The Contrast

The Contrast
Lift Big, Sing Big, Look Great Doing It.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Past Poetry

The following is a small collection of poems and writings that I had written on my phone over the past year of owning this beautiful piece of technology. Like I've said before, I write these very passively with little to no edits, just the occasional correction to be made due to hasty writing and not observing grammatical necessities.

I have a few more on my phone that I'm sure I will release eventually, but for now, enjoy these minor musings and peek into the absurdity that is Ol' Yeargain.

This first one I wrote while in between orders on my delivery job, which I have not worked for in a while due to increased singing jobs and one beat up vehicle. I found it quite amusing reading back on these words.



- Here We go...

 

How many people hate me?


I wonder how many people hate me. But not the real hate. The kind of hate that comes from casual interaction. The kind of hate that one bestows upon The absent-minded driver Who forgets the turn signal, or the lady who chews too loudly at lunch, or the delivery man who unknowingly brings a bag of disappointment to your home. 

Some customers I service glance at me with suspecting eyes, their mouths crinkled with slight disgust as they search their food for fault and validation of their suspicion. Me: The face of professionalism and customer service, often un-groomed, tired, bearing a jealousy in my heart for the very melted meat and cheese blend that I deprive myself that they will eat. I wait patiently for their verdict. Sometimes they wave me on, assuming that everything is in order with their order and in order to get to their meal swiftly they take the route of assumption. 

It's these customers whom I wonder about. How many of them chew bitterly at their dry chips, cursing my station while pondering audibly about my intelligence. How could I have known that they wanted extra salsa? Their aggression towards my employment showing up passively in big bold letters on their order for the following week: NEEDS EXTRA SALSA!!!!! 




This next poem is short and sweet and really calls myself out about how self serving I am with this writing nonsense. Self observation is the best solution for a quick laugh.




Poetry


I pontificate poetry as if it were an essence of my existence, my tongue too bound by modern conventions to display my worth with spoken English, so I must fabricate awkward and foolish symmetry in written word. 

But somehow my folly tackles not the bread and water of life, but dances on the over embellished subjects that kiss our mouths and cling to our arms. As if my asinine contributions to the ceaseless stream of self serving subjects of simpletons was the sun shine sought to skewer away their starry skies. 

No, the Dick and hand are one in thought and rhyme, serving both in poetry and masturbation. The two being the same, the way in which you view these activities being the mark of your character. 





I'm not gonna give any context to this next one. I think I start off most of these writings with one idea in my head and it almost always turns into something much more enjoyable. I often can't take myself too seriously for too long. Reading it again has given me a damn good laugh. 

 

 

 

The Beds of Others


There is something about a woman's bed. Well preserved, inviting, sensual. So god damn soft. Perhaps the implications rise to the surface so viscerally that they become physical pillows of promiscuity, bathed in the scent of sex. This siren calling you to the rocks convincing you their jagged edges will smooth troubled muscle and tendon. 

It has to be the company the bed keeps that gives it such allure. The bed without the woman would simply just be a bed, it is the decorative topping of female that gives the cake it's icing. But there must be something more. Something about the way a bed hugs a woman, that it somehow forgets to do when bearing the weight of a man. Is it a learned behavior? Or does the bed simply love the woman more? Why shouldn't it? She carefully makes The bed every morning, as if to thank it for its gift of sleep. Praising the bed, worshiping it's very existence, sacrificing precious time to insure The relationship is fostered well. The man Rolls off of it aggressively, as if to say "thanks for the good times, heres 20 bucks for a cab ride." Returning to it late at night, aggressively plopping down upon it. 

Or in juxtaposition, The man treats the bed like an old marriage, one where the man is wildly unfaithful. To the point where even when he is in his bed, he thinks about the beds of others, how much more comfortable they are, how their Tempur-pedic pillow tops would feel on his back. All the while, his bed underneath him becomes more and more depressed. Letting itself go with such self loathing. Lumpy hills forming along its surface.

"No, the Dick and hand are one in thought and rhyme, serving both in poetry and masturbation. The two being the same, the way in which you view these activities being the mark of your character."

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