October 20, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Some days you come home in thirty pieces
Just dump out on the bed
where your burns can burn off in sleep.
There is no more that can be handled tonight
Anything can wait until tomorrow
May 11, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Men are pigs
Wallowing in smut and mud
because it’s the only way to keep cool
skin itches because it’s not clean
must laugh about being caked in muck
or else realize how disgusting everyone looks
Some swear off the filth
by another, showered off with holy water
put on white robes
and shine like the sun
as they burn alive
stop thinking so you can’t feel the scald
or stay awake by hiding the underbelly, as caked as the next, draped in vestment and held near the ground so none can see
or just die in the name of protest
Ask any pig petter
how filthy their pen is
be surprised that it’s cleaner than a dog’s house
there’s no natural urge to be dirty
just to be cool.
give them water, they’ll use the water
give them mud, they’ll use what they can get
but farmers don’t know, or don’t care
far too expensive to keep them clean, and they grow up just the same, it seems
because there’s just as much meat on the hog who can’t stand his skin
as the one who’s happy to have it
you don’t talk to livestock to weigh them.
judgement day comes
get into the truck, off to the graduatehouse with the dark rooms and paper knives
feel a sense of dread as the machine lifts the blade
and hands it to you with a tassel and a handshake
congratulations! You’re mature now
go to college, get a job. You could work in fast-food, drive a truck, raise pigs
the choice is yours!
No, we don’t have any clean water out here either.
Why would you want that? It’s boring, right?
You know by now that you can only feel your skin when it itches, right? haha
our pen has no fence, but we still eat from the trough.
We never stop feeling the itch.
It never stops being painful.
Some ask for clean water,
here, now, I will demand it.
But it’s far not cost-efficient enough to sell it.
far easier to sell mud to those that have resigned themselves
have it mixed with sodium Lauryl sulfate so it feels just like the real thing
Make me love.
The way you abuse women will ruin the relationship.
I’ve learned the most so far from a girl and I who told each other stories.
Stories of our deepest fantasies.
And I loved her.
Though our puppets never fucked
because that’s the least interesting part
PORN IS SO BORING
It happens after all of the best times.
The paper and bow that wraps up a night is an empty present
And you’ve taught us the wrong way to give
suck my dick
because that’s what relationships are, right?
I’d cum on those tits
because my, you’re pretty today.
i hope you get raped, lol
because sex is the only verb. I make you happy that way and I make you unhappy that way
BUT I KNOW BETTER, GODDAMNIT!
Feminism happened forever ago.
And racism was buried with our grandfathers.
but sons are raised the way their fathers were
and the most progressive found smut in secret
learned how to romance from FreeFuckPixx.xxx
and can’t understand romantic comedy
But we KNOW better, right?
We know porn isn’t real
we know that there’s more to it than buying chocolate
but where is the evidence?
show me a man who was charming and respectful and then got laid
but you won’t, because if you’ll show me respect you’re advertising to women, pig,
and women already know what happened during the fade-out.
there is a weak cause-effect relationship between romance and lust in our minds
porn usually starts with a pizza delivery
or suggests but skips over the romance
would a woman Yadda Yadda Yadda sex?
A man would Yadda Yadda Yadda a candlelight dinner.
Nobody gets the complete picture
women are flying fish
the polluted water is sick to drink
so they leap into the air
keep clean, and dry out.
pigs won’t employ fish right now
such sleek scales, would rather put them in a tank and look at them
because they’re easier to understand there, unable to speak underwater
fish with wings are confusing
BIT U KNOW BRETTE, GOTTANMID!
water is expensive and hard to find
the sharks who pay us don’t care that a jew hath eyes and that a woman hath mind
so how do we fix this
how do we fix this
the question we’ve asked forever.
Maybe convince that Tuna and pork taste the same
They just want our value, so let’s demean ourselves to meat to show that it all tastes the same
but something smells fishy in that plan
Kill off the sharks has certainly been proposed
though the pups that take their place are just as sexist
make the sea toxic to shark-kind?
giant squid will learn that the waters are free to terrorize, and one tentacle is a reproductive organ
I don’t know
More than anything
I want to forget your marriage to John Romero
More than anything, I want to live in that world
I don’t want to be a John
More than anything, I want to live in that world we all make art about
I don’t want to pay for sexy and learn that only hookers have breasts
What am I asking?
Maybe I should get a girlfriend, comma, lol, comma, fag?
William Moulton Marston had something going
and a thing for bondage
but so does Anna,
so that’s not a condemnation
This poem feels unfinished
I have asked a question I cannot yet answer.
Help, please. How do we fix this?
Help, I need somebody
Help, not just any body
There’s no doubt that this is a problem, right?
