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My Eye
Думки вголос, Особисте
My Eyes
I picked up the bible today tying rejoice in comfort of almighty. As paragon as I'm, I couldn't confound it in me. Tedious draw or rather swift onward onto untenable stage. To find God, one must suffer 'Cause in suffering we reconcile our own feelings and confront ourselves and with it our morality. The only keen observation to notif my sense of salvation is "faith" itself. Faith is rather easy said than done. Because as peculiar person I lack that a lot. For one to be associated with such an stage, one must believe in something. And that things whereas I draw the line between me and unknown. I look at your "faithful" servant of the Lord. Where was the trigger formulate adversity upon my world to collapse from higher virtual of astonishing power. Beyond good and evil, I must say it come down to order from chaos. We been taught that to avoid chaos at all costs without giving it self examination. I took it upon myself to dive into that proscenic to see the display of truth. To my wild guess. I found souls whom I myself felt sympathy for. They're what you assume "evil spirits" they cries upon my arrival. For I myself reek of it. the stench of fear.
Let I tell you something school are unable to. Life is a choice. And what you choose define you in some extent. My people go to school do their studies and in long run graduates from university. Then find her/him work in career had pursue. Though it good for one to accomplish such goal. One question though keep occurring. The pursue of happiness, what you enjoy to do or like. Some people roughly speaking regrets those studies they took. Why? because inside they felt empty. There's a sea of void. Something felt cold and an heavenly. I found that women highly affected by this occurrence. Before you "women" give the chill backlash. There study done to proof this. Women focus on their careers so hard admonish her from creating a family. By realizing this she already 30 pushing 40 in few years.
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Handbook 2.0
1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.
2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.
3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.
4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.
5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.
6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.
7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.
8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.
9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.
10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.
11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.
12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.
13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.
14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.
15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.
16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.
17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.
18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.
19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.
20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.
21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.
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An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
Compiling this landmark anthology of poetry in English
about dogs and musical instruments is like swimming through bricks.
To date, I have only, “On the Death of Mrs. McTuesday’s Pug,
Killed by a Falling Piano,” a somewhat obvious choice.
True, an Aeolian harp whispers alluringly
in the background of the anonymous sonnet, “The Huntsman’s
Hound,”
but beyond that — silence.
I should resist this degrading donkey-work in favor of my own
writing,
wherein contentment surely lies.
But A. Smith stares smugly from the reverse of the twenty pound
note,
and when my bank manager guffaws,
small particles of saliva stream like a meteor shower
through the infinity of dark space
between his world and mine.
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Tarp
I have seen the black sheets laid out like carpets
under the trees, catching the rain
of olives as they fell. Also the cerulean brightness
of the one covering the bad roof
of a neighbor’s shed, the color the only color
inside the winter’s weeks. Another one
took the shape of the pile of bricks underneath.
Another flew off the back of a truck,
black as a piano if a piano could rise into the air.
I have seen the ones under bridges,
the forms they make of sleep. I could go on
this way until the end of the page, even though
what I have in my mind isn’t the thing
itself, but the category of belief that sees the thing
as a shelter for what is beneath it.
There is no shelter. You cannot put a tarp over
a wave. You cannot put a tarp
over a war. You cannot put a tarp over the broken
oil well miles under the ocean.
There is no tarp for that raging figure in the mind
that sits in a corner and shreds receipts
and newspapers. There is no tarp for dread,
whose only recourse is language
so approximate it hardly means what it means:
He is not here. She is sick. She cannot remember
her name. He is old. He is ashamed.
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