supstuff (supstuff) wrote,
@ 2008-04-17 01:30:00

Best Short Story or Poem

Best Short Story or Poem:

keyblade

The falsification principle,
that’s what it is.
It’s a classic case of via negativa,
when you don’t think
therefore you ain’t,
and when you do think it’s just a mess.
An endless spiral of mindless drivel,
like the rain falling down on the teenage sweethearts,
sat in a taxi on their way home
from another classic case of dancefloor infidelity.

This is the dream what we are living, after all.
This is the end we all work hard for, after all.

And it’s an end that just don’t justify the means,
as they say.
Where’s the halo? The sunshine?
The onslaught of primitive satisfaction,
like what those men got,
banging their sticks round the totem poles,
unwittingly giving birth to Freud’s own brand
of psychopathic psychology.
Is this all there is to fight for?
A few words on a paper scraping, a pretentious
shout out to a generation of junkies and hardcore ignorance?

This is the dream what we die for, we say.
This is the only chance we get to sing, after all.

But who’s singing? Pass me the megaphone and I’ll
SCREAM it at you.
We’ll take it back to the primal horde and discuss it man to man.
We’ll do it using negatives, so as not to discourage
the disheartened amongst us.
We ain’t nothing but the future, love!
We ain’t exclusive, we’re just one of a kind.

There’s nothing here but eyeballs.
Arms.
Teeth.
Hooks, talons, claws, wings, tiger stripes.
Show us your warpaint
so I can show you the door?

‘We ain’t pretty, we’re f***in’ gorgeous mate!’
Painful, but this is how we communicate.
No. Never. Can’t. Won’t. Forget about it.
There’s gotta be negatives, else you wouldn’t be able
to tell which bits were positive.
And no this ain’t colloquial, it’s just common knowledge.

You are the dream I’m living, after all.
But you ain’t the end I work for
and I’m not no end in myself.
I’m just the river through which all else flows.
And when I branch off into my estuaries and end up in
the sea,
I’ll glance back over my shoulder,
pick your face out from the crowd,
wave the flag of a dying civilisation
and say
‘Nah, never knew him mate’.

And you’ll say that this is the end you worked for, after all.
And they’ll make me a national holiday.

To steal this superlative:

<lj-cut text="STEAL: Best Short Story or Poem">
Username:
Short story or poem:

vs.

keyblade

The falsification principle,
that’s what it is.
It’s a classic case of via negativa,
when you don’t think
therefore you ain’t,
and when you do think it’s just a mess.
An endless spiral of mindless drivel,
like the rain falling down on the teenage sweethearts,
sat in a taxi on their way home
from another classic case of dancefloor infidelity.

This is the dream what we are living, after all.
This is the end we all work hard for, after all.

And it’s an end that just don’t justify the means,
as they say.
Where’s the halo? The sunshine?
The onslaught of primitive satisfaction,
like what those men got,
banging their sticks round the totem poles,
unwittingly giving birth to Freud’s own brand
of psychopathic psychology.
Is this all there is to fight for?
A few words on a paper scraping, a pretentious
shout out to a generation of junkies and hardcore ignorance?

This is the dream what we die for, we say.
This is the only chance we get to sing, after all.

But who’s singing? Pass me the megaphone and I’ll
SCREAM it at you.
We’ll take it back to the primal horde and discuss it man to man.
We’ll do it using negatives, so as not to discourage
the disheartened amongst us.
We ain’t nothing but the future, love!
We ain’t exclusive, we’re just one of a kind.

There’s nothing here but eyeballs.
Arms.
Teeth.
Hooks, talons, claws, wings, tiger stripes.
Show us your warpaint
so I can show you the door?

‘We ain’t pretty, we’re f***in’ gorgeous mate!’
Painful, but this is how we communicate.
No. Never. Can’t. Won’t. Forget about it.
There’s gotta be negatives, else you wouldn’t be able
to tell which bits were positive.
And no this ain’t colloquial, it’s just common knowledge.

You are the dream I’m living, after all.
But you ain’t the end I work for
and I’m not no end in myself.
I’m just the river through which all else flows.
And when I branch off into my estuaries and end up in
the sea,
I’ll glance back over my shoulder,
pick your face out from the crowd,
wave the flag of a dying civilisation
and say
‘Nah, never knew him mate’.

And you’ll say that this is the end you worked for, after all.
And they’ll make me a national holiday.

</lj-cut>

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