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Array ( [sid] => 47974 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Are You 486? [time] => 2004-05-17 19:36:46 [hometext] => its a long one...and a lot of it may not make sense to you guys but i hope you enjoy it anyways [bodytext] => Movement I

Fifty mangled corpses covered in glass,
Surrounded by blood of forfeit transmissions,
And ego trip malfunctions.
Didn’t you get the message signifying a collapse?
Healing light seems to vanish,
With the waxing of a collective pain.

The needles fall to the floor,
Only after their opiated scars have satisfied,
The lust for content.
Splintered verdicts suffocate our conscience,
While bending silver spoons,
Across the backs of children.

Transfusions;
Blood for mercury,
And bacterial silhouettes,
In telephonically conversed contraband,
Bathe in the light of corrupted vulnerability.
In this concrete desert,
It’s getting harder to trip,
Without licking clean my arterial walls.

Desensitized to the humble cries,
We take for granted our freedoms,
And rust our corneas,
With a cinematic, sexual suicide.
Entrails spread along a city sidewalk,
After a credit card corrosion,
Intercepts the electric memo,
That would deny permission,
To feast upon the innocent.

Gas masks cannot filter,
The incubated abortion of morality.
And intravenous psychosis,
Impairs functionality on an everyday basis.
The script plays out,
In a stereophonic seduction,
And a breakdown of inhibitions.

Cradled greedily within our “rights,”
We exploit and ravage them,
Until our creativity ceases to operate.
Blind to the world,
Yet we think we are all Gandhi.
The slightest scent of burning flesh,
Tickles our nostrils,
Like nothing we’ve ever known,
And all of a sudden,
You’re lynching the chef,
‘Cause things just aren’t good enough.

It’s time to shave your eyelids,
And raise your pupils,
To a realization of angst,
Outside your white picket fence.
Your pristine front lawn,
No longer hides the stench of decay,
And your widespread, lifeless vessel,
Is all but a carbon copy,
Of everything you’ve come to know.

Visions of white,
Now replace the hunter,
Once found in the radius of your skull.
I pray for the day when water takes your breath,
And the coast is once again lost to an abyss.

Movement II

Fifty rotting corpses piled into a trash bag,
Each one searching for its limbs.
Each one screaming for a dream,
To satisfy the insatiable.
They split your skull,
And charge your thoughts,
‘Til your lobes spill and fall through the floor.

Your tongue is pregnant with deceit,
And it leaks like a poor man’s worst nightmare.
So quick are you to sever someone’s trust,
Just to pick up the pieces,
From the last time you choked.
Your polka dot pretence,
And make-up mischief,
Aren’t enough to pull you from your self-dug grave.
This is the last time,
I will break my fingernails on the basement floor,
Just to drag you through the floorboards.

Melting ligaments and broken bones…
The dissonance in cognition,
Makes me scratch at Amygdala’s eyes.
Hail to the picnic table partitions,
And the chalky trauma,
Of your sociological philosophies!

Movement III

Fifty blood-red corpses,
Colored by the sharpened side of Crayola cutlery,
And each one wishing it was painted gold.
But unfortunately, when painting,
With the blood of Medusa’s head,
All you get is black.

[comments] => 2 [counter] => 213 [topic] => 65 [informant] => savingmarion [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 8 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => toughstuff )

Are You 486?

Contributed by savingmarion on Monday, 17th May 2004 @ 07:36:46 PM in AEST
Topic: toughstuff

Movement I

Fifty mangled corpses covered in glass,
Surrounded by blood of forfeit transmissions,
And ego trip malfunctions.
Didn’t you get the message signifying a collapse?
Healing light seems to vanish,
With the waxing of a collective pain.

The needles fall to the floor,
Only after their opiated scars have satisfied,
The lust for content.
Splintered verdicts suffocate our conscience,
While bending silver spoons,
Across the backs of children.

Transfusions;
Blood for mercury,
And bacterial silhouettes,
In telephonically conversed contraband,
Bathe in the light of corrupted vulnerability.
In this concrete desert,
It’s getting harder to trip,
Without licking clean my arterial walls.

Desensitized to the humble cries,
We take for granted our freedoms,
And rust our corneas,
With a cinematic, sexual suicide.
Entrails spread along a city sidewalk,
After a credit card corrosion,
Intercepts the electric memo,
That would deny permission,
To feast upon the innocent.

Gas masks cannot filter,
The incubated abortion of morality.
And intravenous psychosis,
Impairs functionality on an everyday basis.
The script plays out,
In a stereophonic seduction,
And a breakdown of inhibitions.

Cradled greedily within our “rights,”
We exploit and ravage them,
Until our creativity ceases to operate.
Blind to the world,
Yet we think we are all Gandhi.
The slightest scent of burning flesh,
Tickles our nostrils,
Like nothing we’ve ever known,
And all of a sudden,
You’re lynching the chef,
‘Cause things just aren’t good enough.

It’s time to shave your eyelids,
And raise your pupils,
To a realization of angst,
Outside your white picket fence.
Your pristine front lawn,
No longer hides the stench of decay,
And your widespread, lifeless vessel,
Is all but a carbon copy,
Of everything you’ve come to know.

Visions of white,
Now replace the hunter,
Once found in the radius of your skull.
I pray for the day when water takes your breath,
And the coast is once again lost to an abyss.

Movement II

Fifty rotting corpses piled into a trash bag,
Each one searching for its limbs.
Each one screaming for a dream,
To satisfy the insatiable.
They split your skull,
And charge your thoughts,
‘Til your lobes spill and fall through the floor.

Your tongue is pregnant with deceit,
And it leaks like a poor man’s worst nightmare.
So quick are you to sever someone’s trust,
Just to pick up the pieces,
From the last time you choked.
Your polka dot pretence,
And make-up mischief,
Aren’t enough to pull you from your self-dug grave.
This is the last time,
I will break my fingernails on the basement floor,
Just to drag you through the floorboards.

Melting ligaments and broken bones…
The dissonance in cognition,
Makes me scratch at Amygdala’s eyes.
Hail to the picnic table partitions,
And the chalky trauma,
Of your sociological philosophies!

Movement III

Fifty blood-red corpses,
Colored by the sharpened side of Crayola cutlery,
And each one wishing it was painted gold.
But unfortunately, when painting,
With the blood of Medusa’s head,
All you get is black.

Copyright Â© savingmarion ... [ 2004-05-17 19:36:46]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Are You 486? (User Rating: 1 )
by Cancer on Monday, 17th May 2004 @ 08:11:20 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

i'm not usually a "wow" person, but dammit, WOW. that was unbelievable. i could write six scrawls and not even say half of what you said here and i'm not even talking about the length. you just said so much with every word. every description and twist of words was superb beyond verbal praise. i usually rate scrawls with bags of skittles instead of stars, but bags aren't gonna cut it here. this deserves several dozen dumptrucks full of bright berry skittles.

jesus christ....wow.

51

Re: Are You 486? (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Tuesday, 18th May 2004 @ 12:20:57 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Swirling and . . . vivid.
An impressive inspiration.

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