writingsaboutzoomerism

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Smoky Eyes

Her life, a lit wet cigarette

First-born of hidden corner tables With words that fall down sick and dead From wry mouths, cracked like fractured fables

Bite down on burnt-out, clovered ends Luck rooster-red, her tongue-in-cheek Fluorescent wit with sick intent Along her, long since long in teeth

A crystal mix of split inflections Dismissals purred with distal purchase Battered bardic self-protections And rare emergent flame-tipped verses

Where words alight with flights of heart But borne with all that leaden weight Conceived of themes with absent charts And snapshot dreams long since dyed grey

Thus when the reaper whistles gently She’ll finally rise, in joyous splendour For real adventure, evidently As one more darkened, sparked ascender

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

A Divining Of Tracks Unmade

I died in the dead of midwinter With nary a pound of flesh Left after the feathered debtors Took bloody their price for death

My bones they yet shine like moonstone Reflecting the stars lit above Waning as all fades to yellow Stained with the blood of the doves

The violets they bleed crimson dewdrops An ocean of snow on their skin Their flesh is a picture of violence Painted without and within

My footsteps they lead now to nowhere A future forever unled Aspiring conspiracies hollow So thoroughly have I been thus bled

And even after the sunrise My body will hold none but rot The only eternal salvation Is deep in the far mists forgot

How quickly the periscope shatters How easily the candlestick breaks How simply that all we are left with Are regrets, mistruths and mistakes

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Cul-De-Sac

I can’t remember how my story had started But I know the way it’s going to end The same way it’s been for the last fifteen years Off the highway, past the boulevard’s bend

A house too big for one man to keep clean And two hours away from the office Three children who look nothing like me For their first dad’s a pastor who’s god-less

Just as well, it’s not like I’ve found the answers A meandering lifelong master of none Pointlessly staying put as I wither away Like lawns in that Arizona-dry sun

I suppose I’m resigned to spending my life Tucked away in that grim, grey suburbia At the tip of a dead-end road with no hope Not like hope was a thing I was worthy of My journey ends at the head of a cul-de-sac A plot of nothing, with no one, and nowhere to turn back.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Shots

shots of vodka shots of gin shots of moments you’re smiling in

shots of your choice shots of yours called shots of you falling shots of it all

shots from your mouth shots from the hip shots ‘cross the bow shots sink your ship

shots in the arm shots from a glock shots in the arm shots from the doc

shots in the papers shots they describe shots that destroy you shots they prescribe

shots you get used to shots that you take shots that you search for shots for shots’ sake

shots of the sweet bliss shots in the blood shots one too many shots till you’re fucked

shots of your body shots of it limp shots of moments you’re smiling in

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

High Life

Young, dumb, and drunk doesn’t age like wine But it’d still be sweet for a night or two To cut loose in open tops and high-heeled shoes Like a bird, and flip the bird to the world

Floating through alcoves of debauchery, sin, and gin A tonic for souls inebriated, trying to find salvation In their own little deaths, pleasurable cessations Of thinking and feeling and fear

To find in the must some implicit trust In a stranger too dangerous for everyday life But just for the night, a comfortable sight Yet certainly not one for the long term We’ll end up tangled together like knots in the gut That bind our roiling, boiling bodies together Till morning’s condensing like rivulets and drops On the coffee pot as I fumble with breakfast And in the breathless morning air We’ll be smoking each others’ lips Like dirty dollar store cigarettes Stealing away my breath forever Killing me one gasp at a time I know I’ll ache the day after And that it’ll sting in twenty years When I look back after the comedown, But even when that comes to pass At least each scar will be a memory Of something glorious

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

i was looking for a hooker when i found you

https://youtu.be/YYvWq0Jc4bc

Sorry for the departure from my normal content, but I’ve recently been trying my hand at some photo editing and music edits. Here’s the first thing I’ve felt was good enough to actually release: a lo-fi version of Metric - Lost Kitten, with some cover art edited together by yours truly.

