on poetry
it’s the end of the world
despairs the optimist
no, it isn’t
replies the pessimist
i don’t quite remember where
i heard that expression
whether by my own mind
or another’s volition
but still, even now,
it resides in my brain
a testament to poets
and originality feigned
my words move now heavy
leather-bound and enchained
with soft steps and movements
over marks of the pained
for the poem is a graveyard
buried deep in the earth
but one of the few
that encourages re-birth
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday, December 8, 2007
new book
after a lot of time and effort, my first book as been published by lulu worldwide publishing in association with wilson books (ie me).
order at http://stores.lulu.com/robotwinstonchurchill
buy that shit and gimme your money
order at http://stores.lulu.com/robotwinstonchurchill
buy that shit and gimme your money
Friday, December 7, 2007
the rock and the sickness, in four parts
i
the fly hovered over the windowsill, alone
the late afternoon sunlight
filtered through the cracked glass
suspending the fly in a beam of light and dust
it was a small room, to be sure,
a sparsely furnished nook
with one window in the back
and a solid oak door, firmly locked, in the front
the temperature in that small room
was rising rather quickly
resigning the fly to attempting to find
a way out
thus, he settled down on the windowsill
and approached,
ever so cautiously,
the paned glass
at first he merely taped it,
a gentle graze with his head
the window, stoic and firm,
remained unmoved
so, the fly tried again,
albeit this time only slightly harder
though, still,
to no avail
the afternoon sun, by now,
was beginning to fade,
having run its small, reflected course
from one side of the wall opposite to the other
the door remained closed
the fly’s overly cautious tactic
was not bearing fruit,
so he flew up towards where
the lowest pane opens to the world
but today,
despite the mounting heat,
it remained firmly shut
as he landed gracefully
on the small top of the lowest pane,
one covered with years and layers of forgotten dust,
he looked out.
there wasn’t much to see
the soot-covered window did not allow
one such fly to make any real,
educated guesses as to
what lay beyond
but the late night breezes that whistled through
and the prisms of color that beamed in and out
at high noon
whispered of something grand
his head reeling from his first two attempts at freeing himself,
the fly ran his many, thin legs
over the old glass and wood
as he scaled upwards across a small part of the pane
he found it to be the same all around,
and very much the same as before
a solid thud sounded from outside the room
it happened somewhere behind the fly,
who quickly spun around and,
hovering near the window,
faced the oak door
the sound, much to his dismay,
never echoed through again
he thought, perhaps,
that he may have seen the shiny, brass door handle jiggle,
but he figured not,
as the sun had been in his eyes
He turned back to the window
and the temperature continued to rise
the small window handles showed the most promise,
though the strength needed to turn it,
thereby forcing the pane open,
was far more than the meager fly could muster
he flew higher
by now twilight filled the small room
as the light began to leave the room,
the fly began to grow worried
he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer
than morning if he
couldn’t escape the nook
The air conditioning machine coughed to life outside
it would be of no use in the closed off room,
though,
but its quiet hum helped to illustrate
just how silent the new night had really been
the white noise was comforting
and the fly tapped the glass
the middle windowpane proved just as solid
and much harder to see
the fly stepped back and gazed upwards
tired from the combination of his efforts
and growing anxiety,
the fly laid down atop the central pane,
dust rising as his body met the metal
he fell asleep
ii
when the fly arose the room was ink
hardly a beam of faded light cut through the nook
and the fly’s eyes took awhile to adjust
the fly stood up slowly
and turned away from the window
it was useless
he had bumped up against the two different panes
countless times with no success
and the top, final pane
showed no more promise
he needed a savior
the oak door remained still.
