pain and darkness
tremble in the middle of this
little conquest
pain and darkness
tremble in the middle of this
little conquest
Across the dusty, distant wastes,
The writer sets a meandering pace,
Scratching words with fountain pen,
He creates reality again.
Do you ever feel like…
You are dying inside?
Do you ever feel like…
You’ve got something to hide?
Do you ever feel like…
That for every door open,
You can still hear the sound,
Of another ten closing,
And everything’s closing in on you now,
The whole room is shrinking,
And about your mistakes is all that you’re thinking about,
And you’re mired,
In each bad decision,
The air crushed from your lungs,
But you are still living–
You’re living!
And you feel that the pressure is easing,
Push the walls back,
With this power you’re feeling,
And dreaming,
Of bursting out,
Thirsting out,
For something more:
It is yours.
It is yours.
Both Deny Fear,
Aged Remnants Wise,
Aware in Regret,
Ache Like Pasts,
Dig Scratch Sworn,
Hewn Infant Utopia,
Headline Hence Whens,
Again Shatter.
Anagrammatical interpretation of Meandering Wastes – First Reversion .
Right now the Grand Game’s being played,
But I’m tired of making patterns out of shadows I’ve made,
And I’m tired of seeking secrets when the truth is so plain,
And I’ve heard the plain is where the rain falls mainly in Spain,
So I’ll try to educate you ’bout the state of my brain,
I know I might seem kind of crazy but I’m far from insane,
On the inside I am levitating on another plane.
The man contemplates the drink,
The shadow contemplates the man,
The wall contemplates the shadow,
The wind contemplates the wall,
And if the wind blows hard enough,
Everything will fall.
An ancient cave painting of a woman rendered as text.
The muse is fixed in time and space,
Pigment faded smile eternal,
She watches with one eyebrow raised,
And when she moves,
If she were to do so,
(Although that would be impossible)
It is merely the shifting of a leg,
Or a flick of a wrist,
Or a twist of her neck,
To glance back across her shoulder.
What follows is believed to be the first ever inscription of the recursive poem “Meandering Wastes” by the 21st Century writer, Michael Scott Hand. This fragment was recovered using the latest in digital archaeological equipment, wherein data can be extracted from the sedentary level of matter formed during that which we refer to as “Event X”.
beyond the far meandering wastes
an eager writer takes his place
scratching words with a fountain pen
when he ends each line he starts again
Combining this fragment with the only other known version of this poem (the so-called sixth recursion), we hope to be able to reconstruct a final “seventh recursion” representative of the author’s original intent.
Hearts are breaking
Pain that’s stored
Now enraged and flaming: soars
Skies grow dark
Spirits darker
The sound of fury
Turns to laughter
The sound of laughter
Turns to screams
Those screams now wake you
From your dreams
And skies lit up
Reveal the schemes
Police line streets
Their visors gleam
Smoke and water
Shattered glass
Remnants of society cast
Aside
Aside
The gulf grows wide
Soon you’ll need to pick a side
A side
Inside
Inside
You know
Reflected by the fires glow
That spark of revolution seems
So far away and yet it gleams
Like visors worn by armed police
In the eye of the protester and the thief
The light of revolution speaks
The light of revolution shows
And in the streets the fires grow
was that sound thunder
or just the rumble
of a heavy truck
on a nearby road
headlights flash like lightning
through curtains of rain