The repurposed Japanese music video edits really do hit different. Go watch them if you haven’t. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INNkO4WnBT8 is the link to an alternate version, as I’m pretty sure the first edit got yanked off of Youtube. What fascinates me is how much the context of the video changes with the music underneath it; the original Japanese song it was attached to (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INNkO4WnBT8) hasn’t got a hint of that melancholy nostalgia to it, despite the shared visuals. Goes to show the power of context.

Metric have always been great songwriters and musicians, but Lost Kitten stands out for its utterly encompassing mood. I know of few songs that grasp quite so well the feeling of starting to pass the age when you’re truly young, and maturing with a pang of sadness at losing that unfettered and wild freedom of one’s prime. There’s joy in stability, but also excitement and wanderlust at the potential that any given moment could be one you’ll remember forever.

Of course, there’s a sizeable demographic who aren’t reminiscing, instead stewing in bitter aspiration for what’s described. In fact, that’s probably most of us, the people who haven’t ever let ourselves get blown away by fate to wherever it chooses, even for a single night. It’s a common dream, isn’t it, to live without regrets, and take the good with the bad. Yet we have no great triumphs or truly catastrophic lows. Our life trajectories are the equivalent of a Kansas interstate.

Anyways, I’d deeply appreciate it if you gave my edit a listen and some feedback if you’ve got any, and if you do like what you hear, go put on some more Metric! If you’re a fan of meaningful lyricism and early aughts rock, you’ll be right at home.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Pastel

i’m the quiet type that hangs round the edges of a party till some fragile ingenue grabs my arm, heart open on her sleeve

she said she’s had her eye on me, the one with a willing soul a charming glimmer of a diamond in amongst a sea of coal

she talks about pain, pride, prejudice, and seasons of spring my resting smile distracts from the fact that i’ve said nothing

she calls me wise, i just nod along with everything she claims four kisses on the cheek, as she’s fanning her own flames i drive her back to her place, she insists i stay over for the night she tears up as she exposits her deep-seated personal plight

i bring her a clump of tissues and pour out a cup of juice she listens to my brief advice and nods that what I say is true

her friends will disapprove, but she says for me she’d vouch she falls asleep in her own room as i pass out on the couch

she doesn’t realize that every one of the few things that i’ve said i’ve stolen from movies, or books, or cleverer peoples’ heads

my words come from lyrics by emotionally wrecked rock rebels the ones broken, maybe bright, with a reason to off themselves

she ain’t the first, and I know for certain that she won’t be the last broken ship on the shores of spiritual distress that I’ll ever pass

and like the boston harbour they always spill into me their tea feel better for a bit, at least long enough that they forget me

the diagnosis is rote, so many nights sat in empathic guise prescribe a low dose of philosophy and ample time to cry

the chronic cases i let them mold me like a man of plasticine make myself a voodoo doll for all their broken self-esteems

but i’m just a pastel painting in a dry spell i’ll crumble, break, wash away any day now

for the moment I’ll let them hang me in a gallery before I suffocate ‘cause I can’t breathe, ‘cause I’m merely an amalgam of society an image that’s flat that’s 2D and matte

of maybe some flowers or humans or sheep they’ll gather round me, praising how deep my mind must surely be, though really I’m merely what others make of me

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Dionysian Juvenilia

We are the lost children of the languished Drinking the dark of endless summer’s night Parading our selves in joyous anguish Carousing in pitch-black, laugh as our light

Feet pound an intoxicating heartbeat That shatter apart our manners and grace The cool air wicks away our sweat Moonlight envelops like mothers’ embrace

Orphaned by no one, as none remember Our names, ours faces, if ever they bloomed Spirits of the never-born Decembers Consumed by the heat of blossoming June

Pulled from reality, nooses ‘round necks Leaving corpses where we didn’t belong Abandoning form and limits in death To be one as aspects of wine and song

Free to live for no one but selves esteemed And vanish, heedless of those left behind Don’t pity, we don’t want those who blaspheme But you who find truth in our joy are our kind

So join us in dens of living lumber The woods of irrreverent revelry They’re ours alone ‘till the world unslumbers But with the sun comes fleshy devilry

Running with mirth on calloused heels We disappear to shadows, where we rest Day’s the domain of those who love and feel Our time is the hour of numb excess.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Journal Entry #138

I’ve never been particularly scared of dying. Life comes, it ends, and our default state for the majority of our existence is, ironically enough, non-existence. I like to think of my continued presence on this earth as a sort of vacation or sabbatical from the normal state of nothingness. Neither is it the inevitable grinding of my personal legacy into naught but dust, for all things return to dust eventually. I live for the moment, and the experience of the here and now, above all else.