by now the air conditioning system
had shut off and the silence caused
a ringing in the fly’s ears
he faced the door
though tired and rather famished,
the fly batted his wings
and flew towards the door handle
he landed on the knob and its brass
shown in the small reflection
of a wayward streetlight
he closed his eyes,
opened them,
and blinked
he blinked again and gazed upwards
a small beam of light
cut through the keyhole
but neither it nor the door’s edges
provided enough space for the tired fly to squeeze through
the fly, by now, was getting anxious
it was well into the heart of the night
and nearly all of his
reasonable escape options
had been exhausted
moving slowly,
he turned to face
where the handle connected
with the door
he sighed, and wished for a miracle
none came
he blinked
none came
the silence of that small room
seemed just as tiring as
his collective efforts had been
he laid down
the brass was colder than the sill
had been and the slight reflections of light
cast back hurt
the fly’s eyes
he strained to close them
and fell into a fitful sleep
just outside the window,
the sprinklers came on
iii
a stale heat accompanied
the first timid sunbeams
to penetrate the room
huddled atop the brass doorknob,
the fly opened its eyes
his small limbs cracked
as he pulled himself up
he found it much harder to move
the passing time in the room
bared down upon the fly
his hunger, stress, and exhaustion
was turning much more serious
he glanced at the door
small noises outside the door
had awoken him a number of times,
but no noise was ever
more than that
he exhaled
the fly gazed upon the windowsill,
the cracked glass panes,
and the rest of the room
it had,
he noticed,
changed subtlety over the night
dewdrops lined the window’s edges
and the heat that had receded during the dark night
was just now returning with
the rising sun
the fly looked on
from his vantage point on the door handle,
the fly could take in every detail of
his tiny world
he had been born there nearly a week ago,
his mother planting his egg
and moving on
days before his birth
about ten feet or so
from where he was born,
the fly smiled at the thought
and settled in to die
clutching his head
in a pair of his tiny limbs,
the fly closed his eyes
as his limbs began to harden
and his breathing grew strained,
the fly became happier
the world as it existed
inside him
was opening up just as
the world outside was caving in around him
an unbridled joy
race through his veins
and he edged closer to
the edge of the brass handle
his efforts, his decisions, his good and his evil
fell with him
as he folded his small wings
and pushed himself over the edge
the meaning of life
in that small room
had been his death ,and everything that had enslaved him,
his world,
his time,
his body,
were all overcome
the instant his compact body cracked
against the hardwood floor
iv
when the first wrecking ball
collided with the old building,
the small room shuddered
its supports held
until the dark oak door
crashed in under the ball’s weight
as the room fell stories toward the earth,
what meager dust was left
from the decayed fly’s body
drifted into the air
in silence, the dust,
for an instant,
became suspended in a solitary beam of sunlight,
as the windows,
doors,
and brass handles
of that tiny world
crashed in around it
the fly hovered over the windowsill, alone
the late afternoon sunlight
filtered through the cracked glass
suspending the fly in a beam of light and dust
it was a small room, to be sure,
a sparsely furnished nook
with one window in the back
and a solid oak door, firmly locked, in the front
the temperature in that small room
was rising rather quickly
resigning the fly to attempting to find
a way out
thus, he settled down on the windowsill
and approached,
ever so cautiously,
the paned glass
at first he merely taped it,
a gentle graze with his head
the window, stoic and firm,
remained unmoved
so, the fly tried again,
albeit this time only slightly harder
though, still,
to no avail
the afternoon sun, by now,
was beginning to fade,
having run its small, reflected course
from one side of the wall opposite to the other
the door remained closed
the fly’s overly cautious tactic
was not bearing fruit,
so he flew up towards where
the lowest pane opens to the world
but today,
despite the mounting heat,
it remained firmly shut
as he landed gracefully
on the small top of the lowest pane,
one covered with years and layers of forgotten dust,
he looked out.
