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Off-Network

1

it could melt into madness

you saw a death on TV, did you see a murder?
complicit, explicit, dig it.....
each book you read leaves a residue
each picture too
there where inside resides a you
the winners write the books
the truth they bring they add to an array
the one accepted for today AS history
the feral truth is mystery

2

you can't have me
ever ticking clock
dessicating my fingers
as I try the lock
on a thick eye lash
over the bruise on a sunset eye
be yourself--let's defy.

Non-Acceptance of the truth you know

athletes and actors are gods en masque
models are queens of sun
Alexander, Napoleon, Mussolini, you ask?
born here to live as meat, one by one
inside the grease or for your majesties
nano and tera-mega-philosophies

a pond that lacks a ripple's start
where in this is all the heart
shores awaiting dry, thirsty
where is all the honesty
The myth of some nobility
one hope one dream one day we'd find in art

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
I'm anxious to see what's said here.
Editing stage: 

Comments

I really don't know what to make of this poem. The first part (I'm guessing by the numbering) looked like you were making some philosophical point about perspective. The second seemed to jump from theme to theme.

I really got lost there. Probably a little background will help?

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

http://www.wsgeorge.com/

Off-Network

1

it could melt into madness

you saw a death on TV, did you see a murder?
complicit, explicit, dig it.....
each book you read leaves a residue
each picture too
there where inside resides a you
the winners write the books
the truth they bring they add to an array
the one accepted for today AS history
the feral truth is mystery

You are correct, completely about perception and reality and the questionable relationship between the two.

2

you can't have me
ever ticking clock
dessicating my fingers
as I try the lock
on a thick eye lash
over the bruise on a sunset eye
be yourself--let's defy.

Non-Acceptance of the truth you know

athletes and actors are gods en masque
models are queens of sun
Alexander, Napoleon, Mussolini, you ask?
born here to live as meat, one by one
inside the grease or for your majesties
nano and tera-mega-philosophies

I'm saying question everything and pointing out the fates of the heads of past empires..worm meat.'
I'm also expounding on the celebrity/loyalist cultures and what that means to the growth of humanity and mind.

a pond that lacks a ripple's start
where in this is all the heart
shores awaiting dry, thirsty
where is all the honesty
The myth of some nobilitys
one hope one dream one day we'd find in art

It's a real question I have about the process of creation of art
if it's purpose is to be framed and stared at in a space where humanity isn't impacted (the shores awaiting)
where is all the honesty (ignored?)
The myth of some nobility (false?)

One hope, one dream one day we'd find in art.

The question is whether the art I seek in others and myself, is it to simply be wallpaper or should it be a slow guide to a more humane world.

I knew it was surreal but I've certainly failed if it came off to you that disconnected and vague. It's all the question of what is real, who tells us, examples of who told us previously, my shaking fist and declaration that I'm not falling for it and asking others to join in defying the stupid, then I end with the question, does art make a world better, does it reach the shores of the thirsty who wish to drink or is it a distant untouched well.

Thanks William!

Blue Demon77

"What I want is to be what I was before the knife,
before the brooch pin, before the salve, fixed me in this parenthesis:
Horses fluent in the wind. A place, a time gone out of mind."

The Eye Mote-Sylvia Plath

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