“Mr. Holmes,” or, On the Struggles of Human Mortality
Outstanding in the Field
The upcoming film Mr. Holmes, based on the novel “A Slight Trick of the Mind” by Mitch Cullin, is about a 93 year old Sherlock Holmes who is in the process of writing his story and piecing together events from a 30 year old case that he feels is unfinished. In the midst of these endeavors Holmes is also trying to solve the mysteries of h
We are creatures of mortality
Born to live and die.
Yet there are those amongst us
Who resent the last goodbye.
They see it as an end to things;
The call of colder waves.
They have a fear of being trapped;
Locked away in graves.
But deep beneath the buried earth
No one hears you scream.
Pound and smash against the coffin;
End this horrid dream!
Kiss the flower of the reaper
Bear his blissful touch...
Soon you will be wisked away
Warm within his clutch!
But now you know the dreaded fear
Of why we cannot die.
We hear the reaper calling us
That we cannot lie.
In both our dreams and waking nights;
We see the blackest fate.
His cackles fill our bitter days
And they will not abate.
That is why we drink this now
Poison good or ill.
Either we will live forever
Or die against his will.
"I will not be death's puppet..."
-Chen Yuan Wen ft. IrrenderNarr42, 23rd March 2012
Of lovers lost under the yellow moon
Dreaming of yesterday in the haste of today
Weaving words that will only get lost in tomorrow
A wilting rose dies a slow death
bereft of the sense of purpose
To be mourned as a man cries for his loss
As a woman will cry for her innocence
A bitter-sweet moment in a memory paled
Placed in a trinket box filled with hope
Silence reigns as whimsy replaces the time had
and searches for answers in tears that fall
Ghosts blunder in confusion and ignorance
Giving no closure for those left behind
Hiding between worlds , still holding on
Unable to let go of what they once knew
The depuration of one's soul giving peace
in an otherwise obvious fiasco of life
Screaming for no more gaucherie and
all sensibility to be regained once more
The mysteries of life and mortality
Will baffle us with meretricious promises
Blind us with sensual innuendos'
But still we will fall headlong in love
All that there is, imperfect in it
letting Eternity hold hands with mortality.
What of the Immortal,
when the Mortal has aged,
when his eyes lose light and his skin grows cold?
True love is never even lost in death,
but will death come to the Immortal,
still young and strong?
No, not unless he brings such upon himself.
But if love is true,
then the pieces of the Immortal's heart
may die with the whole heart of the Mortal.
In the end, Love could kill Eternity,
if it is strong enough.
So, in truth, only Love can triumph
and live forever in a dying world,
unless Death takes all those pure at heart
and all that remains is Hatred.
So what of the love of Mortal and Immortal,
seemingly impossible as it may be?
--It lives, for it rings true;
Age and even Death cannot rip it into pieces,
and when the love is to seemingly end
as the Mortal's short life flees,
the Immortal may lay down their own head,
if they so desire it,
and sleep forever beside their love.
But if the
i will not grant you pretty words
though they burn in my veins
and force me to breathe,
as if my fey-child scripture
ever could withstand you
and the scars you carved in my DNA.
they breed in my throat,
a transcendental code sacrosanct
as the prayers you whisper,
and the vows you took in obligation
only to hide your transgression
(twenty-six years, three months, twenty days)
and write in me the fear
of being erased.
so maybe you can't understand
how i made myself not hate you
when i thought you would die
just in case
i want to throw my fury
at your feeble body and
like zeus to your cronus
though i've always been cast
as hermes instead
for every second i've stared myself down
just to prove the balance of genetics
lies not in your favour
teaching myself to drive stick
so i could run farther
from who you wanted me to be
the six year old boy
with a near-perfect sketch
(but it wasn't
Bring me angels at my door,
Grasp the wind that’s passing by
And perhaps I shall not die.
Bring the ocean at my feet,
Store away the summer heat,
Send back rain into the sky
And perhaps I shall not die.
