Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Scrambled The sun sits on the horizon. Ethereal twilight transforms Into a dense fog of infinity, As a star rises in the West And sets in the East. Causal chains are constructed, Constricting minds. They call it a free range, Yet all are kept captive. Flightless birds fail To fly the coop. They can’t quite leave The ground. A man sits alone in an empty room. The window is open, but the door Is locked. The man inwardly cries In despair, unable to find The key. His pride keeps him From outwardly showing weakness. And so, he feigns security. He is happy to be safe From what lurks beyond the door, Or so he claims. Nuances of nothingness. Watch the batter splatter With its rich yellow scent. When the shell cracked, the yoke seeped out. The fog was lifted. Chains rearranged into a double-helix pattern. The birds glided away On a benevolent zephyr. The man jumped out the window, But did not fall; the room Was on the first floor. The illusions of moonlight Fade into reality. Breakfast is served.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Deviled Look out, Chicken Little, The sky is falling down! The fox hides in the hen house And the Devil is coming ‘round The corner of the ovular shaped embryo. It sits and stares with red eyes And demonic life is born. A bird not of a feather, lacking any, Much to the horror of the Chickens coming home to roost. In its nakedness, the hatchling is Far more hideous than it ever was Before. An abomination craving darkness, Burning in the light of the sun Like a vampire, draining the earth’s Life blood. I am a time killer, And Macbeth murders sleep. I am A time killer, And Macbeth Murders sleep. I am a time killer, and Macbeth Murders sleep. I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing, But the Shepherd Murders sheep.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Poached Ivory. Elephants’ tusks, whale bone. Leopard skin and mink coats We wear. Somewhere, a soul rests in nakedness, Stripped of its earthly skin. The sin of my kin rests eternal Upon the tormented spirits Of translucent fading figures. Kill for sport. That’s the sort Of being we are. The bald eagle once roamed free, Soaring height through our sky. Now, it sits perched atop a petrified tree, Maintaining its vigil. Ad it stares towards the horizon, Its vision becomes clouded; It’s developing cataracts. We cling to its back like parasites, As we begin to invade, Infecting its system. We try to cripple the polar wing, Never realizing it needs both To fly. And the lame bird looses its balance, And falls from its post. And so, We fall… We are the poachers. Kill for sport: that’s the sort Of beings we are.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Soft-boiled Steel fences and barbed wire. Metal gates, and iron walls. Here, they are safe, protected. Shielded from the world of perdition. They travel like princes, in caravans; The travel like money, in iron vans. They are the elite, sheltered from Reality, dwelling In their soft-boiled shells. They live in a virtual reality Of video games and lush green lawns, Of cell phones and pagers, Of lavish mansions and internet expansion. They are taught to love pretty things. They are taught to hate the ugly. They are pushed to the limits of Their intellectual capacity. They strive to be the best, But they have forgotten who they are. Unable to deal with the lies and the hatred, The pettiness and the cruelty Of friends, family, classmates, acquaintances Society, They seek solace in bottles and needles. All their lives they have been money. Treated like money, made to think Like money, made to act Like money. Never allowed simply To be children. They are the spawn of the elite, The soft-boiled eggs Of our generation.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Hard-boiled Steel fences and barbed wire. Metal gates, and iron walls. Kept away from the good life Or trapped in prison cells, They are the children of perdition. They travel like thieves, sheltered By the cover of night. They travel like trash In filthy foul-smelling trucks. They are the downtrodden, trapped In the harshest of realities, seeking shelter In their hard-boiled shells. They live in the cruel world Of gang warfare and concrete lawns, Of guns and thug hardware, Of tenements, projects and ghettos. They are taught to love ugly things. They are taught to fear the pretty. They have never been allowed to shine In all the luminous splendor of their Inner souls. They strive to survive, But they have forgotten who they are. Unable to deal with the lies and the hatred, The pettiness and the cruelty Of friends, family, classmates, acquaintances Society, They seek solace in bottles and needles. All their live, they have been garbage. Treated like garbage, made to think Like garbage, made to act Like garbage. Never allowed simply To be children. They are the fawns of the downtrodden, The hard-boiled eggs Of our generation.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Coddled Cigarette butts and An old beer bottle lie Next to a bouquet of corpses Resting on the headstone. Paragraph epitaph. Trite, meaningless phrases Come together in a pathetic attempt To sum up a life. So there I stand. Dumbfounded. With three half-empty catsup pouches In one hand, and an egg sandwich Made of English muffins from that Forgotten restaurant in the other. My palms like psalms, Aimed upward towards the clouds. I try to mend that crippled wing With a shoestring budget, But I still can’t quite get My feet off the ground. And all the king’s horses And all the king’s men Couldn’t put Humpty Together again. And I feel like the coddled egg. Constant pressure and the rising temperature Soften my shell until Something seeps through. And I gaze down at That tombstone once again, Realizing that it lacks a name. And I walk away wondering Whether it was me or this society That lay inside the casket.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Sunny Side Up The instruments of death Play malignant melodies The fog has nearly lifted; All’s almost plain to see. We’re all trapped In materialistic values Money is not the root of all evil; It is merely the symbol we choose. To denote greed, hatred, envy, jealousy, The imbalance has grown too great. Minds blown out Of proportion by the desire For wants over needs. But I knead the dough to bake A different kind of bread. Take that price off my head; It’s not for sale. And while cold corporations cook the books, I buy cook books and book the cooks To whip up a different kind of feast. I keep the sunny side up, The yolk is the mother of invention. I look to the truth in the youth, And I always keep my gaze Towards the future.
