poetry spectacles

I’m kind of emotional about Magnus Burnsides the Mannequin’s last stand? That’s cinematic that is. “Do you need to water to breathe?” The Voidfish rises up with him with a sung denial, so with one mighty swing of his axe - not enchanted Railsplitter but his old axe, maybe as old as his memories of the planet with the purple sky and two suns, haft and blade each replaced a dozen times but still at heart the same axe he learned to swing as a boy - Magnus the mannequin DESTROYS the tank. The wave of water blasts out, wrecks the Hunger’s more robotic minions in a cloud of water and sparks, and knocks back the rest. They converge again, of course, ignoring for the moment the Voidfish in favor of their old foe, in a weaker, more wooden form than usual - but do you think they know that axe? Do you think something, that was smiling in that bright-streaked cloud of darkness with a thousand raging, starving eyes, remembers that swing, that deadly slice, that roar of battle fury as the protector stands once more over the body of a friend and innocent, a creator, and strikes until he can strike no more at those who would destroy.

And in another moment, he’ll rise again, in a better, more familiar body with a less familiar but almost infinitely more badass weapon. Oh, how it must drive the Hunger mad how these seven twittering nuisances never stay down.

I breakdown in the middle of the day every time I see something brown because it reminds me of your eyes. I can’t look at any one who wears flannel because it reminds me of you and your favorite flannel shirt. I can’t look at my camera and click pictures because my love for photography was inspired by your passion for it. I can’t talk about the universe or dark matter or sky or anything celestial because they were the topics that I only talked with you. Every time I see a person with spectacles, I can’t help but remember that I’ve only seen you once without yours and even that memory is hazy. Every time my mother drags me to a temple or someone asks me to pray for them, I can’t because you took away that faith in God and replaced it with rational thinking. Every time a guy talks to me I can’t help but compare it with the conversations I had with you at midnight.
—  i wish you didn’t affect me like this but you do and i wish you were more then my friend but you aren’t // JustScribbledWords

// MOON //

It’s true.

I’m having an affair with the moon.

we’re both planning to take over the sky,

extinguish the sun and have the stars bow before us and

drown the world with a darkness so beautiful,

no one will miss the warm rays that lit up all those imperfections and horrors.

The clouds will be forbidden to let the rain bring any memories of heartbreak,

and if you’re afraid to step outside a star will guide you and grant all the wishes your heart craves.

Our love will be kept in eternity on the words of the poets that in awe try to comprehend such spectacle.

keyrots

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keyrots replied to your post: …

sure, why not

My interpretation (which could easily be way off the mark because I’m not that intellectual):

Spectacular consumption preserves a coalesced history of culture, including the restored repetition of culture’s negative aspects. Spectacular consumption becomes within the culture sector of society what it is in totality: the communication of the incommunicable. The flagrant destruction of language is acknowledged by the spectacle as a positive value, because the point of language destruction is to advertise acceptance of the status quo, which is where all communication is joyously proclaimed absent, to keep knowledge and consciousness censored. The critical truth of this destruction is hidden, since the spectacle’s function is to make sure that culture is not historically conscious or aware of itself. The spectacle applies poetry and art to itself to make sure the truth is hidden. So a school of neo-literature, which contemplates words for words’ sake rather than history or knowledge, can present itself as something new without realizing it has a history. Besides the proclamatio of the beauty of the destruction of/lack of communication, the most modern aspect of the spectacular culture (and the one most closely linked to the repressive practice of organizing society) tries to enforce a team project to make a complex neo-artistic environment made up of decomposed, individual elements. This is notable in urbanism’s attempt to integrate artist debris, like corporate-commissioned sculptures without history or critique, or esthetico-technical hybrids, like huge screens or “artistic” advertisements. This level of spectacular pseudo-culture shows that developed capitalism’s project aims to recapture the fragmented, isolated worker as a “personality well integrated in the group.” This project to restructure the idea of “community” without community is everywhere.

They told you empathy meant seeing through someone else’s eyes
So you carved yours out of your skull
Years later,
You’re still waiting for someone to find them and look after you
But that’s not how it works
Sooner or later, everybody wants their eyes back
So they can look after themselves
Everybody but you–and now you’re blind
But all you have to do is put your eyes back in
Here they are
I saw them on the ground and kept them safe for you
—  The Spectacles At Your Feet