there wasn’t much to see
the soot-covered window did not allow
one such fly to make any real,
educated guesses as to
what lay beyond
but the late night breezes that whistled through
and the prisms of color that beamed in and out
at high noon
whispered of something grand
his head reeling from his first two attempts at freeing himself,
the fly ran his many, thin legs
over the old glass and wood
as he scaled upwards across a small part of the pane
he found it to be the same all around,
and very much the same as before
a solid thud sounded from outside the room
it happened somewhere behind the fly,
who quickly spun around and,
hovering near the window,
faced the oak door
the sound, much to his dismay,
never echoed through again
he thought, perhaps,
that he may have seen the shiny, brass door handle jiggle,
but he figured not,
as the sun had been in his eyes
He turned back to the window
and the temperature continued to rise
the small window handles showed the most promise,
though the strength needed to turn it,
thereby forcing the pane open,
was far more than the meager fly could muster
he flew higher
by now twilight filled the small room
as the light began to leave the room,
the fly began to grow worried
he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer
than morning if he
couldn’t escape the nook
The air conditioning machine coughed to life outside
it would be of no use in the closed off room,
though,
but its quiet hum helped to illustrate
just how silent the new night had really been
the white noise was comforting
and the fly tapped the glass
the middle windowpane proved just as solid
and much harder to see
the fly stepped back and gazed upwards
tired from the combination of his efforts
and growing anxiety,
the fly laid down atop the central pane,
dust rising as his body met the metal
he fell asleep
ii
when the fly arose the room was ink
hardly a beam of faded light cut through the nook
and the fly’s eyes took awhile to adjust
the fly stood up slowly
and turned away from the window
it was useless
he had bumped up against the two different panes
countless times with no success
and the top, final pane
showed no more promise
he needed a savior
the oak door remained still.
by now the air conditioning system
had shut off and the silence caused
a ringing in the fly’s ears
he faced the door
though tired and rather famished,
the fly batted his wings
and flew towards the door handle
he landed on the knob and its brass
shown in the small reflection
of a wayward streetlight
he closed his eyes,
opened them,
and blinked
he blinked again and gazed upwards
a small beam of light
cut through the keyhole
but neither it nor the door’s edges
provided enough space for the tired fly to squeeze through
the fly, by now, was getting anxious
it was well into the heart of the night
and nearly all of his
reasonable escape options
had been exhausted
moving slowly,
he turned to face
where the handle connected
with the door
he sighed, and wished for a miracle
none came
he blinked
none came
the silence of that small room
seemed just as tiring as
his collective efforts had been
he laid down
the brass was colder than the sill
had been and the slight reflections of light
cast back hurt
the fly’s eyes
he strained to close them
and fell into a fitful sleep
just outside the window,
the sprinklers came on
iii
a stale heat accompanied
the first timid sunbeams
to penetrate the room
huddled atop the brass doorknob,
the fly opened its eyes
his small limbs cracked
as he pulled himself up
he found it much harder to move
the passing time in the room
bared down upon the fly
his hunger, stress, and exhaustion
was turning much more serious
he glanced at the door
small noises outside the door
had awoken him a number of times,
but no noise was ever
more than that
he exhaled
the fly gazed upon the windowsill,
the cracked glass panes,
and the rest of the room
it had,
he noticed,
changed subtlety over the night
dewdrops lined the window’s edges
and the heat that had receded during the dark night
was just now returning with
the rising sun
the fly looked on
from his vantage point on the door handle,
the fly could take in every detail of
his tiny world
he had been born there nearly a week ago,
his mother planting his egg
and moving on
days before his birth
about ten feet or so
from where he was born,
the fly smiled at the thought
and settled in to die
clutching his head
in a pair of his tiny limbs,
the fly closed his eyes
as his limbs began to harden
and his breathing grew strained,
the fly became happier
the world as it existed
inside him
was opening up just as
the world outside was caving in around him
an unbridled joy
race through his veins
and he edged closer to
the edge of the brass handle
his efforts, his decisions, his good and his evil
fell with him
as he folded his small wings
and pushed himself over the edge
the meaning of life
in that small room
had been his death ,and everything that had enslaved him,
his world,
his time,
his body,
were all overcome
the instant his compact body cracked
against the hardwood floor
iv
when the first wrecking ball
collided with the old building,
the small room shuddered
its supports held
until the dark oak door
crashed in under the ball’s weight
as the room fell stories toward the earth,
what meager dust was left
from the decayed fly’s body
drifted into the air
in silence, the dust,
for an instant,
became suspended in a solitary beam of sunlight,
as the windows,
doors,
and brass handles
of that tiny world
crashed in around it
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
new project
a novella, so far nameless, whose plot is such:
"during the late spring of 2007, a college student sets out from his home in colorado intending to traverse the country all the way to new york. along the way, he discovers that the rest of the nation is populated by robots. this is his story."
it has potential.
