the love tribulations of sir Jack Dust.

There once was a particle of dust.
It floated from left to right, up and down, and quite typically; round and round.
It did not crisscross, or zigzaggy-do, but it sure did like that stew.
Next to a carrot it fell, just boiling and swell.
A family of green beans floated by and yelled to him:
“Hey Jack! Guess there’s a heat stroke up in the pot today aye!?”

He did not know what they spoke of, and supposed that they had mistaken him for someone else.
Nevertheless, he decided to be daring on that fine afternoon and take upon on him the name given.
He would be the honorable Jack Dust, not to be mistaken with sir Frank Rust, the one no one could ever trust.

 At sudden shock, the carrot took a diabolic dip, frantic flip, and tremendous trip!
In front of Jack flashed all his lovely memories of floating above the living room, his frightful encounter with the dustpan, and the one time he almost enrolled at the Hairball Society.
He was impolitely interrupted by a beautiful site before him.

She laughed with such savor, a thousand and one particles did not compare.
Jack wondered what she was.
She was too big to be a particle, and too small to be a bicycle.
Her skin gave off porcelain and her lips made him not
Jack Dust, but Jack Flustered.

At sudden glance, a shooting spoon passed before his eyes.
In haste, he made his most valored wish and hoped for the best.
As he floated away from the stew, it came into view.
In her mouth he was planted as his wish so endowingly granted.
He grasped frantically to her red rose lips but the darkness engulfed him.
And as he fell deeper and deeper, the beautiful gal uttered to her mother:

“Why Mum, this stew is quite delicious!”

[ - Written at 1:35 am after playing the guitar and wiping the dust off my shelves.]

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find the grace to be nothing.

She pulled the clip out of her hair, took off her socks, and put on face cream.

She brushed her teeth, had a glass of water, and took her nightly dose of pills.

She laid down in her bed, folded the covers, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t dream, she didn’t think, she didn’t desire.

She woke, drank coffee, and got in the car.

She was robotic, she was lifeless, and she was carefree.

She sounds like me.

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c’est belle problème.

I’ll tell you what the problem is buddy.
Oh I’ll tell you what the problem is indeed.

No longer do humans express themselves.

Sexuality is repressed.
Love is avoided.
Art is mundane.

Women have become men, men have become women.
Personality is objective, marriage subjective.
Disagreement silenced, and agreement necessary.
Regrets abundant, risks scarce.
Music inspired, not created.
Objects improved, not invented.
Beauty materialized, materialization beautified.
Discipline undermined, excess intertwined.
Show me art.
Give me inspiration.

Sex.
Love.
Art.

Has the curtain fallen on us for the last time?
Technology conquering, nature diminishing.
Falacy promoted, substance shunned upon.
Reality distorted, fantasy denied.

The human condition, strangely reformed.
Where are the loud cries of rebels?
The souls against the current?
The passionate?
The enraged?
The godamned poets!?

Love.
Sex.
Art.

Art.
Love.
Sex.

All a bunch of hog wash I tell you.
Oh, I’ll tell you the problem, I’ll tell you the problem indeed.
Substance.
Substance, I tell you.
Sub-fucking-stance I tell you.

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philosophical indulgences.

So, I have decided to make up a type of writing challenge for myself.
I would like to randomly take an element from daily life, and philosophize about it.
Its origins, its meaning, and perhaps its purpose.
From elements of love, to elements of cooking.
All elements of life.
There must be something behind everything.
And I will warn you, you reader you, that these pieces will contain words straight from my mind.
No formal editing, no insisting upon beautiful wording.
Straight and raw thoughts on a subject.
This should be interesting.

Philosophy #1

“Working”

        So first off, one usually grows up with the idea that you get educated, so you can master a talent, and work the rest of your days doing that, right? The typical order of life: school, work, death, and somewhere in between the atrocities of love,marriage, and children. Well. Then in this equation there are many variables:

Variable A = You do not have a “specialization” and wander endlessly from a temp job to another.

Variable B = You have a specialization, thrive in it, and ultimately become master in this specialization.

Variable C =You absolutely hate what you do, but you teach yourself to accept the circumstances.

Yet, for all of these variables, my question is still the same.
What is the point of this so-called “rat race”?

Variable A, you ultimately end up either finding Variable B, or just continuing to live the improvisational way of life, and indulging in risk and insecurity.

Variable B, brings you happiness, you accomplish what you desire, and are respected by peers, considered the master of your “art”, but after all that, what comes next? Does happiness not become dull after a while? Are we not humans after all? Never do we truly appreciate something when we have it in full.

Variable C, brings routine, the force of learning to “just live with it”, and doesn’t bring happiness, nor misery. It is the insipid of the variables.

Yet, all of them come to this end. This end of life.
Where you are either content, or discontent.

Respected or not.

Loved or hated.

Remembered or forgotten.

Many times one can see that old mythological stories describe the desire of achieving immortality and everlasting glory.

To me, this process still goes on.
There is only a certain amount of things that we can do for ourselves and our own happiness, until we seek the respect of others around us also.

This desire to be accepted in the past century has been outdated, and the mentality of “not caring what others say” has been instilled in many.

Yet, I beg to differ.

I believe we all truly have this need in us.
No matter how hard we try to convince ourselves that we don’t care.
We do.
There is always one person who’s admiration/respect we seek.
Whether it be a parent, spouse, or hopeful acquaintance.

And to this I pose my question.
If after all, we say that our work is for ourselves, yet when wanting to satisfy ourselves, we actually satisfy our needs to be accepted, are we not working to achieve the ancient desire of everlasting respect and glory?

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dirty ends.

You watch the clock, the typical tick scratches the sides of the brain.

This thing. This thing called time.

A picture frame, the artists you seek to blame.

Dark martini, no fucking lime.

It is not the loves that you proclaim, but the true creations of disdain.

A telephone ring, a partner in crime, the key to the line.

Assign, Refine, Confine.

This thing. This thing.

What a fucking linguistic string.

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