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Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
 
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Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in The Fly's LiveJournal:

Saturday, May 1st, 2004
8:30 pm
Untitled #2

With simple reality, it could be proven
That yet, the earth did remain unmoven
From its appointed orbit, a slow travelling
Around a lonely sun that burnt a yellow blot in the sky.
But I, wanderer of oft-forgot ways,
A meanderer of meadows in omitted spring days,
Had found cause to rejoice, and was revelling
When, with a tumbling, I found myself in a void, no lie.
From the black murk, I was excreted,
My body tired and energy depleted.
With a start, a sudden reality was revelated
And I recognised I was in a world much the same, but defiled.
My head could not stop turning,
As my senses were assaulted, set to burning;
With delicacies of a complexion so processed was my appetite sated;
And my mind churned, forsooth did it view a reality that knowledge reviled.

A natural ambience was marred by an unnatural voice;
A screaming man, much the reaper, told me to rejoice;
Reading of verse was announced, yet instead vocabulary was mocked;
Art was advertised in falsity, for inwards could be found naught but refuse.
Down a shimmering street, hidden from the sky's orb of light,
Darkness gathered, plotted, and went to dishonourably fight.
'Round the corner, resting at a mooring, in the harbour docked,
Was the only harking to a past that was slaughtered in this settlement so populous.
Wishing Divine power would restore me, I fell to my knees, praying,
Then I struck the surface and it was blood I began paying.
A grey barrier, impenetrable to crawling worm or bladed greenery -
It was on this I had landed, a ground more abrasive than a castle exterior.
My legs ran red, depresséd wonderment surged frantically within my mortal coil
And as I lay there, water seeping from mine eye, I wished for toil,
The comfort that comes from an owned time not used meagerly.
So, with petitioning, I sought reprieve, a chance to again be one the merrier.

Current Mood: creative
7:29 pm
I can just feel the flames coming now ...
Alright people, this is Axver's publicised rant on art forms I hate. I'm doing it on here due to the literary nature of this LJ.

Modern art has descended into something worse than farce, and unlike Fawlty Towers, it's not funny because it's humorous, but funny because it's so asinine and redundant. 'Art' is a very broad term, and so to narrow it down, let's go to a little hate of mine, modern poetry.Collapse )

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Visual art now.Collapse )

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Music, and how when U2 retires, music will be dead. That's an objective statement, too.Collapse )

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When it comes to art, I live in the past. I live in a past of immensely skilled painters and sculptors who could create scenes that appear as real as what I see out my window. I live in a past of poets and authors who employed a broad vocabulary and could make the reader feel a vast array of emotions simply through vivid description and compilations in verse. I live in a past of musicians who were above and beyond notes on paper, who could rouse emotions and transcend barriers. I don't live in a present of thrown paint and disorganised lists of words. I don't live in a present of cubes in rooms and novels written with no linguistic control. I don't live in a present of bubblegum, posers, and people who speak too fast.

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A response to an objection.Collapse )

Current Mood: moody
Wednesday, April 28th, 2004
8:41 pm
And when it's raining, raining hard, that's when the rain will break my heart.
Woohoo, poetry. I randomly felt like it, after reading a poem by Wordsworth that Bono quotes at the beginning of Where The Streets Have No Name, 26 December 1989. Plus, I simply don't feel like doing homework despite the fact I need to.

Untitled #1

Thrice reviled and again once more,
It was an image of suffering and poor,
Ripped from side to side, corner to centre,
Left to burn mercilessly by the tormentor.
The bomb blast shockwave was still felt,
Echoing through a land that just might melt,
Bouncing around the ravaged fields and plains
'til light did choose to wane.

The metallic forces of grinding and destruction
Had forced a violent and bloody reduction
To the life that was sustained, leaving it homeless,
Quivering in man's foxholes and on stripped streamsides at night's middle, defenceless.
With increasing fury had each wrathful wave come.
With increasing cruelty had each fiery wind blown.
With ferocity, it shattered and razed and then some,
Before it passed on to bring ravaging to more it did not own.

Fear still lurked, harassing the terrified innocents.
Their homes a scarred skeleton, they huddled in tents,
Awaiting a new dawn and another home
In a land where the streets had no name.
What survived did offer thanks, despite their conditions,
For the warmongers had departed, leaving no munitions.
Hope of a future eternally bright began to smoulder,
And with every passing hour, the remnant grew bolder.

The sun did look upon the land the next morning.
Welcome relief came with the dazzling, rejuvinating dawning,
A relief that permeated throughout the being of all.
Messengers brought news of safety, citizens began toil;
They could still sense prosperity in the air
And hope, wielding an axe of faith, ousted fear.
A pessimistic defeat became an optimistic return,
For even in the depths of horror, the desire to live never refused to burn.

One thing I have to say is it's terribly hard not to quote U2 whilst writing poetry. Their music is so poetic sometimes. *cough*ASortOfHomecoming*cough*OneTreeHill*cough*thisislame. Also, I have no idea where that poem came from. I simply invented the first line and in a few minutes, it came from there. Got to say I enjoyed writing that, so maybe all isn't quite lost for me yet.

Current Mood: anxious
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