--update on december 7th--
after much careful thought, i have come to the conclusion that the above idea is wicked retadid and i'm not doing it. shit.
"during the late spring of 2007, a college student sets out from his home in colorado intending to traverse the country all the way to new york. along the way, he discovers that the rest of the nation is populated by robots. this is his story."
it has potential.
--update on december 7th--
after much careful thought, i have come to the conclusion that the above idea is wicked retadid and i'm not doing it. shit.
Monday, December 3, 2007
R.W.C. #6: 'Smirnoff Watermelons and the Nappy Headed Hos'
"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages"
Part Six
"Smirnoff Watermelon and the Nappy Headed Hos"
No one really knew when it first started to happen. Perhaps it started with the youth, and their non-elder-respecting ways. Others claim the competition in the health care industry was growing too fast and those small town, west coast doctas (straight out the C P T) just couldn't keep up. Though, even with all the controversy, we do still know this. The Good Doctor had served the community well over the years, mainly from the fact that every symptom of every disease his patients ever asked him about recieved the same prescribed treatment: "smoke the muthafuckin' weed every muthafuckin' day". Sure, he wasn't one of those fancy, college-educated doctors, but he got the job done. It was, indeed, a good life.
But somewhere along those lines, the people forgot about Dre. The man who brought the small town Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and the group that said "Muthafuck the Police", seemed a mere legend that the town's elders would talk about on their long, lazy evenings on front-porches. And while the youth of that small, isolated middle western emu-farming town went about their days without offering a single respect nod to the Doctor, there was still one who knew. He had been raised by the Doctor from his first days, when Dre had found the small, cigar smoking, witty-aphorism-spouting android in a back alley behind the town's ma-and-pa run strip club/bondage dungeon. And if we can say anything with certainty, in this crazy, mixed up world, its that Robot Winston Churchill ain't neva forgot about Dre.
These nappy headed hos (the ones who forgot about Dre) needed to straight up die. So, there I was, dressed to kill but sitting alone smoking dank nugs and drinking smirnoff watermelons. It was a delight and a pleasure, but when the light came on the ambiance was lost. But that's okay because the travel channel, which I am somewhat watching/listening to, told me that two turkeys are presidentally pardonned each year. My day today was much more eventful than normal. sitting in greek class at noon plus thirty minutes I had no idea where I would be and what I would be doing in a matter of minutes and half-hours. First, when I got back to my residence I found that my friend was the new, proud owner of a fine, official looking fake id. I needed one. So, I figured out the dets on obtaining said contraband (I just sat for about thirty seconds trying to remember if contraband was the right word for the situation) and proceded to enter my university's resident travel agency and garner up an international student id card. For twenty six members of american currency, I was able to obtain a photo-id (internationally recognized as kick ass) that said my birthday was well into 1986. After that, I got turned down at one liquor store but was able to obtain a fair amount of good malt liquor at the second try. So, for the past three hours I've been listening to the new Summer at Shatter Creek album while drinking Smirnoff and smoking Boulder's finest. Truth.
It was a bloodbath. The wrecked and horribly deformed bodies of countless townsfolk littered the dusty street. As Robot Winston surveyed his work, a special sense of pride welled up like so many pretty bubbles in his hardened, andriod chest. For the first time in his computer-controlled life, he had done something for someone else. And, after all, isn't that what life is about; helping our fellow man maintain his dignity? It was a story for the ages, and one that, as we can all see, takes up a special significance this holiday season.
