Zeno Antonius
Bio
a rider on the storm
Stories (5/0)
I Have Just Found This Prose Beat Poem! This Is a Decade Old!
My mind is a highly inhospitable place for a soul like mine. My entire existence is just one flawed chemical imbalance. A bipolar one at that. To say I was a psychopath would be incorrect. I feel empathy, but not for myself. Not for me. The lights are on but nobody’s home, actually it changes, sometimes the lights are off but somebody is home. A crazy man running around in the darkness in his underwear with a blender, throwing random objects in, his grandma’s ashes, tampons, regular mail, all the norms of daily life being construed into a single inanimate object, the man proceeds to drink it, projectile vomiting the averageness of life all over the bathroom mirror. There’s a knock at the door, the lights turn on and the man is gone. Routines. Routines. Routines. Without routines where would be? Well routines are responsible for my trip off the mountain off sanity. The same thing every day, every second of my life. My room is bright orange. I’m not entirely sure why; I think I read in one of those ‘positive impact’ life magazines that the colour of your room can cause great mood changing vibes. Waking up to a bright colour will change your day for the better. That’s bullshit. I feel like I’m constantly being highlighted. That my 10 metre squared bedroom room is part of a government plot. Or that my whole life is just a test by some sick twisted fuck of a God to wreak havoc and enjoy the pure entertainment of a man slowly lose his mind and there’s not a single thing I could do about it. It took me a while to figure out this fact and I assure you to stick by it. Don’t take anything personal, no-one is out to get you, you’re not important enough and neither is anybody else. Bad luck is as bad luck does. The last year of my life has been without a doubt surreal. Some sort of a dream but yet I feel more alive than ever. The brittle fragility of life only has one cure; don’t step around it, just run straight into it, destroy it. Who the fuck cares about winning an egg and spoon race anyhow. Out of the blue and into the black.
By Zeno Antonius7 years ago in Poets
The Magic of Words
Words. They are the medium by which we relate reality; a currency of intuition and thought. Toward lexiconical pools we cast our poles of cognition, weaving from our bounty elaborate tapestries of self reflection. To the spiritualist, words are aether made form. To the reductionist, words are impulse made vibration. Perhaps the beauty of words lies in the fact that they posses the power to relay intent, thus reassuring guru and scientist alike that we are not alone in the dark and infinite cosmos. Words reassure us that our senses do not lie. Remember a time when you basked in a cerulean pool under the soft light of a full moon? If you can not, make a note to do so; it produces a holistically pleasurable warmness. Remember a time when you exchanged glaces with your love? Such euphoria and understanding can not be properly expressed without metaphor. To sate our dire need of relation we cast our poles out yet again, for senses are meaningless if we can not make sense of them. Every word we use references each of its predecessors and provides context for each of its ancestors in the continuous dance of discourse by which we mediate experience.
By Zeno Antonius7 years ago in Poets