Poem: Asylum

So, in the spirit of posting even a little meaningful content now and then on this blog, I’ll present you a poem I wrote quite a few years back. I’m not exactly sure how many, but I know it was before the end of 2011 and after the start of 2009. I was much younger and still thought of myself as dark and misunderstood by the world. I think this is echoed a little in the poem. And to pre-empt any questions: No it does not hold any special relevance to me or the people around me, it just happened inside me like most things I write. So, without any more procrastination, with not another word of discussion, absolutely no digression, and no further ado whatsoever, in any shape or form, neither explicit nor implicit, I present to you:

By J. McMaster

A man wakes in a bed, he’s surrounded by the sun
He looks all around him, but he’s the only one
No walls for shelter, no roof for shade
Not a trace amongst the rubble, of the house that he made
The neighbourhood’s in ruins, the garden’s scorched earth
There’s absolutely nothing left, with any kind of worth

Across the world it’s night-time, where a young girl walks the street
To the unchanging backdrop, of chainlink and concrete
Not a light in a window, or a soul behind a door
Everything’s a shadow, of what it was before

And outside of that world, a few feet down the hall
The men collect some medicine, to give to Jane and Paul
And once again the doctor, sits each patient down
“Why won’t you even acknowledge me?” he says with a frown.

And somewhere in the rubble, Paul swore he heard a call
But this time he ignores it, he’s heard it plenty times before
While Jane runs up and down the street, searching for the sound
Hoping to escape from this, world in which she’s bound
But soon she starts to tire, and then to forget
And then her mind starts going blank, as the medicine takes effect

For those who noticed the thematic inspirations from Silent Hill, a pat on the back. For those who did not, you just lost five-hundred points you didn’t know you had. But you have the chance to win them back — or double them, if you didn’t loose them — by simply sharing, liking, or posting me some feedback that doesn’t involve discounted eyebrow tattoos.

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No: The Internet Poet is the Modern T.S. Eliot

I found only small islands of sanity containing the tiniest rustic villages of sanity during my travels across the vast World Web, a bottomless ocean of meaningless abbreviations, misspelled words, grammar errors, missing punctuation, and, my favourite, people who have the audacity to call themselves modern poets. I shan’t mention names, but I regularly visit a particular blog of a particular ex of a particular friend of mine for the soul purpose of a few laughs. I’m not naming names but the person is question seems to draw a large amount of inspiration from the likes of T.S. Eliot, be it coincidence or design. To clarify: this is not a good thing.

A couple of years back, I was feeling inspired by the LSD-driven depravity that would-be internet poets were spewing out en mass so I wrote this:

My Cloud
By J. McMaster

Upon a cloud I gaily strode, wind upon my side
Flowers flying, wind laughing, little pigs that cried
Oh the spark-less fire warmed me by the cider stand
And ever did I lie and watch as the flowers did land

Oh petals pumpkin, gore and oil, juxtaposed they be
Like liking learning little laws, literally “losslessly”
And finally the post comes in, roosting upon my cake
Getting up, I climb the cheese, to get to Cola lake

Up the moon, down the moon, round the corner and into my shack
Up the chair, down the curtain, round the bench, come into my shack
Up the moon, down the moon, round the corner and into my shack
Up the chair, down the curtain, round the bench, come into my shack

Poor nightingale who growls a song, in pure tin-metal lust
While Other World keeps painting all, in decay, blood and rust
My eyes are open but I cannot smell, the vegetables of harvests-past
And oh the tragic lingering cabbage, a flavour which shall not last

Now wonder the tepid all alone, we have no hot-cold here
Go back to the goat and get a shoe, for shoes are what “they” fear
Another consequence of my delight, a mothball in my coke
“Yuck!” caws the lamb as she shudders in fright, at my horrid little joke

Up the moon, down the moon, round the corner and into my shack
Up the chair, down the curtain, round the bench, come into my shack
Up the moon, down the moon, round the corner and into my shack
Up the chair, down the curtain, round the bench, come into my shack

Oh the moon is bland, hand me the sour, and we’ll all drink a cup of grey
And we’ll wearily run and climb and prance, as we wind down another day
Oh I see it coming, make no mistake, blue and green are in
But gaze upon the grazing cows, and you’ll be punished for your sin

So from my cloud I seek to rest, and to hell with this poem now
I’ve had enough, I cannot go on, by any means or how
So I finish here with little else, a word just left to say
That I’ve gone sane, it isn’t, I cannot live this way.

For the oblivious, this is satirical. I was almost tempted not to mention it being so, simply to see how many “deep” thinkers out there “totally understood” what I was trying to say regarding the human condition and the plight of our cultural and religious conflict. Then I decided I’d have too many comments to wade through and too many users Weirdo_BlueStalker following, and subsequently stalking, me. As always, your thoughts, comments, accolades, death threats, criticisms, and rants are welcome.

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