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Swimming in Space & Fishing for the Luridness Monster (Free verse) by SupremeDreamer
Somewhere, on the edge of madness, is where I reside now, and uncertainty comes casually to this unmarked, forgotten territory-- Not quite sure what unsettles my composure here, among the discarded-debauched faces that unnerve me; the tone of our voices colliding, a melody unsound born as consequence. Perhaps the sudden spouts of spastic, retarded-irrational chatter is what adds that touch of insanity; spicy smoke slowly caressing light-cracked lips of apathetic disregard, or my soul, disturbed and irreversibly scarred even though it continues to stand solid, stretched tall despite being cast in perditions light, its tint blue-grey and so perceptibly morbid... Again I am reminded that chaos and thoughts entwine mirroring each other to produce the final deluded reflection; settle for what never remains constant but is, to a point, consistent in comfort, peace, and inner happiness, and most things will fade with time and patient stalking. The direction of this has no order, my life, like my thoughts, strung out and strangely tied together. Whatever spider in my skull spun this was trippin on somethin other than itself or my near-absent attention span; but when I do decide to focus, most regret it, bleeding in the aftermath-- cut open, by my keen, sometimes cruel curiosity. So many faces, yet there is still the truth at the center of my being; denial could never settle-- I've always been restless and uncomfortable accepting a lie, or any deluded method of deception, even when it's a product of my own psyche and its various short-comings. Amusingly I still have an almost demented talent for feeding these lies to those that I feel are better off clueless-- or at the least very confused-- about what lies underneath. What's even better still? Afterwards I remain inculpable. Regret and guilt, I've found, are best reserved for the offenses that count, and serve mostly to remind me of what not to do ever again. The past haunts the mind and spirit only when it continues to affect the present and upcoming future; choice is a constant factor, whether one decides to make use of it, or chooses to believe that they don't have the ability-- that they don't have the strength and intellect to use it and produce a modest-but-beneficial outcome. Most fall prey to the common act of not being aware, walking around half-awake and disregarding details, details that, in the end, leave them vulnerable to attack, and frankly, they deserve to suffer the consequence.. But now I'll leave it be, this feeling of purgatorial neutrality-- restless prodding will unveil the source soon enough, but now the face of her before me proves soothing, kind in its beauty, and that's more than sufficient: It's Wonderful and brilliant because of its sublime simplicity.

Up the ladder: Seekers
Down the ladder: O dear.

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Arithmetic Mean: 4.4
Weighted score: 4.9284782
Overall Rank: 9361
Posted: August 25, 2004 6:36 AM PDT; Last modified: August 25, 2004 9:38 PM PDT
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[n/a] Christof @ | 26-Aug-04/7:30 AM | Reply
I'm sorry, I know a lot of peole think really highly of your stuff but I find this verbose, navel-gazing, self-regarding and, worst of all, unmusical and unrhythmic. This sounds like prose and rather than expressing your 'insanity' merely goes through the motions of explaining it; the ultimate effect is extremely unconvincing.
[n/a] SupremeDreamer @ > Christof | 28-Aug-04/8:54 PM | Reply
Really? I seem to have been oblivious to my popularity.
Had thought that I'm mostly ignored in general except for the occasional flare of frenzied chatter, like the racial debate not too long ago.. Now I'm confused and feeling more pompous

Prose, verbose, self-regarding, yes, I won't dispute that-- but again that was how my thoughts flowed, there was no intention of expressing detail or conveying my "insanity" in any fluid or linear pattern, lyrical or convincing. I feel like a queer cafe-court lawyer with this talk of being convincing. You offer little beyond that to correct or improve, not that I feel that you are somehow obligated to extend any such aid, but I am compelled to ask... an anal inclination, mostly.
[n/a] Christof @ > SupremeDreamer | 3-Sep-04/2:30 AM | Reply
I think yiu need to dearch for what Eliot called the 'objective correlative' - that image, character, object, phrase on whcih you can hang your thoughts. It's not enough to write just as the thoughts come to you. You have to do something to crystallise it, to make it feel real to your reader. Otherwise there is a danger of drivelling off up blind alleyways. Essentially, Eliot wrote this very same poem when he wrote 'The Love Song of J. Alfred prufrock' and it's sublime because he sank his own fears into those of his character; he stood back and crafted his verse; he didn't just let it flow. You could do that, too.
[n/a] Christof @ > Christof | 3-Sep-04/2:32 AM | Reply
'you need to search' - sorry, my typing fingers are a bit tired at this time in the morning!
[n/a] zodiac @ > Christof | 5-Sep-04/2:58 AM | Reply
The above comment is true only inasmuch as Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is a steaming turd-burrito discharged by a fat bowel-challenged lardsack of self-glorifying guff and gobbled with relish by gabbling wolf-reared infants whose only salvation is their insistence that it is, in fact, fois gras. The most obvious retort here is that I don't know shit about "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." I do, and you can't prove otherwise.
[3] nentwined @ | 26-Aug-04/1:16 PM | Reply
too much cliche, even if it does contain some of my favorite words.
[n/a] SupremeDreamer @ > nentwined | 28-Aug-04/9:00 PM | Reply
Ah, atleast you've made it clear that I've neglected to keep my quill point sharp and adept at forming verse.
[8] wilco @ | 27-Aug-04/8:18 PM | Reply
A bit wordy for my taste, but still not too shabby.
[1] klosterfobik @ | 2-Sep-04/6:36 PM | Reply
Quite lame.
[n/a] SupremeDreamer @ > klosterfobik | 14-Sep-04/2:55 AM | Reply
Opinions vary, sonny.
[n/a] zodiac @ > SupremeDreamer | 14-Sep-04/3:03 AM | Reply

PS-On your last, say, dozen poems, they don't.
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