No, the thing I fear is something else. It is the idea that, having lived a full and otherwise contented life, I yet left no impact on the personal, emotional core of any other individual’s reason for or purpose in living their own life. That I will pass through this existence like a neutrino through a stone, unwavering in my path yet moving nothing I encounter. Leaving no trace of my presence here, even in the present. It is this fear that drives me to create. To hone, and refine, and build, so that I may make something, whether once or in multitudes, that causes a real, meaningful, and lasting emotional imprint on the one who takes it in. And yet, equally, that fear lurks in everything I do create. It whispers in my ear that I lack the talent, or worse, the effort, to put to the world that untarnished mirror, whose reflection is so radiant it lodges into the very soul and being of those who peer into its glassy pool.

I’m terrified that I’ll fade into the endless event horizon of the forgotten past having never made anyone feel deep emotion, or dream, or be compelled to do or make something to rival what they themselves find meaningful. That my work is too dull, or derivative, or boring, or just plain bad to ever be more than cheap baubles and entertainment, never to rise to the title of art. The very idea that nobody will ever care about what I make is, possibly, my greatest enemy in creating anything in the first place. It doesn’t go away.

My goal is to create something that has meaning, to even just one person out there. For what I make to resonate with the frequencies of feeling and amplify that pure, unrestrained emotion. Have someone, anyone look at something I’ve made, and say to themselves, “I value this work,” or “this means something to me,” or “I see things differently”, or “I want to create something now”. To have passion and love, both for and inspired by something of my making.

I dream of this person, who sees a thing I’ve wrought from mind and soul, and is moved, not to tears or laughter, but to a moment of quiet contemplation after the experience. That the work is, by their passion, elevated from the background radiation of ennuic mediocrity that carries us through the everyday monotony of life. And just for a moment, they feel as if the world gently changes colour, or perhaps just shines a little brighter for a second.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

No Final Rest

A thousand fall, each alone in private partitions of mind Despite still-warm bodies scattered, ahead and behind As the crisp cracks of death abovehead are blurred By Death’s grasping hand, by wrathful war undeterred

And yet as each passes no pause of time or progression Occurs, despite every individual’s hope and intention No choir of cherubic saviors break the rain-laden clouds No end of the world when the heart of one stops its pound

We are not the be all or end all of this grand narrative Or any type of essential, unforgettable primary imperative We live, we breath, we die as but extensions of the planet A cycle of atoms that cares not if its stations are unmanned

Impermanent oblivion is, for all of us, unimaginable, unreckoned One would hope that for one the world would pause for a second But a corpse grows cherry trees as good as any other Even if the fruits drip red with blood of fallen brothers

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

The Last Day

The time of reckoning has come, With no fanfare or great conflagration Instead, a steady, heady malaise And an omen of desperate migration

The small hand of inevitable fate Rotates once more to attention Twenty-four left yet now remain Before a last predestined reinvention

A blur of frantic, panicked animation Now settles like leaves abruptly dropped by the wind To slowly flutter in agonized listlessness Unsure of when the moment of impact begins

And yet those final memories, which, frozen in mind Will shine with a beauty too bright for its design As though it holds no true prose or grand rhyme It’ll feel as if time slowed down for the sublime

Appreciation for both majesty and the modest Of every blade of grass, wrought from earthen furnaces And every passing sight will have stories inside Tangible in heart, though fleeting in mind

For only when we feel the fleeting nature of life Against our hearts, do we see those divine Sparks which fly from the forging of our futures Our final days, our final nights, we love for lost time

