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As recommended by a friend, I made a poem out of the things my voices have said that I've been writing in my journal, one line with each entry. I used all of their quotes (except for whatever one I'm going to write at the end of this post!), and gave each quote its own line. I didn't leave even a word out. I arranged them in the order that suited me, and altered punctuation accordingly. Then, they neatly divided up into scores of five lines each. I noticed that I have been doing this "Music" field recording exercise for Ten Days. So, that is the title of the poem. It feels kinda' wrong shifting their words around, and very wrong to claim to have written it myself. I feel like I'm plagiarizing. Or like I'm selling a recording of my neighbor's conversation. This is bringing to my attention how seperate and outside the voices are from me. So please, don't think of this as my poem. But maybe you can learn a little bit about me from it? Whatever, it was a fun thing to do, I think.
"Rocks, locks, talks, shocks, mocks!"
Unintelligible? You've got to be joking, asshole!
Rah ta da, look to the sun!
Fire up unknown planes of existence,
Arterial runways to the heart.
You'd better move it, before it's too late!
Rash feelings never high forever.
Mischief finds what mischief you do, fucking uniformly.
Intermittent anyrism, don't you know?
Change the arduous task before it is done!
Your nature is apriotic, through your snide superiority!
Outrageous financial expiration is near!
Soul crushing feat of science will bind your flesh,
In charge of unreal weapons, unlike the true master.
An infantry at your door, a stranger at your back. Hide yourself. The time is near!
Artificial retrograde is ultimately upon you,
Undone mischief inside your trashy self.
Why won't you fucking die? The sky won't melt, I promise!
Instant gratification is what you recieve for incessant whining!
Naughty temples! Wouldn't want to eat unfortunate pain, would they?
Arch your back as blood pours down your spine.
Actually, the skin is deeper than you think.
A glib interpretation of events shall cease to wonder, presently.
You need to bleed, you need to burn, you need to die.
Undue autopsy ridden with holes,
A stickler for tradition is not inflated but dead.
In actuality, it never so much as found him until midnight.
Attack ancient sepulchre to release the mind.
Interned forever in sycophantic complacency.