Make all hearts immune to pain,
Bring true virtue to the vain,
Show me eyes that cannot cry
And perhaps I shall not die.
Make all people be content
So they never know lament,
Show me snow storms in July
And perhaps I shall not die.
But until such times are near
Let me catch your scent, my dear
And cry oceans at your feet
Until Death and I shall meet.
This is how I want to die:
I will have sent letters to the few in my life - a cascade of leaves with veins very much like my own. It is an injustice that they depart with such colourful splendor, while we lay limp in our anemic pallor, dull slabs of marble flesh. I will have lain down my body and tools beside that which is my greatest work, in marriage to what I shall become. The doors will be locked, a fire at the threshold, and mortality set in my heart. The décor, I leave, up to you.
A few odd decades have passed, and I mean no offense when I say I am taken by the joys of this absurd existence. Even so, I understand our contract it is our tragedy, is it not? I must thank you for giving me the opportunity to express my preference in advance; but, to the matter at hand, to put it simply, I wish this to be painless for myself and others.
As I have said, I shall leave the rest to you.
waiting for sin
as the best years of my life
crawl into the sea
[the wings left no room for ribs]
Now they say a sphere
But I the traveler have seen
A world arranged in tiers.
It’s three steps up and three steps down
With nothing in between
Each step a realm unto itself
One black, one gray, one green.
The uppermost, the sunlit land
Is lush with verdant choir
Babbling brooks and rustling reeds
Birdsongs in the briar.
Down below, the Black Land sleeps
Silent and austere
Into this reverent quietude
All must disappear.
The middle tier, a hidden plane,
Of neither sun nor shade;
A misty, lonely everscape
Where those like me have strayed.
The Gray Land has no native souls
All wanderers are we
Upon this rocky sea.
Gnarled trees and shallow caves, the
Total of existence
Scattered mountains, looming tall, but
Always in the distance.
For company, a walking stick
My friend, my aid, my balm -
Upon its neck I feel the warmth
Reflected from my palm.
We rarely stop, my staff and me,
We trek and traipse along
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
Things that last
Scooped from my past.
Paltry, yet so vast...
Now, my booty…
Some still unsurpassed.
Drew this, did I?
Really can’t deny
I had skill.
I’m at it, still.
With my brushes grasped.
Another year gone.
Yet I work on.
Still, I do those.
Seems my part is cast.
Paints might splatter--
Make it matter.
Draw it, share it.
I still care, it
Has gone by so fast…
Leaves its traces
Art, skill graces
Life that’s held tight-clasped.
more mottled than the dappled halo about her head;
her mascara has become sticky
from blinking blearily through nighttime wanderings
in inky darkness, a thin, wrought-iron underworld
of hospital beds, cancerous towers of
love-tears, ghostly embraces:
where skin sloughs away from bone,
slick, black feathers prickle out of the back of thoraxes
and the gap between one breath and the next
is measured in self-sacrifice --
but murder has still left its taste (thick,
heavy, heady) on her tongue
and not even a caesura would be enough
to stop th-
It terrifies me when people try to drive faster than me and are so close that their headlights obscure my vision. I always think they are going to impale me. I dare not sit at one stop sign for too long.
I hate people who drive slowly, but I refuse to injure them.
I hate stupid people, but at the same time they are endlessly amusing.
I have a little calendar on my desk that has a new stupid saying for each day. I save the funnier ones in a drawer.
The children in my neighborhood almost beg to be hit by a car, with the way that they never move when I pull onto the street. One more reason to fear for the future of the human race.
I like my men intelligent and deliciously foreign. I have never met one, but I swear to myself that someday I will.
My dreams are bigger than my country, although I keep myself rooted in high s
My mother's desperation to retain me was understandable, it seems. It seems that I am stuck between two forces that need me like breathing, that tug back and forth until I now fear that I may rip in half. Mother calls me back with warmth and sunlight; he calls me back with silence.