Guest Xradion Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 Overeasy THE END Xradion, The Horny Druid, Scholar of the Ancient Arts, Holder of the Eye of Odin. "The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream." -Wallace Stevens "When at home, do as the Homans do." –Xradion Edited by: Xradion at: 7/7/02 4:05:17 am
reverie Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 wow, nice theme... I especially like the duality of the the half-boiled versus soft-boiled... pretty creative revery the dreamlost Which Colossal Death Robot Are You?
Falcon2001 Posted July 7, 2002 Report Posted July 7, 2002 *backs away from Xradion* I...think...I...have...urgent...busines...ELSEWHERE!!! *screams and runs off, and will never look at an egg the same again.* Cioden Darkeye Quill-Bearer - The Pen is Mightier than the Sword President of the Peredhil Fan Club Owner of the Reply Raven - Enemy to all those who never post responses Ashaman - WoT - Blitz II Council - The Hunters - Blitz II Leisure Officer - SFV Ultima - Beta
Wyvern Posted July 12, 2002 Report Posted July 12, 2002 An excellent and highly original series of poems, Xradion. As I see it, the eight poems based around recipes for eggs collectively act as a metaphor for life as a whole. The poems sum up everything... Beginning with creation, summarizing life, and ultimately ending with death. There are several parts of the poems that I particularly enjoyed: 1) As Reverie pointed out before: the contrasts between the Soft-Boiled and Hard-Boiled poems were brilliant. I particularly liked how the phrase "They seek solace in bottles and needles" was one of the few things that reacurred in both poems, showing how both the rich and the poor indulge in drugs and alcohol. The contrasts of the poems reminded me somewhat of the contrasts between Aesop Rock's "Daylight" and "Night Light", which I'm certain acted as one of the inspirations for these two poems. 2) The end of the "Deviled" (not underlined as EZcodes didn't seem to work with it) poem, where you used several grammatical structures to articulate the phrase "I am a time killer/ And Macbeth murders sleep.", only to end it with the final line "I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing/ But the Shepherd/ Murders sheep." This line of the poem, which in my opinion points towards the sin and corruption found in man, struck me as a truly brilliant piece of wordplay and stuck with me through the rest of the poems. 3) I very much liked how the different poems each had their own specific structure and manner of conveying their message. The almost psychadelic imagery of Scrambled, for example, contrasts greatly with the simple yet meaningfull narrative of Coddled. In my opinion (and I'm probably way off ;p) this abstractly depicts the complexity of all creation in comparison to the natural simplicity of death. 4) The poem Overeasy, which simply reads " The End", was a simple yet elegant way to end a series of highly thought-provoking poems. Overall, this is one of the most original series of poems I've read in a while. One question: if my hypothesis is true and the series of poems act as a metaphor for life as a whole, why isn't love (an essential element of life) mentioned? Has it been purposely left out to depict the state to which our society has degraded? Heheheh... maybe I'm just being over-analytical... I should be asking these questions to myself, not the author. ;p Keep up the good work. I would suggest those that haven't taken the time to read through these to do so... They're quite a refreshing series of original poems that'll go perfectly with your toast and coffee at breakfast. ;p [image]http://members.shaw.ca/kea/am/wyvy.jpg[/image] ------------------------------ Almost a Dragon... "My life is one big crime, I try to scheme through it." -Common, "The 6th Sense" Owner of the Decanter of Endless Booze. Edited by: Wyvern00 at: 7/11/02 11:03:50 pm
Guest Xradion Posted July 19, 2002 Report Posted July 19, 2002 Thank you all for your generous comments. I had originally posted an explination for some of the more "hazy" poems (mainly Scrambled and Deviled), but decided to let my words speak for themselves. I hope you enjoyed this series. Wyvern's interpretation is right on the money, by the way, but if anyone else has anything to contribute, it's always appreciated. Xradion, The Horny Druid, Scholar of the Ancient Arts, Holder of the Eye of Odin. "The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream." -Wallace Stevens "When at home, do as the Homans do." –Xradion
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