“I went to the bathroom and picked at my hair, applied lipstick. ‘I can’t believe I am you,’ I said to myself in the mirror. ‘I am you.’ Sometimes I practiced my lines from ‘The Waste Land.’ ‘You cannot Say, or Guess, for you know only a heap of broken images.’ 457 more words
Tags » The Waste Land
Here, have some more of my unfiltered giblets. See the first post of this nature here.
Even nothingness needs something to experience it.
I’m pretty depressed so my poetry should be better, and I only know it’s winter cause of the beer bottles littered around my room and all this rain that makes me swell with joy, and the USPS is lying to me about delivering my package so I’m sure glad I pay my taxes, futility is being sent pictures of myself they year my roommate and I starved ourselves to afford weed and wondering if I could get back to that, I want to get back to that, and simultaneously I don’t care, I can’t care look at all this fucking hair, look at the constant bags under my eyes, so why do the online tests only ever grant me mild depression, I self harm just not with blades, it’s a long con, that’s how I’ll kill this sack that carries me, see im gonna milk my sorrow as long as I can, get me back in college man, do the work do do do the work yet I’m so lethargic and so middle, so bland, I want to simmer this fat and let it sauté onions to perfect brown, I want to dance on a grave to see if I feel bad, I want a fucking meaningful text back, I want less of these fucking breakup songs on my shuffle, I want to wake up three years from now and I don’t want tomorrow, I should meditate again, I should masterbate again, I should talk to more people who hate me, I should figure out if I actually love anyone, ever loved anyone, how can you know if you actually felt love(?), how can we drop the cliches, how can I further wrestle my hypocrisy and air my dirty laundry, how does this help, how can I help, everything I do is for change and all that does is isolate me, as I transition to smoke, transition to shadow and dirt and no new form relieves the hurt, and I’m making myself cry from the honesty, Jesus how long since you’ve been honest with me, everything I do to numb the pain is just vacuous now, recyclable me with recyclable vices and all the false nices, and I’m pretty depressed so why the fuck isn’t my Poetry better… 132 more words
by Michael Angerer
Change is best seen in hindsight. We may sometimes foresee, forewarn and foresuffer all, but the truth is that Tiresias was very much an isolated case; people seldom look forward and say: ‘How time will fly!’ We cannot even hold to the now, the here, because the future does not plunge perceptibly into the past. 363 more words
The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot operates on the logic of the inviolable voice. The inviolable voice is the voice that is untainted by personality and human whims—pure sound. 1,463 more words
Benedict Drew – The Trickle-Down Syndrome
I was grateful to see The Tricke-Down Syndrome, as it was not the reason I had gone along to the Whitechapel, but it did chime with a conversation I had been having earlier with my fellow exhibition visitors (both OCA graduates) and much of what I have been thinking about recently. 1,410 more words