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two pieces

Tonight was a fun night. More on that in another entry. I’m going to get about 2 hours of sleep. Heading off to Johor for a day trip, going to be setting off at about 5-ish.

01: fragments of “the waste land” cut up as by burroughs

even silence in the mountains
but always beside you?
when I count, stony places,
the shouting and the rock.
  and also water
  and water,
  a spring.
  a pool cannot spit.
here one can hear over distant mountains
he who was water.
he who is the third who walks where the hermit-thrush sings in the dry sterile thunder without rain—patience,
here is no water but only the gardens
after the agony of the cicada
and dry grass singing:
  “water,
  and no rock!
  if the living is now dead,
  we who were are?”
there is not even solitude in the pine trees:
  drip drop drip drop
  crying.
prison and plaace and only water amongst the rock,
dead after the torchlight,
red on sweat,
but there is no gliding wrapped in the brown mantle
of a woman—but who is that on the rock?
rock and no water and drink amongst the rock one cannot,
  not among the mountains
  which sneer and snarl
  from doors of mudcracked houses.
if there were stop or think,
sweat is dry and the mountain mouth of carious teeth on other side of you?
he had been two—there are only you and I, hooded.
I do not know whether a man, sound of water only,
not the reverberation
of thunder of spring mountains
but red sullen faces don’t stand nor lie nor sit.
  there are no faces
  after the frosty silence in there was water we should stop,
  and mountains of rock without water
  if the living are now dying
  with little together.
but when I look ahead up among the rock,
there is another one walking beside you
for months in minneapolis, and his chief struggle had been concealing his form.
  but the sound of water over a rock,
  the white road—
  there is always a sandy road.
the road winding above, many feet are in the sand,
  if they were.

02: three men, between the ages of 18 and 24, sitting together on a wednesday night.

Sitting down on some steps outside Sunway Pyramid at 10pm on a Wendesday night, waiting for friends to finish watching a movie.
Nothing to do but look at the chicks passing by (heading towards a bar or something), nothing to do but look at the ever-changing lights—red then blue then green then whatever else—above the entrance to Sunway Lagoon.
One of them says:
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we had some girls with us?”
The other two agree.
And they continue looking at the lights.

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Categories: prose and poetry
  1. peachdrug
    May 15, 2008 at 14:58

    I prefer the first. I know that the repetition of rock actually stress on it more, but maybe it’s the sound of the repetition ruins it for me. But my type of poetry is different so…

  2. azzief
    May 15, 2008 at 22:00

    The only real reason I put the poem up is because there’s something delightfully odd I like about it. It’s pretty much 90% random. Aleatoric poetry indeed.

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