Theorie de ma Connaissance

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Randomness & Silence. The Inquisitor & The Anarchist. In a time-space continuum, spinning a warped reality. Relativity and Authenticity. Authentique mais pas vrai. Esprit. L'existence ou l'essence.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Guerilla Tapestry

I read this a long time ago and I thought it was pretty interesting...

bir patrick jones şiiri.
şöyle ki:
we are not deceived by your words
we see through your promises
we sanctify your lies
we are the disaffected
the isolated wounds of subtle napalm;
shopping doesn't make us happy
commercials cull our sensitivity
freedom is nothing without responsibility
and in the rain drenched tarpaulins of market traders
lies the epitomy of belief
clinging to our pennies on entrance on exit
memory or dream
this hole in my throat this gap in the ink
this place without meaning
this stuttering eloquence of screaming;
save, save us all
allow desolations
find a path, be unafraid to act hold life
stand stand oak tall
even the smallest body makes a shadow -
in the hanging out the wash
in the protest of discipline
tiny hands scraping solitudes clinging to moments creating
miracles from everyday routines
in the dignity of ironing
the anxiety of mortgages
the the
sentence of being but still still still the being
we are butterflies trapped in the frost
victory is acknowledging the fact that we, we have not yet lost.
so carress me with your alienation
alienate me with your carress create me with your credit
pour me power through direct debit
feed me freedom from selling shares
and paint me a symbol and tell me i'm free;
we are
we are the guerilla tapestry
in the silence of insurance payments
council tax benefits
industrial tribunals
the penny pinchers the super savers
the lottery watchers
we are
the incoherent throats searching for sound
the peaceful protestor
the single mother
the social worker at the homeless shelter
we are the happy shoppers
the credit cravers
the sales offers
the poundstretchers
the breaking fabric of modernity
stitched only by our solitude
we are the temporary fragments of a capitalist master plan;
unemployment statistics
family credit beggars
no collar coolies
part time slaves
sucking severances
praying for meaning
not this lipless screaming
and in these motives that purify in these acts that dignify
in this tiny gesture of defiance
is an articulation of a void
a vision versed in lament
this hate this hate
is born from love;
we are the undying
the breath of chlorophyll over the concrete
the soul against the gold
we are loneliness burned iron fists fuelled by injustice
we are the denied
yet unified
we are the tapestry, the crackling cracks of modernity
dislocated desperations stitched together
by the disparate verses of our skin;
i write therefore we exist
we exist therefore i write
and from this page this scream
this no
from the supermarket to the dole
from the youth centre to the old peoples' home
is the sound the silence
of the sound of the alone
to the alone
the sound of the ability to resist;
and in this ink there is the blood of a thousand miners
and in this ink the eyes of 500 doctors
the struggle of my father
the sensitivity of my mother
and the hand of my baby;
and in this prison cell there is a skied sunlight
and in these words the power they tried to deny us,
the stab of a killer
the tourniquet of a nurse
and in this ink is
is many
is you and i
and in this voice
the milk of a mother
against against against
their chains to smother
mother to man to woman to child
the guerrilla tapestry
spread nationwide;
and in the division
there is a unity
and in this incision
there is a sanctity
and in this pale silent page
blisters a cacophony enraged
with the burn of generations following the bullet of emancipation
we are we are the threads
we are we are the severances
we are we are the stitches
we are we are a no in search of a yes
we are we are the breaking
we are we are the making
the blind beginning to see
we are we are we are the guerilla tapestry.

…and Voices

Ok, so really, I know we have a habit of expecting everybody to care enough to hear what we think about ourselves and others but honestly.

The thing is if you really don’t what something repeated, do not say it. But if you really can’t keep your mouth shut, like most of us anyway, then say it to only those few people that matter or that will be decent enough to keep your shared thought private.

The concept of a secret and personal and private thoughts seem to have lost all meaning in this ‘utopia’ of a factory. Really.

I’m just saying, but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for some of us to stop expecting that people will shut up about our secrets when we couldn’t.

What gets me the most however, is this constant need to know about other people and pry into the details of their lives. I mean really, get a life. I can imagine that there are tons of you reading this and thinking that you do have a life, you’re just excessively curious about other people’s lives because your life is so fulfilling and exciting and since you have so little time to do anything else but have a great life you’d like to find out about others’ lives just in case.

With all my love,


“What about my heart? What about how I feel?
“What about it?”
Life hurts sometimes. It makes you want to tear your insides out or crawl into a corner. You want to find respite. You want your friends to be there for you when you need them. You want to know that people that you care about care about you too.

If you’re all alone. You’re all alone.

Or maybe your friends are there for you when you need them. Maybe you’re not all by yourself. Some of us are lucky; we don’t always have to help ourselves. Some of us are even luckier; we’ve convinced ourselves we don’t need any help. But some of us, well we’re just down right lonely and aware of it.

I don’t know where you find yourself. Some of us are looking to find ourselves, whatever that means.

So in case you are not sure please remember that when you are really down and feel like you need a hand, there are two attached to your shoulders.

With all my love,

Ps: SWRCENTH: Someone who really cares enough not to help.

Fatal Reflections

I love what I do not have
I have sweet memories of things that did not last
Dreams of serenity and echoing love...
I face forward, rowing into the distant past

Like a fading, yellowed off-white gown
Seeming this and being
That soft, stale wind that comes around
Whispering tales of what I've been seeing

I am this towering wreck of an abyss
Holding pictures; embossed images
of what sweet, true, real love is
Love, fresh roses, letters, signatures, things to miss

See me howling
Like a grey wolf, struck in the cold dessert prowling.
It is a full moon with glowing stars.
I am the weeping willow with your axes' scars

You will hold my hand
Walking me to my death as I let it take over
You will be my man
Barring my heart as love gets colder