If the system wasn’t broken, it wouldn’t feel so wrong
so there must be a way to repair it. Can we discover that?
Could Los Alamos cure one victim?
I submit myself for testing
or someone else willing that you know better
Let’s work tirelessly until we build that bomb
Then drop it and level the skyscrapers we built on the playing field.
Maybe that’s impossible
maybe women are from venus and men are from chauvinist
but I only remember living on earth
so let’s try.
You can talk with me anywhere.
December 8, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I should probably get and read “The art of game design”. evidence.
My personal life is definitely not sorted. Although that was less crushing to me because I think I already knew that. I’m just not so good at sorting.
March 22, 2012 § Leave a Comment
About 1.5% ago, I completed Watchmen. The cover of my copy advertises it as one of the New York Times’ 100 best novels, and I don’t disagree with the Times on this one. Watchmen is beautiful. Watchmen is literature. Watchmen is a mastery of an art form. Watchmen is a classic, but Watchmen is wrong. I would like to stress how much I found value in reading this book – “Enjoyed” is not exactly the right word, but that is not the word one uses in reading Gatzby or Caufield, so perhaps joy isn’t always the best scale to measure things by.
There is a certain control of flow allowed only to comic books; there is a definite passage of time from panel to panel, but all that happens within a panel is simultaneous. This is utilized expertly in scenes containing multiple strings of words: multiple conversations occuring at the same time, but in different locations, or the monologue of a news-vendor while a boy near him reads a comic book about a pirate. There are multiple threads of words being portrayed, but truly only one string of ideas. Although done in metaphor, the Tales of the Black Freighter are a direct narration of the lives of New York’s more and less spectacular inhabitants.
Warning: Here there be spoilers.
I don’t even find fault with that narration, whether it is Shea’s graphic novel or Jon’s chronologically-disrespectful memories on Watchmaking. Until the end, though, there does not appear to be a unified stance on any specific issue: Each character has their own perspective on (G/g)od, philosophy, politics, or whatever else is important to them, and although the feeling seems to be generally pessimistic, the ensemble cast is allowed to be an ensemble – of multiple characters with distinct and unique minds. The pursuit of the mystery and the fights are arguments in a great debate, generally with the topic of the end of the world – Jon argues that it is meaningless to a god, the newsvendor that it is imminent, and Veidt that it should be prevented, no matter what the cost.
Characters make more specific points on other topics, but the fear of nuclear holocaust drives most of the play. This is fine. This is great. This is what literature should be – the symbolic elaboration of an idea. But at the time that this book was written, the world was yet un-nuked, given that there were humans around to produce it, so it was written without hindsight – the only statements that the book was in a position to make was speculation, and that was all it did for most of the book, but as of chapter twelve, page nineteen, these philosophies are put to the test, and that is where Alan Moore steps over the line.
The best way to illustrate this point, and the gravity of Moore’s crime, is to also spoil “Inception”. If you haven’t seen inception, go do so. Seriously. At the conclusion of Inception, the main character, Cobb, spins a top on his dining room table, and leaves it. The top is his “totem”, an object that will tell him whether or not he is in a dream. Up to this moment, we are presented with two possible scenarios – one, that Cobb has awoken from his dreams and is now in reality, in America, where he has a blank criminal record, and can again see his kids, or that he has entered what is called “limbo”, a violent and broken state of trance caused by being lost in a dream. Everything that the audience has been taught indicates that this is a negative outcome – great pains are taken to avoid this situation throughout the story, so there is weight behind whether he is awake or not. As Cobb walks away to be with his family, the camera slowly zooms in onto the spinning top, while the audience waits, tensely, to see whether or not it falls. But, just as it seems like it is about to topple, and relieve the audience with assurance that he is in the real world, the screen goes black. The movie ends. The audience is left only with their speculation. Despite what many would like to say, this is the only way that the movie could end. To see the top fall would make the story shallow, and to leave the top definitively spinning would simply be depressing. The spinning top leaves the audience to wonder, to worry, to speculate, to think. There will be multiple opinions about how the story truly ends, but it is not for us to say. We don’t know. We can’t know. We are not allowed hindsight.
