Finals Week Soliloquy

Standard

We considered our mission operations plan

To eliminate interference from the bright daytime sky and the ground beneath our feet

Taking advantage of our grasp on object permanence

We’d run the gamut of childhood tropes

Across the hedonic treadmill.

 

La frontière entre poésie et musique etait permeable, et quand on la traversait

On sacrifiait le rythme

Dans l’euphorie de l’après-guerre.

At different timescales we found that

Human psychology is a photoshop filter that colors the picture with predisposed thoughts and erases objectivity from view.

A friend is everybody,

Or a powerful enemy who

Parachutes gently down to the surface

On one-size-fits-all morality.

 

Finally

I found the corporeal spirit, the bodily non-body

A predicate without a subject

With properties of Galilean satellites

Like an electron around an intangible nucleus:

An object with like sensible qualities to a marzipan duckling.

 

My train of thought derailed into the stream of consciousness

Except for

A few paperclips at orbital velocity

And an intolerance for meaninglessness.

 

Il y avait le squelette d’une chat entre plafond et plancher

Et une branche plus specifique de chanson réaliste.

A symbiotic coexistent relationship between word and definition was

The exact consistency of crème brûlée.

A thousand plagues on empirical science

Farmed out to a fiction factory

To be harvested by

Unicorns with unusually long necks.

Les questions semblent plus folle, moins philosophique

But we were consumed by the thought that

No one can stop the title of “supremely perfect” from being bestowed upon a taco.

 

Heroes never laugh in excess

Mais la nouvelle idole, c’est l’anti-idole.

A perpetual analemma,

A circuit rather than a destination.

 

Unable to explain in words exactly how language limits our thoughts,

I shouted

“I am the venti latte extremist—

Ma vie est plombée par des acteurs qui en rajoutent dans le chromo, la guimauve, l’expressionisme larmoyent et qui me disent

Des choses importantes… ou des choses pas importantes.”

 

Everyone who took even a sip of the chocolate milk lost the ability to love.

 

(This poem was written by taking lines out of my notes and stitching them into a semi-cohesive whole. It’s reflective of the state of my mind right now.)

Advertisements

Comment on this...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s