Part Six
"Smirnoff Watermelon and the Nappy Headed Hos"
No one really knew when it first started to happen. Perhaps it started with the youth, and their non-elder-respecting ways. Others claim the competition in the health care industry was growing too fast and those small town, west coast doctas (straight out the C P T) just couldn't keep up. Though, even with all the controversy, we do still know this. The Good Doctor had served the community well over the years, mainly from the fact that every symptom of every disease his patients ever asked him about recieved the same prescribed treatment: "smoke the muthafuckin' weed every muthafuckin' day". Sure, he wasn't one of those fancy, college-educated doctors, but he got the job done. It was, indeed, a good life.
But somewhere along those lines, the people forgot about Dre. The man who brought the small town Eazy-E, Ice Cube, and the group that said "Muthafuck the Police", seemed a mere legend that the town's elders would talk about on their long, lazy evenings on front-porches. And while the youth of that small, isolated middle western emu-farming town went about their days without offering a single respect nod to the Doctor, there was still one who knew. He had been raised by the Doctor from his first days, when Dre had found the small, cigar smoking, witty-aphorism-spouting android in a back alley behind the town's ma-and-pa run strip club/bondage dungeon. And if we can say anything with certainty, in this crazy, mixed up world, its that Robot Winston Churchill ain't neva forgot about Dre.
These nappy headed hos (the ones who forgot about Dre) needed to straight up die. So, there I was, dressed to kill but sitting alone smoking dank nugs and drinking smirnoff watermelons. It was a delight and a pleasure, but when the light came on the ambiance was lost. But that's okay because the travel channel, which I am somewhat watching/listening to, told me that two turkeys are presidentally pardonned each year. My day today was much more eventful than normal. sitting in greek class at noon plus thirty minutes I had no idea where I would be and what I would be doing in a matter of minutes and half-hours. First, when I got back to my residence I found that my friend was the new, proud owner of a fine, official looking fake id. I needed one. So, I figured out the dets on obtaining said contraband (I just sat for about thirty seconds trying to remember if contraband was the right word for the situation) and proceded to enter my university's resident travel agency and garner up an international student id card. For twenty six members of american currency, I was able to obtain a photo-id (internationally recognized as kick ass) that said my birthday was well into 1986. After that, I got turned down at one liquor store but was able to obtain a fair amount of good malt liquor at the second try. So, for the past three hours I've been listening to the new Summer at Shatter Creek album while drinking Smirnoff and smoking Boulder's finest. Truth.
It was a bloodbath. The wrecked and horribly deformed bodies of countless townsfolk littered the dusty street. As Robot Winston surveyed his work, a special sense of pride welled up like so many pretty bubbles in his hardened, andriod chest. For the first time in his computer-controlled life, he had done something for someone else. And, after all, isn't that what life is about; helping our fellow man maintain his dignity? It was a story for the ages, and one that, as we can all see, takes up a special significance this holiday season.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
new song
art terrorism, go!
psychoanalysis is a disease
though i like its harmony
its simplicity and ease
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
dada is dead and gone
it was with me against
everything and everyone
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
in my prophet’s head
you’re the businessman
of steal and shot and death and lead
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
psychoanalysis is a disease
though i like its harmony
its simplicity and ease
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
dada is dead and gone
it was with me against
everything and everyone
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
in my prophet’s head
you’re the businessman
of steal and shot and death and lead
its okay if you want to
dada dada
its okay if you want to
dada dada
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
songs
so i decided, to bide my time while sitting in my dorm, i could write songs for a band i will probably never start.
here's the first one...
priapism
hey let me tell you
about this thing i found
it must really suck
cause it hurts your dick
you’ll get a boner
that’ll never go away
you can tape it to your leg
but i doubt it will help
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
i wikied it
and it turns out
a chick can get it too
what the fuck
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
here's the first one...
priapism
hey let me tell you
about this thing i found
it must really suck
cause it hurts your dick
you’ll get a boner
that’ll never go away
you can tape it to your leg
but i doubt it will help
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
i wikied it
and it turns out
a chick can get it too
what the fuck
priapism priapism
what’d i do for this?
priapism priapism
it hurts like balls every-time i piss
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)