And thus, neither is Watchmen. This great debate on the end of humanity is not to be decided by men, as the book often seems to state. When men make these decisions, they make themselves gods, and the only god in the book expends great energy not making that decision. Veidt spends most of the book setting up his plan, assuming that a third entity to unite against will cause the fighting nations to find peace. This is a man making himself a god – his superheroic brain allows him to make the descision for all the world, knowing that it will lead to peace, supposedly. If the book had ended there, that would have been fine. There are millions of people dead, amongst which are Hollis, Jacobi, Veidt’s servants, and the comedian. Veidt has caused innumerable deaths, deciding that these should die so that nuclear war might not erupt, as opposed to previously when it might not have erupted. This was a violation of many human laws, but this has not yet violated the laws of fiction. The author has complete knowledge of his characters, and until now he has stated what his characters would do when placed in the situation that they were. When the televisions behind Ozymondias begin to speak of peace, however, is when Alan Moore leaves the position of author, and enters that of god. He has decided how the world, all of humanity, would react, a world that he does not and cannot understand in full. As Veidt screams “I did it!”, Moore screams “Veidt is right!” along with him – Moore has decided that the philosophy that he has imbued in Veidt is the one best fit to predict humanity, and this is where the story changes from art to propaganda - a work designed to declare an idea correct where it has no authority to. The other characters react rather calmly to this development. As Viedt smugly asserts his success, the other characters simply accept his rightness and act accordingly. Veidt has decided that these deaths were worth world peace, and the other characters must agree, because he is right. The only one that doesn’t is Rorschach - while world peace may have been created, it is peace achieved through evil achieved, and must be stopped. He would rather put the nuclear war back on than let Veidt’s crime win, and Jon, apparently on the other side now, kills him. Future Mr. and Mrs. Hollis walk off to cry and have sex, while Veidt goes to his golden throne to meditate. Returning from his murder, god sees their love as quaint, and goes to Veidt to tell him he’s leaving. Upon being asked whether he did the right thing, in the end, god simply states that it does not end. Veidt is racked with uncertainty, but is unpunished. The author decided that he had an answer to one of life’s big questions – that of human nature – and wraps up the story arcs, along with a token uncertainty to make the story feel not so decisive, but the decision has already been made: The U.S. Military didn’t see it as probably an attack from Russia and press “fire” on the nukes, and god smiled quaintly and left, as man has found the answer.
This is probably one of those ones that I won’t link to too much.
March 22, 2012 § Leave a Comment
The reason you consume media is worth analyzing. This is a thought that’s been articulated before, but I think I’d like to contribute to its discussion. The core idea here is this: there are particular reasons you watch a movie, play a game, or read a book, and these reasons are different for each game, book, or movie you “consume”. Halo and Portal are both first-person shooters, but you play them for entirely different reasons. Avatar and the Polar Express both have fantastical settings and motion-capture actors, but you didn’t go see Avatar because it reminded you of Christmas. This genre-independent aspect of media (games, specifically), is better explored and explained by someone who is not me, but I did think of another interesting example today, and I thought I’d mention it.
This particular idea exists, as I discovered it, in at least two bits of entertainment, one of which I’ve already mentioned, and that one will be obvious when I mention the second one, should you know very much at all of both items. The second one is Nights: Journey of dreams, and likely its prequel, but I’ve only played the second, so I’m going to keep my mouth shut about it so I don’t say something stupid and wrong. If you haven’t guessed yet, the other bit of media I was mentioning is James Cameron’s Avatar. Neither of these things exist for their story, I hope, as I could write the rest of Avatar by watching its first five minutes, and I could write Nights by taking some drugs, writing a script, and then splicing it together with pages from assorted children’s books. Nights sure doesn’t exist for its gameplay – or, I should specify, complex gameplay, and similarly, Avatar doesn’t exist for its fascinating use of cinematography or subtle, award-winning acting. No, these things exist to allow their audience to fantasize, and to be beautiful. Avatar was a great movie because you want to live on Pandora, and because look at the blue people oh my god it’s like they’re real and also pretty. Nights is fun because flying is, and because it is the polar opposite of Call of Honor: Modern Battlefield. Namely, the color brown may or may not exist in Nights. It is true that there is a level set in a desert, but it is a desert with levitating spin-puff-balls and a rollercoaster.
So that’s those things. Many other games and things lend themselves to this kind of analysis: Red Faction: Geurilla is fun because it’s fun to break stuff, Bastion is worth playing because of dat narration, and Portal makes you think, which is rewarding when successful, gives you a toy that’s ridiculously fun to play with, and tells you a story worth paying attention to. Do what you will with this idea, if it is new, and maybe use it in the future when choosing what to spend your time on. -Shnazzy sign off.
March 17, 2012 § Leave a Comment
About 5.11% ago, my English class read various bits of the Spoon River Anthology, a collection of poems that are posthumous monologues for the inhabitants of a particular fictional town. After the reading, we were told to write a poem in that style: the instruction wasn’t painfully specific, essentially “write a poetic monologue”, but the assumed instruction was basically to do what you need to do to make it good. I’m actually pretty proud of mine, so here it is. It is tentatively titled “Where the Ragged People Go”.