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Perhaps, A Finale

The things I love, time after time Are sipped away like summer wine By fate’s left hand, as Duty’s tines

Entomb the flushed palms of Desire And though in me still burns a fire It seems more like a funeral pyre

Unfueled, in cloying dark and gloom As my life wastes in shaded rooms And bleeds the ichor of my boons

For as the meal precedes dessert So too do seconds slip to first Requirements prior to requiem mirth

Leaving passions once priced high Dead on stones beneath the sky To leak their lifeblood till it dries

A act, most vital, yet awful still To end those things, which brought rare thrills So scarce in eras unfulfilled

Alas, that’s life’s meandering path Where times once bright do soon grow matte Sometimes a feast, sometimes a fast

I’ll gaze upon the dusk with sighs Though I hope and dream this is a lie For now, I say, goodnight, goodbye.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Hiatus.

Hi, all those who read this blog. It will be going on temporary hiatus for the indefinite future. It has been a pleasure to write these, and I hope they have brought joy to your days. I hope to see you again soon. Z.L

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Down Payment

Nothing comes without a cost. People say it all the time, but They always mean how everything That feels good now Will ache in the morning.

How all good things must, inevitably Come to a resounding, lowly end, Like an addict stripped of her heroin Or the wax being ripped from your back.

But it is just as true in the inverse, Where every great thing That eventually comes to be Must first suffer through The slings and arrows of ignominy.

There is no feeling of elation, Without the vertigo of being one step from failure. Nor triumph before the wounds of battle. No sense of summiting without the bite of cold Nipping through your boots.

The tight-stringed high of accomplishment, That release of joy and anticipation and hope, Is held taut by the limbs of tribulation, Without which there would be no euphoric bow.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Summit

My feet no longer ache; They have gone far past numb. I can only faintly feel my own locomotive proprioception. The howling wind picks up, but in this enemy I find hope. Its leadening presence signals hardship but briefly, Which will soon transmute into gold.

Gold. Golden rays of sun, finally embracing me After long, listless nights entombed by shade And all its brutal, heartless friends.

It illuminates the vast scene on either side A view fit for anyone with a heart attentive But granted to the few who, in their momentary appreciation Cannot but expend the effort to stare straight ahead.

The path, dusted with powered rime Untarnished by the gentlest of forces Every step a vindictive desecration Yet also an earnest embrace Of a path both literal and spiritual. And at the end, there is nothing. No temple of gods, or grand pearled gates Nor simply more rock to overcomes. There can be nothing. Not above the summit.

But though the cold stings like sharpened pins And neither my legs nor mind outrun my pulse I am, for but a moment, victorious. I have conquered myself, and in doing so, I have conquered a part of the world, and a part of time itself.

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Taboo

There’s something titillating about The mutilation of our mostly cherished mores Corruptions, not in slabs of silver But vestigial, venereal, and variably abhorred

Crass, perhaps, yet no less real In feeling which reels and surges as violent tides A fulcrum of buried emotions Which if given but the slightest spark will light

In searing, ecstatic pleasure-pain Like putting out a cigarette on one’s own skin Which marks ourselves degenerate As we intransigently cede to regenerative sin

Craving obscene illicit felicitations The kind we inhume unto our seed and wombs With cthonic, yonic, chronic ironicism That secretly we seek to secrete into our tombs

[writingsaboutzoomerism]

Autumn Flavours

The sweet scents of summer have passed Blown distant by an air of cool contempt Those honeyed notes of joyous hope Embittered by grounds bitter and discontent

And as much as I’ve tried to soak in it all The glistening, steaming, sun-baked days It’s salted by the stinging, aching anticipation That soon grey skies will fall and dim our rays

Optimists will say to sample feelings of fall The season in its pumpkin-spiced savour But all those lemon-lime tinted leaves In my mouth leave quite the sour flavour

There’s a bitter, acrid taste in the autumn Like drinking a cup of oversteeped tea The unshakable feeling of melancholia And the crumbling of my summer dreams