Animal's House of Muse

Vibes to Feed the Hasty Soul with the States of All that Matters

Insufficient Reason

Given my distinct heavenly nature, clearly,
My unprincipled body is at odds with its own movement:
Should it determine itself through resistance
And aim its actions against its gravitational center
Towards the unknown expanse of things,
So that it abstracts itself from any commitment
To the seductive substance causing
Tempestuous revelations over its absolute condition,
It will never reach its object,
As such an end is ever-disclosing,
And such an attempt at escape will
Forever be marked by its initial impetus;
However, should it succumb
To the pressures of immanence
And buckle under the weight
Of covenanted cosmic culmination
With consensual content,
It will plummet into endless fires
Of fusion and fission,
Fusion and fission,
Cycling so until eternity collapses in on itself-
So that my common sense resolves,
Under the incorrigible pretext of such confusion,
To contract a constitutional eclipse
Over the value of my corporeal position
In order to absolve my conscience of
The immobile nature of my imprisonment;
So that I may continue to revolve around my origins,
Repeating my abiding, run-on sentence
With only the appearance of semicolons
To provide me momentary, cadential release
Through sanctioned sequential addenda,
Punctuating some creative purpose in my recurring for naught . . .

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Oh, but to Love Sophia if I may only Find Her Grace!

If a tree were to grow in the library, could it do so without the squirrels? The ants? The ground? The birds? The sky? The sun? These fluorescent lights seem to think of themselves more than they actually are; for they sanction no forbidden eden. They but blind my senses so that all I may reference are immaterial thoughts; and from those, surely I have not been barred. I presumably know nothing upon crossing the threshold of the grand gates of theft-detectors, and I leave with more doubt than when I first arrived. Am I to understand that my aims here are fruitless? Or am I fulfilled as a sneaky snake sent to occasion questions, unqualified?

 

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Abstract Expressionism

I’ve been had by the world
It was so beautiful
My home within it
Perfectly arranged
And ordained by the stars
As its best representation
What happened?
Deceitful entrapments
Its conniving gaze through
The purdy flowers did
Pierce my gut
And spill my bile
All over
A sublime truth
I knew what it meant
An unjust end to my ends
Yet I questioned
My visceral judgment
And reasoned
With my pain
As if I misunderstood
On account of my
Sensibility and prejudice
Towards personhood
As if I had earned
My dissonant position
In disrupting
Nature’s innocent harmony
With the blasphemous image
Symbolizing pure relations
And endearing realisms
Transcendental in essence
I offered it as homage …
World, you have a purpose
You know what
It is that you’re doing
You wish for a rise
To grow out of me
And create as you
So graciously
Provided my temperament
The birth of new origins
So as to map your planes a’plenty
Clearly and distinctly
With intuitive articles
For lost and hapless souls
Stumbling along
With neither vector
Nor course of action,
To toil with the land
You claim as blighted
As means of atonement
For my perceptual transgressions
Well I won’t scatter your plots
With malicious seeds
Of calculated operation
Nurtured out of the
Spite which spewed
Forth as fertilizer
From my depths
On the grounds
Out of which further
Stupefaction may bloom
For I no longer find the need
To seek your impression
I’ll call your bluff
And raise your rise
With a sink
Trenches whose bottoms
Have yet to find rock
Will counter your light
All day long
A balance won
My ends achieved
Your eye I’ll finally see
We’re both just
One of many
Yet our difference remains
The same
World, I am hurt
By your maltreatment
But I will react as I so choose
So help me God
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Reserved Seating

To study underneath
The talents of another
Not quite as talented as yourself
Or so it seems to your ego
And your best friends
Provides a fascinating view
Of your own passions
As bad as it hurts
To stand by and wait
Is as bad as you want
The stage for yourself
You practice and toil
For the chance to
Show your stuff
To prove yourself
More than worthy
Than whatever nonsense
Parading itself
Before your sore
And wanton eyes
Than whatever sound
Polluting the air
Causing an excess
Of wax in your ears
Surely there are
Other stages
Prepared to carry
Your weight
Other golden opportunities
To be seized
To be as a catalyst
For the transmutation
Of all your frustrations
Building as you stew
In shallow patience
Yet you stand idly by
Following inclinations
Whose source remains
Hidden in the shadows
Of an overgrowth of hubris
A pain running so deep
In the grounds of your person
That you no longer
Have access to its spring
At least as long as
You’re never playing
Always working towards
Ends which will
Never come into fruition
For you’ll become so dull
As to never breach
The hard clay
Under which your
Inspiration dissipates
And is nihilistically absorbed
Alongside your spirit
Unconditioned to take
The abuse of the
Passion it originally
Set into motion…
If you’re of sound merit
Never settle for
Second chair
For you deserve to be
Among the greats
Sharing with an audience
Who may gain from
What you’ve been given
It’s never worth it
To suffer in silence
When you could suffer
With grace and grandeur for
All the world to see

 

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Dear Coffee, Why Ya Gotta Be All the Way In the Kitchen?