The dead are the most interesting conversationalists, at least when they can be coerced into speaking. Oh, some simply stare or wallow about in their sadness, but others the good dead, the ones who do not think they still live but truly know it are truly worth my time. That is the only thing I possess in droves. I have all the time in the world.
The Underworld is a marvelous place to me. It is here that old men can become young in the eyes of eternity; here ugly girls can fancy themselves beautiful; here young children grow old with cynicism splashed across their innocent faces.
I am writing this down so that I will not forget it after I return to the surface
"A Realization of the Possibility of my own Moral and Spiritual Mortality"
(or more concisely titled)
"Oh Shit, Zombies"
Inspired by “All the Dead Kids / Unicron” by Andrew Jackson Jihad
If I am zombie bitten
infected by disease
what walks the earth afterward
is a ravenous husk
stalking in dawn and dusk.
I ask that you forgive me
if my soul dies
to make my body rise
when my bloodlust blends
with my dread
of those not dead.
As my teeth shred flesh
and bring the ends
of all your family and friends
we'll live parasitically
cannibalizing the living
for a corpse's thanksgiving.
I’ve seen a beautiful tranquillity
Gentle wind in the hair of thee
A tiny leaf and its invisibility
In the soothing cup of tea
For every beauty waits the mortality
The precious delight of a moment
Before it dreadfully dies in its fatality
A fading memory of enjoyment
The ravishing words of a bard
Enchanting the little hearts
Aggressively falling apart to a shard
Left a gentle impact of arts
The death, the caretaker
Shows love for every mortal being
The misunderstood saviour
Won’t let the beautiful ones bleeding
As our mortality takes us to disintegration
I write this dying poetry of serenity
Loving once pretty, dying creations
Our death brings the clarity
This was the world in my eyes.
to the gilded halls of their fathers,
the cold core of the cosmos
lies still, unmoved, entranced
by the spell of eternity.
as women wail and grieve
the silent deaths within their wombs,
the cold heart of matter
lies still, unperturbed, certain
of its own wombs fertility.
yet few grasp that, as we
take our bow and leave with but
a last breath, and withered
and worn succumb to fateful death,
only we, the Ephemera,
can glimpse what lies beyond
the golden shrine of Transcendence.
for cursed is the immortal cosmos
to bear forever the throes of a
wounded world, and while it may
last long, untarnished by the toil of time,
never shall it, the Eternal,
feel the lightest breeze of all
the tender release of Transience.
not until the very latent
breath that nurtures it
is lost shall it find peace -
and it will beg for death
before the end.
The sea that she loved...
The sea that she feared...
And she knew that all of those that loved her,
They were her ocean;
A sea of invisible faces,
A great and terrible thing that could drown her,
Or be her greatest savior,
Always providing shelter from the storms...
And she knew that her enemies were the storms,
Causing trouble wherever they arose;
Yet she also knew that the monsoons
As they passed sullenly overhead,
Were the reason she was so wrong...
And she knew that he was the ship,
Carrying her safely to her destination;
Rocking and swaying on the ocean's currents,
Taking her wherever she wished to go,
So that all she had to do
Was to simply make the wish...
And she knew that their love made the sails,
Guiding her wherever she needed to be;
Enveloping her in soft canvass,
Shielding her from the weight of the world,
Protecting her as a shielden cocoon,
Whenever she needed to escape...
And she knew that her dreams were the wind,
Billowing and whi
the darkening lakeside
against the cold blossom
of Autumn. Carving symphonies underfoot
the misty morning dawn
draws itself about my hood,
an ocean husk
rush by --
try your hardest to show them
what you're made of
but somehow the sunset still comes
all burning and fire,
and the day drifts and fades,
whimpering amongst the trees.
There's so much time given to us
to die, cowering under our bedsheets
in the paleness of midnight.