not to be (at all) confused with Blackstar's song entitled Redefinition
Drink deeply of the poison of existence and accept it.
Give me not your rhythmic conversational pretense,
nor the soft smiling visage of your baleful orifice;
I find no need in seeking solace
Simply supply me with the abysmal depths of our species.
Reach deeply into the pit of your being and bring forth goblets overflowing with excretions of your boiling mess so I might drink deeply of the truth:
Ugly, hideous, wretched aspect of humanity – I accept and adore you
Exhibit to each of my senses the gallery of your excrements.
Wrench forth from filth-fettered bowels the definition of human
And, in my rage, I will lust for it.
Reach for it with shaking hands in my hour of need of consumption;
Fill me with cold fire.
Brimming past the lips with the honesty of our existence:
Beggars, all of us.
Whether in prayer, verse, or doleful wails to the wind
We wish for nothing more than release from
That which we are by default of existing:
Sorrowful, and whole in our understanding of that.
Teeth gritting to extents of sundering all that we have to cling to
Pounds of flesh;
Viscera contained behind layers aching to be split apart.
We're all just waiting in the wings for the next wound inflicted.
Bulging eyes tenaciously watching this comedy swirl and contort around us.
Waiting for a second's breath of a pause yearning for a volunteer.
My dear existence:
Make of me your plaything.
Broken marionette on strings frayed
Shattering sanity in search of what none of us can claim:
Completion.
Drunk on my adoration of being partial,
yet still I proceed,
trailing steps along tracks tattooed down arms too tired from having to heft the horizon;
This soul feels it's high time the heavens held their own weight on shoulders unburdened.
By decree of birth I coronate us all:
Bastard offspring of a life that never requested our presence,
Just our nerve-ending's meticulous detail to the variety of pain inflicted so we remember
How truly free we are,
And what a burden that curse inflicts upon us.
My family all of you; our bloodlines linked through the exquisite torture of being.
Exhibiting our own personal productions of the lowest parts of us;
I look forward to see what the benefactors of your resentment and insecurities
Have helped you prepare for this evening.
Amaze me with the beauty of not your struggles,
But the smile still carried upon your lips
and the passion in your voice to persist in this existence
through even the thickest of your afflictions.
Speak only of sickness.
Subsisting on bare minimum,
Grinning at each incision inflicted with killing precision
Spill ink to twist this into something truly beautiful and relive it
Resisting conscription in listing existing as not a gift, but a prison
We keep writing if only to prove to ourselves we're still living
Dragging ourselves through each day screaming and kicking
Preparing for you these testaments to the truth of our lives so you'll listen
And maybe take from tonight something that will make you see things a bit different
and, even if only for just one day more, truly appreciate your existence
Poetry by David W Durney
Read 627 times
Written on 2008-03-12 at 20:29
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redefinition
There is no pain sweeter than that from the bitter medicine sipped from simply livingDrink deeply of the poison of existence and accept it.
Give me not your rhythmic conversational pretense,
nor the soft smiling visage of your baleful orifice;
I find no need in seeking solace
Simply supply me with the abysmal depths of our species.
Reach deeply into the pit of your being and bring forth goblets overflowing with excretions of your boiling mess so I might drink deeply of the truth:
Ugly, hideous, wretched aspect of humanity – I accept and adore you
Exhibit to each of my senses the gallery of your excrements.
Wrench forth from filth-fettered bowels the definition of human
And, in my rage, I will lust for it.
Reach for it with shaking hands in my hour of need of consumption;
Fill me with cold fire.
Brimming past the lips with the honesty of our existence:
Beggars, all of us.
Whether in prayer, verse, or doleful wails to the wind
We wish for nothing more than release from
That which we are by default of existing:
Sorrowful, and whole in our understanding of that.
Teeth gritting to extents of sundering all that we have to cling to
Pounds of flesh;
Viscera contained behind layers aching to be split apart.
We're all just waiting in the wings for the next wound inflicted.
Bulging eyes tenaciously watching this comedy swirl and contort around us.
Waiting for a second's breath of a pause yearning for a volunteer.
My dear existence:
Make of me your plaything.
Broken marionette on strings frayed
Shattering sanity in search of what none of us can claim:
Completion.
Drunk on my adoration of being partial,
yet still I proceed,
trailing steps along tracks tattooed down arms too tired from having to heft the horizon;
This soul feels it's high time the heavens held their own weight on shoulders unburdened.
By decree of birth I coronate us all:
Bastard offspring of a life that never requested our presence,
Just our nerve-ending's meticulous detail to the variety of pain inflicted so we remember
How truly free we are,
And what a burden that curse inflicts upon us.
My family all of you; our bloodlines linked through the exquisite torture of being.
Exhibiting our own personal productions of the lowest parts of us;
I look forward to see what the benefactors of your resentment and insecurities
Have helped you prepare for this evening.
Amaze me with the beauty of not your struggles,
But the smile still carried upon your lips
and the passion in your voice to persist in this existence
through even the thickest of your afflictions.
Speak only of sickness.
Subsisting on bare minimum,
Grinning at each incision inflicted with killing precision
Spill ink to twist this into something truly beautiful and relive it
Resisting conscription in listing existing as not a gift, but a prison
We keep writing if only to prove to ourselves we're still living
Dragging ourselves through each day screaming and kicking
Preparing for you these testaments to the truth of our lives so you'll listen
And maybe take from tonight something that will make you see things a bit different
and, even if only for just one day more, truly appreciate your existence
Poetry by David W Durney
Read 627 times
Written on 2008-03-12 at 20:29
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
