated for some reason into being 'reasonable' -- let your genius invent 'reason', or the clones will do it for you.
'Ars longa, vita brevis' -- Poetry as the language only the heart can hear, word-music using both sides of the brain, within but without like a cloud full of thunder, lightening and rain -- word-magic transacted as rhythms, pulses and pause with metaphoric meanings dancing around beauty, the first cause -- genius is the urge of Nature to break through the bonds of mediocrity and sleep-walking in the TV daze -- reality is the medium of the genius and the fulcrum of her changeable way with a pliable brain to that music only she can hear -- indigo child wild in the weirding way learnt to speak about what others can't say
'rationality', even when colored sapphire and emerald, is an aesthetic judgment.
no it isn't but it sounds good.
rationality is always a question of 'this looks right'. you remember, don't you, that you can't find any real point of view which isn't already a part of the object being judged? that you can't know anything outside of the senses, and all the 'standard meters' in the world are simply there because we said they were a 'meter'.
Thank you Fractalcore, AlchemiA: your comments are beautiful and complement perfectly my artistic aim.
And Unk, thank you for being arbitrary. Have you ever considered becoming a police officer?
it takes genius to find patterns in things.
genius is very common, why do you always have to be different?
you work it out...
i think this is the 'sort of pretty bright slacker' type, and genius only exists at the moment of making the thing. afterward, after the deed, you're so f'cking normal it's like you were the only normal in the world, and everone else is watching the mirror.
talky poem, clomping down the stairs of the three-level and on each landing there's someone you know and maybe that's why you wrote this inside a paper bag.
with all respect
formerly known as ok computer
has more talent, genius
in a fleck of her dried spittle
than you or i have in
I want to know God's thoughts, the rest are details... Albert Einstein (1879-1955)
noodleman, he writes in x-box and that's why you think you're talking to me in english. this poem is a presentation in itself of a perception, but the perception is real only as on the page. this isn't a genius poem, and he didn't mean it to be -- it's a comment on a perceived sensibility and an open dialog with the reader. so, i talked with him and that's what i said and you were barking in the yard and he let you in.
or, is it that you guys want to gush about how cool you think, the way you gush about your x-box...?
unknown is correct
you are unknown.
no, i'm not. i always post logged in. it's why i'm often less than popular. i have stalkers, too.
no, i mean no one 'knows' you. are you from around here?
a naysayer to protect his own self image, it gets him through a terrible night of self hatred. he has many punching bags, that's okay. he associates my youth with an xbox, although i have never touched one and possess the same opinion about those types of escapism that he does -- because it makes him feel better about the state of his own life.
that is fine. once upon a time, they hated elvis.
x-box = your sex ID, not the toy, though sex is maybe a toy. you don't get metaphor when it's not in a poetry frame. i don't really care what you think of me at all -- it's just not an issue, since i don't like your poetry. we're critics here, and critic is a way of writing and saying things, including saying things to rude punks who haven't the consciousness to need a vocation, and haven't the vocation which would make poetry more real than just some dumb self-image on a plate.
this poem is about semi-genius, and semi-genius is a personal tragedy. that's the underlying engine of this and the reason why the author wrote it within some kind of genius moment.
none of which would interest you, of course, since it's all just blah-blah to you, and all of this is about you getting to say smart things for free, cause it's only poetry.
i feels your tragedy.
yeah its nothing to do with feeling a moment, is it? just a pedestal to climb upon --
or is that the way you think about it?
you're maybe not visualizing that moment -- even the klimbing the pedestal -- seeing how you have to let someone help you up -- and, then the slight dizziness of looking down at the frowning faces -- they want to know if there's going to be war. pulling your eyeglasses out of your coat pocket gives you a moment to collect your thoughts and gauge the crowd -- they're nervous -- it's not anger, not against you or the party. you speak your words carefully: