Hardcore and Emo

Well, the truth of the matter is…it all starts in a classroom. This is a place where I’m surrounded by noisy college students, first year.

I like to think that I’m the average student who enjoys to learn. To be more accurate I’d say that I enjoy the community in which learning takes place.

Anyway I hear an emo kid starts talking about blogging. Its just your normal conversation that you hear him say. He is horribly emo I hate to admit. He kinda reminds me of a teddy bear. Plump, friendly, open hearted…and wears earings!

He’s a decent enough guy, coming from a decent family, going to a decent college, but annoying me to no end. I gave into a dare (one thing a man shouldn’t do). And the result was a race to our cars and seeing who could get home and blog first.

He won. And it was months ago so I can’t really remember his blogs either, but I failed. I lost to an Emo.

The emo culture gets to me. Well, the main reason is because its a commercialised version of metal that borrows from punk and goth…becoming a black hole of feeling for your average mixed up teenager.

The other reason is the confusion. Due to the emotional quality of the music itself, I don’t think that emos really know where they stand in the first place. But how often is emo actually confused with emotion and not culture?

People all the time say to each other ’stop being so emo’ or ‘you’re an emo fag’ and everything along those lines. Well…what is the point? I would love some one to say to me, ’stop being so nu metal’ or ‘you’re a thrash addict’. Instead I heard my friend Jono…the Teddy Bear.

He’s also into the christian circle, which further limits his version of emo. To be honest, I don’t know him well enough to say whether he does have an emo collection of music or not.

After all he is a teddy bear that bounces around a lot, and can ‘get a bit too much’ sometimes…but at the end of the day you still want to hug him. (emotionally speaking that is, otherwise my heterosexual tendencies could be in question)

Jono reckons that he listens to hardcore metal/rock whatever you’d like to call it. Sometimes, with regards to the music industry I give up on names, due to the fact that after a while you forget who you’re talking about and just mention the category.

Anyway Jono…if you ever get to read this blog. I would probably say that you’re not an Emo at all. But most probably a Hardcore Emotional Teddy Bear.

PhilosopherPoet

Jugs are so cold

The jugs are so cold.

hard, with the scent of squeezed fruit.

Silver bodies

fold in.

 

The Oranges are

soft, and almost

too delicate for

my mouth.

I heard you

It is five o’clock, and I can hear your feet. They are crawling through nonsense, hiding behind the flecks of the morning’s eyelash. The coffee crumbles into the cup. The sugar stings my ears. I still feel your breath on the bed; it lies there massaged into my veins. I watch you, through my eyes’ crescent moons.

 

Your hand falls like a flower. The other stirs the table and skates through its memory. The milk-thin steam finds room in your face, your smile vigilant through the film. I watch you float on the nothing, I watch your hair. I want to fondle the piece on your nose (curled like a finger). You want nothing as the membrane light folds and unfolds. It breathes with your breath and flickers in your eyes.

 

You told me a story once of how you lost you loam brain in the shelves and bodies of books. Now I watch you do the same. You’re lost between blank blocks of light and supple time. There’s something about the emotional silence that holds your head up like a lovers fluid hand. You stroke it, slowly, fingering it in grains. Your hanger shoulders tilt and stir up in the chair, making you stand. You swim like a cat on your feet. Your presence pours through the room.

 

In the shower, you left me your shapes and your shades. The breath of a heavy cloud-kiss holds me. Your hands have smudged the tiles, blurring my windscreen thoughts. You voice gallops giddy in a delicate breath, leaving behind a crisp crinkle.

 

The voice touches, tumbles into towel. It rubs your skin, shading in your eyes and floating figure, between the silver-silk smoke. The towel swims over your breasts, around and into the ceramic curve of your back. It stops. You reach for the door, your hands around the cold clean handle then, you sneeze. A dandelion sneeze makes the clean air now clammy with a creative spray.

 

The door opens, and you walk to my bed where I am still lying. The mottled light tickles me face, hugging me like a child. You pull up next to me. Your figure is fresh, the smell sails through me.

 

You look at me. Your gaze pours into me like wine, followed by a recumbent smile and tender fingers. A soft smile ripples through me. I trace my hand to your lap. My fingers fold your legs into me. We lie there rooted in our thick smell and thrumming tenderness.

 

Your leg draped over me, leaves me to linger. All I hear is your threaded whisper and an ebbing breath.

“I could do this again,” you said.

Years away from sleep

Don’t call me

For I am footsteps away

Drinking in the sleep

Coated cream sheets

 

Stay where you are

There is no time for

Your feet to patter

On the old oak

Floors

 

I am footsteps and feet

Away from sleep

 

Tomorrow come give me

Your deep voice and

Sweaty whisper

I don’t feel old with my

Dream thick curls

And button eyes

 

Come back to the story

the night puppet

he frowns

drowns in sleep

his head fed by a string

it drapes the weather over him

 

he lies and watches

the moon

a confident polished shoe,

stares up

watches only what he can hold

 

the stage flames lick up like a carpet

(enough said)

the world begins

and under it the music

his thin arms and boy head

 

the first shuffle

then a clear thimble silence

echoes

 

touches

him

 

tells him

to come back to bed

abrupt

try to pick up thesubtleties

notion comma question

and comma with

a conceivable chainsaw

spilt it

ellipse bracket

I am only a

gooey baby, with

porridge lump brain

with block

ideas etcetera

wastefully pasted

on paper

sometimes i’d love

to say that comma quote

this book is more

yummy than a chewy sweet

unquote, for the words

put into print-paper shredded

lines say different period

Paragraph 4 Line 8 says

that your senses can only

prove, only your mind can

love and I lost the last

bit

thinking of chocolate

Close the door

Close the door

 

Come inside and close the window

The thick sun is still asleep.

I’m left to lie on aged sheets, that

I grasp in little mounds like children.

 

Come inside but don’t come too close,

I have a tender place I won’t want you

To touch.

I mask it with the reflections

in the window, watching me.

As strange as birds they hover in the

Sunlight, stirring my clammy head.

 

Come inside and feel the carpet

with your naked foot.

Your pink toes prickle, play,

Let go of the music.

 

I have a tender place to touch,

It feels warm as your hand, soft

As your duvet face. I want you

To hold it like the pillow’s shoulder

You cry on

 

Come inside here, close the door.

Feel my creases, come under my lamplight

I’ll tuck you in close to me, where you

Can lie in the shade of my tender place

Swim in the old ripples of my heart

 

The long light touches

the tips of your lips

you are too supple

to touch.

Greetings Lunatics!

*May The Muse and Plato Juice Be With You*

This is the blog of philosopherpoet. Anyone is free to comment. I see myself as a hunter of images. More to the point I’m more of the poet than philosopher at this stage, but philosophy has been an interest of mine, so in the future…who knows… I’ll be adding more philosophy into the blog with time. For now this is a platform for me to publish my writing.

So enjoy the site, and feel free to email me, for extra feedback

> madpoet19@gmail.com

So long thinkers and Aristotlians…

PhilosopherPoet