Animal's House of Muse

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

Yet Another Shameless Promotion

Finally found a camera that properly picks up loud sounds 😛 here’s the result of my recent practice. I hope to keep pushing it, so stay tuned!

 

 

 

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Miss Animal’s (Mis) Adventures in Philly, A Diary: Entry 3

friday, january thirteen, two thousand seventeen

early (ish) this morning i awoke with an urgent need to pee. so i pranced my way down the hall and into the bathroom, sat on the commode, and relieved myself of the pressures the night had pressed. i felt a drip from above. oh dear! a leak! i called the landlord who called the handyman, who promptly arrived five minutes later. yay! it’s nice to see some promptness! he had his assistant watch the leak as he flushed the toilet of the apartment above mine. he watched as a cascade of poopy water fell with rhythmic grace from the ceiling, each splatter accentuating precise quantum subdivisions inspired by the pure patternings of earth’s gravity upon the toilet; upon the walls; upon the floor. luckily i had thoroughly cleaned the bathroom last night, so that the poopy water met its canvas in clear contrast. art imitated life, which imitated art, which imitated imitating itself! such profound truths found in base banality! the handyman’s assistant wanted to ensure that i owned a mop, because i was about to need one. how kind of him. the handyman recommended, however, that i await the plumber’s work, else i may end up mopping all day long. how wise of him. oh gracious lord! if this be just the start of my live long day, what spectacular wonders, what sublime aesthetic levitation awaits your humble servant when she shall take leave of her apartment? let me toss aside this diary and partake of the bounties that life has to offer in this sacred harvest preceding the darkness of february, forthwith! here, time is not mine to waste . . . its waste possesses me!

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Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your . . . Tail?

Once upon A Time, there was a Young Lady who was bamboozled by an Ugly Ass Witch, whilst minding her own business; innocently frolicking about The Fairy Forrest (you know The One, it’s about a mile south of The Walmart next to The Interstate Exit) partaking of Beauties revealed by means of the Gracious Summer Sun, alone. The Young Lady was naively lured into the Ugly Ass Witch’s trap by an enchanting display of Beauties False, and she was snatched up and locked away in the Ugly Ass Witch’s highest tower, deep in heart of the forrest; dense and dark . . .

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Through the Crooked Teeth of Fables

Let the darkness be your sun
And you’ll solve the plea of freedom
You won’t see where to run
And you won’t see what you flee from
Nowhere’s not so fun
And it will trap you if you eat of
Nature’s rot
Upon the lot
Where trees grow into seed-dom

 

 

 

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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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