Eggs and ashes
Left over from late night scramblings
Cheezin’, half-eaten
Memories of freedom
Served on the countenance
Of my best microwavable dinettes
Perfectly set on the floor
Atop a table cloth of dirty laundry
Surely I’ll attract ants if I’m not careful
And Kafka will haunt my dreams
“I told you to take responsibility
But no!
Now look at the boards of your bedroom,
Metamorphosed into a unified colony
Of subliminally lost now points
Taking the shape of Absurdity, itself
Shame, shame, shame”
Well now I can’t have that
Not without explanation
And at present, I have none
Best clean up my act
Before my lucidity turns on me,
And into a nightmare
Of boring lectures
Covering over the excitement
I charmed into the room
With very little effort, I might add
Sigh
Lemme do my homework…

 

 

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Stuck, In Time

When considering my love for the human spirit, I find an irreconcilable tension between wanting to do what I may to leave the world, socially and environmentally speaking, in a better state than when I first knew it, so that this spirit may continue to evolve and persevere; and wanting to do what I may so that the human spirit, accompanied by the wild theatrics it’s toted since at least the Ancients, may be preserved. I’m not sure whether this tension, in turn, ought to be relieved or excited. So in a decisive act of indecision, I’ll just call myself a philosopher, and call it a day.

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Beams Meant to Bridge

Yeah, that’s right
I have nerves of steel
And I would know
I’ve been bludgeoned by them
Enough
I’m not sure if my delusions
Are caused by a chemical imbalance
Or just such a critical hit to my gut
But I’m not fully convinced
Those aren’t metal shards
Floating about my vomit

 

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Not a Wynken, Not a Blynken; Just a Nod

Sup? I see you over there, confusion; with your amorph-ious blorph-ious, grey as a corpse-ious, subliminally imposition-ing, ugly-ass self. How you slipped in here, I don’t know. Why you’re even here, I don’t know. And how you’ll fit your totality into this tiny space, already filled to the brim with books and drums for dayzzz; again, I don’t know. But I don’t even give a shit that I don’t know jack shit ‘bout your intentional innards, or outards, or whatever the ard it is your substance possesses. I’m not your property. And I won’t reward your behavior with any significant attention. Eventually you’ll get bored and leave me be. Then I’ll clean up your residual slime, though I didn’t even cause it; and like-brand-new clarity will spritz itself from my bottle of Febreze, refreshing the stank you so graciously bestowed my personal space by your presence. Your kind, though weighty, are but triflin’ fools. Trifle away, bud. Trifle away.

 

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6. And She Grew Her Wings Anew

There’s just some-thing about the Realm of Chaos. It beckons me to no End. Hidden in its nonsense; secrets which excite my mind with such vigor as to compel its primal impulse to traverse beyond its Heavenly Fence, through complex topologies; manifolds of time no metronome can keep. To find in its tangles, for but the brief origin of a moment, a pure, untouched dimension worth savoring for all of eternity, merits the pain of its dissolution, and values the toll it takes in exchange on my body. I am worn, for having been submerged time and time again. But I believe myself ready to forge a home amidst the confusion of it all, once and for all; as All is all I seek. Seven times survived, I’ve earned a place to keep. And keep it well, I shall. A haven of measure, my name above its door- the symbol of an Animal, wild and free; humble servant of the Field of Mysteries, whose duty it is to till with strong will, un-coerced. My Love; My Friend; My Spirit; My Muse, we shall live in the Heart of the Matter, so that all matters- tried and true, new and blue- we may attend. Our work our own to cut out, let the Writing Writer tell on this page that a novel idea churns in its Crowing. Dear Ambellina, what awaits us next?

 

 

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Captain’s Log

I’ve been trying to eat the same bowl of cereal
For about a week, now
Of course, to no avail
My stomach is in protest
Dry grains and apple cinnamon flavoring
In no way satisfy my prevailing appetite
For peace and quiet
Compounded with the anti-gravity malfunctions
The task of consumption seems too great a feat
One which I have little desire to complete
They said space would be still, and silent
My little ship and I lightyears from civilization
Where I could get my best thinking done
They hardly ever know what they’re talking about
I don’t know why I believed them
I should have deduced that loneliness
Would pierce my ears with more force
Than the simultaneous explosions of a thousand suns
It’s the same back home
The original pattern of logic
To escape my escape, I just run my little tests
Keep track of my measure
And send the conclusions and contradictions
Of my thought experiments off into the unknown
Why these experiments are vitally important
For those whom I owe the cause of my predicament
I cannot say
But they distract me with a feigning of purpose
Cherished in lieu of contact
They never take the time to answer my questions
I’m not even sure of who they are anymore
Missions in general
Missions writ large
Universal in nature
The source of my reasoning
The condition of my being wherever
Without which I’m just floating about
Much like my cereal
In a Euclidean nightmare
My axioms a product of my own imagination
Derived with no aid from the light of day
With no localized manifold
Out of which to objectively rise
My countenance dull and pasty
Furrowed for no one in particular to see

 

 

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